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doorway. “If we make a run for it, we can still get away.”
    He shook his head determinedly. “I’m nothing if not a man of my word.” He squared his shoulders. “I’ll get the coffee if you find us a seat. What do you want?”
    “Just coffee. Black—
like my soul.
”
    Simon headed off toward the coffee bar, muttering under his breath something to the effect that it was a far, far better thing he did now than he had ever done before. Clary went to find them a seat.
    The coffee shop was crowded for a Monday; most of the threadbare-looking couches and armchairs were taken up with teenagers enjoying a free weeknight. The smell of coffee and clove cigarettes was overwhelming. Finally Clary found an unoccupied love seat in a darkened corner toward the back. The only other person nearby was a blond girl in an orange tank top, absorbed in playing with her iPod.
Good
, Clary thought,
Eric won’t be able to find us back here after the show to ask how his poetry was.
    The blond girl leaned over the side of her chair and tapped Clary on the shoulder. “Excuse me.” Clary looked up in surprise. “Is that your boyfriend?” the girl asked.
    Clary followed the line of the girl’s gaze, already prepared to say,
No, I don’t know him
, when she realized the girl meant Simon. He was headed toward them, face scrunched up in concentration as he tried not to drop either of his Styrofoam cups. “Uh, no,” Clary said. “He’s a friend of mine.”
    The girl beamed. “He’s
cute
. Does he have a girlfriend?”
    Clary hesitated a second too long before replying. “No.”
    The girl looked suspicious. “Is he gay?”
    Clary was spared responding to this by Simon’s return. The blond girl sat back hastily as he set the cups on the table and threw himself down next to Clary. “I hate it when they run out of mugs. Those things are hot.” He blew on his fingers and scowled. Clary tried to hide a smile as she watched him. Normally she never thought about whether Simon was good-looking or not. He had pretty dark eyes, she supposed, and he’d filled out well over the past year or so. With the right haircut—
    “You’re staring at me,” Simon said. “Why are you staring at me? Have I got something on my face?”
    I should tell him
, she thought, though some part of her was strangely reluctant.
I’d be a bad friend if I didn’t.
“Don’t look now, but that blond girl over there thinks you’re cute,” she whispered.
    Simon’s eyes flicked sideways to stare at the girl, who was industriously studying an issue of
Shonen Jump
. “The girl in the orange top?” Clary nodded. Simon looked dubious. “What makes you think so?”
    Tell him. Go on, tell him
. Clary opened her mouth to reply, and was interrupted by a burst of feedback. She winced and covered her ears as Eric, onstage, wrestled with his microphone.
    “Sorry about that, guys!” he yelled. “All right. I’m Eric, and this is my homeboy Matt on the drums. My first poem is called ‘Untitled.’” He screwed up his face as if in pain, and wailed into the mike. “‘Come, my faux juggernaut, my nefarious loins! Slather every protuberance with arid zeal!’”
    Simon slid down in his seat. “Please don’t tell anyone I know him.”
    Clary giggled. “Who uses the word ‘loins’?”
    “Eric,” Simon said grimly. “All his poems have loins in them.”
    “‘Turgid is my torment!’” Eric wailed. “‘Agony swells within!’”
    “You bet it does,” Clary said. She slid down in the seat next to Simon. “Anyway, about that girl who thinks you’re cute—”
    “Never mind that for a second,” Simon said. Clary blinked at him in surprise. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
    “Furious Mole is not a good name for a band,” Clary said immediately.
    “Not that,” Simon said. “It’s about what we were talking about before. About me not having a girlfriend.”
    “Oh.” Clary lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Oh, I don’t know.