Nothing But Shadows by Cassandra Clare

Shadowhunter Academy, 2008
    The afternoon sunlight was streaming warm through the arrow-slit windows of their classroom, painting the gray stone walls yellow. The elites and the dregs alike were sleepy from a long morning of training with Scarsbury, and Catarina Loss was giving them a history lesson. History applied to both the elites and the dregs, so they could all learn of the glory of the Shadowhunters and aspire to be a part of that glory. In this class, Simon thought, none of them seemed that different from each other—not that they were all united in aspiring to glory, but they were all equally glazed with boredom.
    Until Marisol answered a question correctly, and Jon Cartwright kicked the back of her chair.
    â€œAwesome,” Simon hissed behind his book. “That’s really cool behavior. Congratulations, Jon. Every time a mundie answers a question wrong, you say it’s because they can’t rise to the level of Shadowhunters. And every time one of us answers a question right, you punish them. I have to admire your consistency.”
    George Lovelace leaned back in his chair and grinned, feeding Simon his next line. “I don’t see how that’s consistent, Si.”
    â€œWell, he’s consistently a jackass,” Simon explained.
    â€œI can think of a few other words for him,” George remarked. “But some of them cannot be used around ladies, and some of them are Gaelic and cannot be understood by you mad foreigners.”
    Jon looked upset. Possibly he was upset that their chairs were too far away to kick.
    â€œI just think she shouldn’t speak out of turn,” he said.
    â€œIt’s true that if you mundies listened to us Shadowhunters ,” said Julie, “you might learn something.”
    â€œIf you Shadowhunters ever listened,” said Sunil, a mundie boy who lived down the (slimy) hall from George and Simon, “you might learn a few things yourself.”
    Voices were rising. Catarina was beginning to look very annoyed. Simon gestured to Marisol and Jon to be quiet, but they both ignored him. Simon felt the same way as when he and Clary had set a fire in his kitchen by trying to toast grapes and create raisins when they were six: amazed and appalled that things had gone wrong so fast.
    Then he realized that was a new memory. He grinned at the thought of Clary with exploded grape in her red hair, and let the classroom situation escalate.
    â€œI’ll teach you some lessons down in the training grounds,” Jon snapped. “I could challenge you to a duel. Watch your mouth.”
    â€œThat’s not a bad idea,” remarked Marisol.
    â€œOh, hey now,” said Beatriz. “Duels with fourteen-year-olds are a bad idea.”
    Everyone looked with scorn upon Beatriz, the voice of reason.
    Marisol sniffed. “Not a duel. A challenge. If the elites beat us in a challenge, then they get to speak out first in class for a week. If we beat them, then they hold their tongues.”
    â€œI’ll do it, and you’ll be sorry you ever suggested it, mundie. What’s the challenge?” Jon asked. “Staff, sword, bow, dagger work, a horse race, a boxing match? I’m ready!”
    Marisol smiled sweetly. “Baseball.”
    Cue mass puzzlement and panicked looks among the Shadowhunters.
    â€œI’m not ready,” George whispered. “I’m not American and I don’t play baseball. Is it like cricket, Si? Or more like hurling?”
    â€œYou have a sport called hurling in Scotland?” Simon whispered back. “What do you hurl? Potatoes? Small children? Weird.”
    â€œI’ll explain later,” said George.
    â€œI’ll explain baseball,” said Marisol with a glint in her eye.
    Simon had the feeling Marisol was going to be a terrifying, tiny expert on baseball, the same way she was at fencing. He also had the feeling the elite stream was in for a surprise.
    â€œAnd I will explain how a