The Diamonds (8 page)

“Don't move.”

“Sorry,” I said, flexing my toes almost involuntarily. “This is weird, huh?”

He didn't look up. “Whaddya mean?”

“Oh, I don't know. Me, sitting here, posing for you.” I felt a trickle of sweat run down my back.

“Not really.”

“I just mean we haven't been together since—”

“Can you not,” Anderson said, his eyes meeting mine with a flicker of something cold behind them, “move?”

My lower lip fell forward. “Sorry. I didn't realize you were so into this.”

“I've always liked drawing. See those?” He pointed to the wall behind him, where a triptych of watercolor paintings were mounted in black frames. “They're mine.”

The paintings were spectacular. They were of his house, the one I was sitting in, during different seasons: the first in autumn, with red, orange, and yellow leaves; the next in winter—roof, shingles, and lawn covered in white-white snow; the last in either summer or spring. I wasn't sure which, but the colors were sunny and warm and bright.

“I never knew you were such a serious artist.”

Anderson scrunched his nose and looked back at
the canvas. “I guess there are a lot of things you don't know about me.”

“Like what?”

“Well,” he said, drawing the word out so that it took three times longer than it should have to say, “I like long walks on the beach and puppies that wear sweaters when it's cold out. My favorite vegetable is spinach, even though most people think it's gross, and I listen to Pink Floyd every night before I go to bed.” He smiled with all his teeth. “Sometimes Wilco. Bet you didn't know all that.”

“No,” I said in agreement. “Anything else I should be aware of?”

“I dunno.” He grinned. “You tell me.”

I was suddenly aware that Anderson was flirting. With me. And even though it felt sort of nice, I couldn't help thinking about Clarissa, about how ex-boyfriends were off-limits. And also about Jed.

“You know, I should really get going.” I stood up and brushed invisible lint off my jeans. “Maybe I can come back another time so you can finish—”

“No need,” Anderson said, standing up himself. “I'm done.” He turned the canvas around to face me. “See for yourself.”

Other than in a mirror, there aren't many times in life when you stare at your reflection. I've heard that some movie stars don't watch their own films because they don't want to see themselves onscreen. Looking at Anderson's creation, though, the fine lines of
charcoal so evenly blended, dark and light in just the right places, the shading, shape, and detail of my features so immaculately perfect, I couldn't understand why. Not because I'm vain or anything—at least, I don't
think
I am—but because the feeling of being part of something larger than myself was overwhelming. It might have been just a drawing, a sketch for a high school class, but to me it was art.

“What do you think?” Anderson asked.

I looked at him and felt everything strong inside me collapse. “It's beautiful.”

I'll be the first to say it: mock trial turned out to be fun. Like,
really
fun. After Tommy's second article, the suggestion box in Café Bennington overflowed with student requests to have their trials heard. The Diamonds would sort through applications at Clarissa's house after school and pick the best—i.e., the funniest—ones to schedule for trial the following week. We'd write up subpoenas and have freshmen slip them inside people's lockers, notifying them of when to appear before the Diamond Court.

Part of it was the power, sure. We had our (manicured) hands in every aspect of the court. The only thing we
didn't
control was whether the jury found the defendant guilty or innocent, but usually it was pretty obvious, and for the most part, the jury was filled with Diamond wannabes. All we had to do was drop a hint or two about what we
wanted
the outcome of the trial
to be, and That was That. Then it was up to us—the Diamonds—to dole out the punishments as we saw fit. Mr. Townsen sat in the back of the room, taking notes and drinking it all in; most of the time he didn't say a word. He strongly believed that “we must learn to govern ourselves,” a motto that proved easier with each successive trial.

Another part of it, though, was simply spending time with my best friends. Any excuse to spend more time with them—yes, even morphing the Bennington mock trial team into a court where students could settle their relationship problems and personal grievances in a professional manner that simultaneously served the Diamonds’ best interests—was a good one. At least in my book.

“All rise for the Honorable Judges Valentine, Ramnani, Chan-Mohego, and von Dyke.”

The entire audience in the chorus room—which was packed, by the way—stood at attention while Clarissa, Priya, Lili, and I sauntered forward, making sure our skirts swished just the right amount, and took our seats. Marco, our bailiff, looked like an overgrown string bean in a pair of green khakis and a green long-sleeved shirt. (“It makes me feel like there's a tree growing in the room,” Priya said after she'd ordered him to dress that way, “and I
love
nature. Kind of.”)

Once we were settled, Clarissa said, “You may be seated.” The collective noise of seventy or so bodies sitting down filled the room. The trials were so popular that people had to sign up on a sheet outside the
chorus room the day before to watch the proceedings. (There was even an alternate list.)

“Today's trial,
Goldstein v. O'Hara
, is about to begin. Are all parties present?”

I glanced around the room. There was Rosie Goldstein, a junior who played lacrosse (which, in my opinion, was totally lesbionic) and had teeth that reminded me of candy corn. Across from her was Erin O'Hara, also a junior, and one of Rosie's best friends.

The scenario: Two weeks before, Rosie's boyfriend, Mark (senior, blondish, semiattractive), showed up at school with a fist-sized hickey on his neck. Everyone assumed it was from Rosie. The following week, Erin walked into school with a matching one, and people start putting two and two together. (Side note: Why do people let other people give them hickeys in visible places?)

Clarissa, who, above all else, hated cheaters, was über enthusiastic about this case. I, on the other hand, was less than psyched. After everything that had gone down with Jed, and after I'd hung out with Anderson behind Clarissa's back, I felt (A) sort of uncomfortable and (B) sort of hypocritical laying down the law for Erin and Mark.

“Yes,” said both the prosecution and defense teams. Jenny Murphy, whose lap was filled with books and notepads, simply nodded.

“Will the prosecution please call its first witness?” Lili said.

Eric Ericsson stood up and snorted. “Surely. The prosecution would like to call Kelly Silver to the stand.”

Kelly, who couldn't have been more than five feet tall and walked with a limp, wobbled toward the witness stand. I wasn't particularly fond of Kelly; she talked too much, and most of what she said was unintelligible.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” Marco asked.

“Ya, totally.”

Eric adjusted his belt. His shirt—plaid, red—was tucked in and pressed. “Kelly. How do you know the defendant, Ms. O'Hara?”

“Thank you
so
much for asking, Eric. I know the defendant because we, like, go to school together.”

“And you two are friends?”

“I wouldn't say that,” Kelly muttered. “We, like,
know
each other. Not biblically or anything, though. Just because I kissed Amy Steinberg at a Halloween party last year
doesn't
mean I'm a lesbian, no matter what anybody says.”

Eric turned to the jury. “Let it be stated, for the record, that Ms. Silver and Ms. O'Hara are
not
close friends. Also, she is not a lesbian.” He turned back to Kelly. “Why don't you tell me about last Wednesday?”

Kelly leaned back in her seat. “Last Wednesday was wild. I mean, like,
crazy
. I had to stay after school because I get tutored in math—I'm, like, totally dumb
about numbers, so whatever—and I was leaving school and walking to my car”—she smiled at the jury—“FYI, I drive a BMW”—she fanned herself with her hand—“and I'm, like, doing my own
thang
when I see these shadows where all the smokers hang out. Meanwhile, I'm totally on the phone with my BFF, Jenny, and I remember being like, God, Jenny, just
shut up
for a hot second, because I think I see a
ghost
. And I, like, legit thought it was a ghost. No joke. But when I got closer, I was like, Oh, that's not a ghost. It's Erin O'Hara and Mark Durango, making out, and I remember being like,
Awwww
, but then I was like, Wait, back that shit up, those two are
not
together! Mark is dating Rosie Goldstein, who, by the way”—she offered Rosie an apologetic frown—“is
such
a better person than Mark or that rabies-infected, Macarena-dancing
lady of the night
Erin.” She paused. “And that's all I remember.”

“No further questions, Your Honors.” Eric returned to his seat as Jenny Murphy rose from hers.

“You may cross-examine the witness,” Clarissa said.

“Thank you,” Jenny said, taking a few steps, her heels clapping loudly on the floor. “Kelly. Isn't it possible that the people you saw kissing were
not
Mark Durango and Erin O'Hara, but two completely different people?”

Kelly blinked. “Are you saying I'm dumb?”

“Of course not,” Jenny said. “I'm simply raising the possibility that you may have been mistaken.”

“I'm not dumb, and I'm
not
blind,” Kelly spat,
wiping the corners of her mouth. “I know what I saw. You're trying to cover this up”—she pointed at Jenny—“just like Watergate. I won't be silenced!” she screamed, pounding her fist on her thigh. “I won't!”

Clarissa banged her gavel on the judges’ bench. “Marco, please remove Kelly from the witness stand.”

Marco approached Kelly, offering her his hand. She refused it, choosing instead to leap from her chair and run out of the room as if she were being chased.

“What a nutjob,” I whispered to Priya. Then, out the corner of my eye, I noticed that Clarissa's gavel was covered in what looked like rhinestones. “Does Clarissa have a Bedazzled gavel?”

Priya stared at me like I was as crazy as Kelly Silver. “What other kind of gavel is there?”

“Never mind.”

“Eric,” Clarissa said, asserting her control over the room, “you may call your next witness.”

“Gladly,” Eric replied. “The prosecution would like to call Mark Durango to the stand.”

By the end of the trial, two things were clear:

1. Mark and Erin were fooling around behind Rosie Goldstein's back.

2. I shouldn't have drunk an entire iced coffee beforehand; I had to pee like whoa.

During the break, while the jury deliberated—this could take anywhere from a few minutes to an hour or so—I used the bathroom and found my way back to
the judges’ bench. Clarissa was chatting with Mr. Townsen, while Priya and Lili were debating the benefits of using pore-cleansing facial masks before bed.

“They just suck everything right out of you,” Priya was saying. “Like a vacuum cleaner, but for your face. And who doesn't want that?”

“What do you think is taking so long?” I asked, sitting down.

Lili shook her head. “No idea. This one is pretty simple.”

“What should their punishment be?” I asked. “No PDA?”

“Eh,” Lili said. “It's been done.”

“What about if, like, they have to walk around the school in handcuffs?” Priya suggested, smiling.

“First of all,” I said, “I don't think we're allowed to demand that people wear handcuffs. Secondly, we want to keep Mark and Erin
apart
—not allow them to be together twenty-four/seven.”

“You're right,” Priya said, smacking her forehead. “What about, instead of handcuffs, they have to wear, like, friendship bracelets? Made out of hemp! They'd have to wear them every day”—Priya started laughing maniacally—
“or else.”

Lili rolled her eyes. “No, sweetie. Just… no.”

Clarissa chose that moment to reenter the conversation, slipping into her seat between Lili and Priya and wrapping her arms around them, pulling us into a tight clump. We called this our Deliberation Pose. The four of us would tilt our heads so that our hair
covered our faces and, in soft voices, decide the fate of whoever was on trial.

“Obviously
Emily and Mark are going to be found guilty,” Clarissa said without even a hint of doubt. “Thoughts on punishment?”

We ran down the typical sentencing for cheating on a significant other.

“I don't know,” Clarissa said, “this all just seems so … uninspired. Marni, what do you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I just said. What should their punishment be?”

I was confused. Usually, that was Clarissa's job. “You want me to decide?”

“Why not?”

She had a point. Why
not
decide? I had been cheated on. I knew the score.