The Diamonds (7 page)

“I don't have a formulated plan or anything,” said Lili in a way that made me think she did, in fact, have a formulated plan, “but what if we organize a fund-raiser? Something that everyone at Bennington will want to attend.” She paused. “The profits can go to charity.”

“Yes,” Clarissa said, folding her hands underneath her chin. “That's a brilliant idea.” She looked so intrigued that, for a moment, I was upset I hadn't thought of the idea myself. “What
kind
of fund-raiser, though?”

“What about a fashion show?” Lili suggested. “We could hold auditions for any seniors who want to try out, pick models—guys and girls—and then get local stores to sponsor us with some clothes. We can donate all the money that we make on ticket sales to charity.”

Priya, Lili, and Clarissa all squealed with excitement. I kept my mouth shut.

“Here's the question, though,” said Clarissa. “We don't want the money going to just
any
body. We need a charity on the rise, something hip.”

I wanted to raise the point that charities’ goals were lofty—to fight disease and help mankind.
Not
to ride the wave of popular trends. I remember thinking, however, that such a comment would be lost on my friends.

“What about athlete's foot?” said Priya. “Or, like, being color blind?”

“I don't think being color blind really counts as a disease,” said Lili.

“What—you think it's
normal
?”

“Oh, shut
up
, Priya.”

“Guys, stop, we're not getting anywhere,” Clarissa interrupted. “Any suggestions, Marni?”

“I don't know,” I said, trying to think quickly. “We could always donate the money to homeless people.”

“Oh,” Clarissa said, throwing her hand over her chest as if she were about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. “I've got it. What if we donate the money to homeless
trannies
?”

I laughed. Out loud and really hard. “You've got to be kidding me,” I said. “We should donate it to the Salvation Army. They do a lot of great work for people who don't have a place to live or food to eat.”

“No,” Clarissa said, shaking her head, curls and all. “The fund-raiser should be specifically and
only
for homeless trannies. If a charity like that doesn't already exist, we should
make
one. It's
hysterical.”

I didn't know what to say. “Lili, please talk some sense into her.”

Lili lowered her glasses, sliding them down the bridge of her nose. “Actually, Marni, homeless transsexuals are a very specific minority who receive little, if any, help from the government. They're even discriminated against by
other
homeless organizations.”

I opened my jaw and tried popping my ears. Maybe I wasn't hearing things correctly.

“Well, I love it,” Priya added. “We can call them
Homies. It's ‘homeless’ and ‘trannies’ combined. Cute, right?”

“So
cute,” Clarissa agreed.

I thought I was going to explode. Then, from behind me, I heard the distinct sound of a throat being cleared.

Mr. Townsen.

“Hi, Mr. T,” Clarissa said, her smile radiating like heat from a furnace. “What's new?”

“I just wanted to say you all did a great job with last Wednesday's trial.”

He was talking about Vanessa and Margie.
(Solsti v. Taylor and Hirani
, in which Margie Taylor let Vanessa Hirani copy her chem lab, and Vanessa proceeded to hand in the same
wrong
answers to the same hawkeyed teacher, Mrs. Solsti, who caught them immediately.) Thanks to Clarissa's skills as a prosecuting attorney and my knowledge of U.S. criminal law for aiding and abetting, we had argued that Vanessa was guilty of cheating and Margie was an accomplice in the crime. The jury voted in our favor (hardly a surprise) and both girls were given two weeks of detention and a zero on their lab reports.

“Mrs. Solsti was very impressed with the four of you. She even mentioned the trial at yesterday's faculty meeting, and now all of the teachers who were skeptical about the new direction of the club want to use the mock trial team to settle any in-class issues.” Townsen had a look on his face that people wore when they took a risk and ultimately succeeded. “And
Principal Newman wants to attend one of our meetings! Isn't that great?”

Clarissa fanned herself as if she were stranded in the Sahara without a drop of water. “Incredible,” she said.

Mr. Townsen nodded enthusiastically. “Now we just have to make sure we have a bunch of trials lined up. We've gotta keep our momentum strong!”

“The executive board approved our use of the suggestion box,” said Lili, “and after lunch I'm going to start flyering.”

“Super,” Townsen said, fixing his tie (green, striped). “Keep me posted. I really want you girls to have as much responsibility for this team as you can handle. Oh, and, Marni”—he smiled, seeming to notice me for the first time—“everyone was very impressed with your comprehension of the law. Great job.”

After leaving Spanish, I was ambushed by Tommy Payne, the newspaper dweeb.

“Marni, can I talk to you for a minute?”

I shook my head vehemently. “No.”

“Come on,” he said, following me down the hall. “Just one minute.”

All the “nonacademic” classrooms at Bennington were on one side of the building—art, music, dance, and the television studio—by the auditorium. I had chorus next (which Clarissa, Priya, and Lili took as well), my other elective besides AP Visual Art, and I wanted to drop my sketch pad off at my locker first.

“What do you want?”

“One or two quick questions,” Tommy said, taking out a mini tape recorder and pressing Record. “Basically I need a quote from you about Jed Brantley.”

Ugh. “In case you haven't heard, Jed and I broke up. I'm probably not the best person to talk to you about, like, his effort to get back on student council.” I pursed my lips together and looked at my watch. “Gotta go.”

Tommy clicked off the recorder and shoved it into his pocket. “I guess this isn't a good time.”

I saluted him. “Bye now, Mr. Reporter.” I took only a few steps before hearing his voice again.

“Oh, and, Marni?”

“Yeah?”

Tommy shifted his feet, his dark hair contrasting with the pale green of his eyes. “The article I'm writing isn't about Jed. It's about you.”

T
HE
B
ENNINGTON
P
RESS

Diamond Court Not a ‘Flash in the Pan’

By: TOMMY PAYNE

October 5
—The Diamond Court is stronger than ever in its second week, holding trials nearly every day after school.

For those of you who've been sleepwalking through the halls, the seniors who have taken their private nickname “The Diamonds” public with the Bennington mock
trial team—Clarissa von Dyke, Priya Ramnani, Lili Chan-Mohego, and Marni Valentine—have kept the student body's interest high with their newly formed student court.

“Students are responding to the fairness of our trials,” says Ramnani, “and the shortness of our skirts.”

Any student who wishes to appear before the court may fill out a form in the cafeteria and schedule a trial of his or her own. “We'll hear
any
dispute,” says von Dyke. “If you've been done wrong and want justice, come see us. You won't regret it.”

After more than ten trials, it seems that von Dyke is telling the truth. The only individuals who may be regretting the court are those found guilty of wrongdoing. When this reporter attempted to interview some of the students who've been “sentenced” by The Diamonds, they were harder to open up than pistachio nuts. “No comment,” said Vanessa Hirani, and she was not the only one. “Leave me alone, okay?” said Frank Ramirez. “Is my life some kind of joke to you?”

No, Frank. It most certainly is not. And so, my fellow students, I leave you with a final question: could The Diamond Court really be here to stay?

For this reporter's interview with Mr. Townsen, see pg. 5.

For yesterday's Diamond Court rulings, see pp. 10-15.

•
EXHIBIT F
•

No person shall be … deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.

—
The Fifth Amendment
to the United States Constitution

Anderson lived in a tiny cul-de-sac behind Tofu, the overpriced Chinese restaurant my mother loved more than me but less than Hot Dog. His house was three stories tall and reeked of excess, ivy spilling down the sides in tangles, soft cream siding, and red brick that hugged the roof like an old friend.

I rang the bell twice. Anderson looked better than ever when he opened the door.

Inside, he moved with familiar ease past a wall of oil paintings and oak bookcases. I followed him through a pair of delicate french doors, past the living room, and into the den, which was set up like a miniature studio. Two easels stood a few feet apart, and a basket of brushes, charcoal pencils, and tubes of paint
rested by the far wall. A drop cloth (white linen) was spread across the floor.

“You really went all out,” I said.

Anderson cocked his head. “It wasn't me. It was my mother.”

I nodded. Certainly, if anyone knew about intense mothers, it was me. Upon further inspection, I noticed an assortment of vegetables—crudités, as they say—positioned on a tiny glass table, arranged to resemble a human face: cucumber eyes, carrot nose, lips of red pepper, and a broccoli wig. I was speechless, but in a good way. Anderson's mother was insane.

I felt right at home.

“So,” I said, picking up a carrot and crunching it between my teeth. “Ready to paint?”

Anderson was in a navy T-shirt that left little to the imagination, clinging to every muscle on his chest, and a pair of faded jeans. “Sure.”

I reached down and opened my sketch pad. What was the point of small talk?

Then I saw a guitar.

It was resting on a thin, metal stand, looking incredibly shiny, a leather strap draped down its neck and a heart-shaped pick tucked behind one of the strings.

“Is that yours?” I asked, glancing back at Anderson, who was squeezing a tube of reddish paint onto a wooden palette.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding mindlessly.

“Do you play?”

“Why else would I have a guitar?”

Good point. “Can you play me something?”

Anderson's eyes glimmered like tiny lights on a Christmas tree. He wiped his hands on his jeans and crept toward his guitar. With one swift motion, he ran his thumb across the strings—the sound was beautiful, brassy—and turned one of the silver pegs at the top counterclockwise.

“What do you wanna hear? I know some Beatles.”

“Slow ones,” I said.

I rocked my head slowly as he started, his fingers surprisingly deft. He sang “Blackbird” and his voice was good and much different from his speaking voice. Wider, if that makes any sense, and lazy, like drippy molasses and sleeping dogs and apple pickers resting in the shade, fanning themselves with leaves. The music made me happy and sad all at once, and incredibly lonely, but I loved it.

He closed his eyes and continued with a few of my favorites—“In My Life,” “Yesterday,” “Julia” (why oh
why
wasn't my name Julia?)—and I closed my eyes, too.

“Wow,” I said breathlessly when he was done. “You're incredible. Do you write any of your own stuff?”

Anderson rolled back his shoulders. “Yeah. Well, some.”

“Can I hear”—
stay calm
—“one or two songs?”

“Maybe another time,” he said, shifting the guitar back to its stand and sliding next to me on the couch.
His leg touched mine and he didn't move it; we sat there, speechless, staring at each other.

Questions that ran through my head included:

Why did you ask to be my partner?

Why do you play the guitar so well?

Why didn't I wear a padded bra?

I didn't get to ask any of them, though, because Anderson asked one first. “How do you wanna do this?” His breath was hot against my cheeks. I could barely remember my own name.

“What?”

“The portraits.” Anderson pointed to the easels and the paint. “Do you want to paint me first, or … ?”

Oh. Right.

I willed my pulse to slow down. Anderson didn't want to kiss me. He wanted to paint my picture. And not in a
Titanic
kind of way.

“Whatever,” I said. “I don't care.”

Anderson went over to one of the easels and sat down facing me. He twirled a charcoal pencil between his fingers. “Why don't you sit back and, uh, lean your head against the window.”

“Like this?”

He gulped. “Yeah, like that.”

I made a few minor adjustments, twisting my torso, rotating my shoulders—did my breasts look bigger?—and stared out the window behind me. Anderson's backyard was dotted with trees, long and thin, short and fat. There was a stone patio, an expensive-looking
set of wicker furniture, and even a pool. I glanced back at Anderson, who was busily sketching on the white canvas.