The Diamonds (32 page)

You have the right not to be spoken to like a little byotch—unless you deserve it, in which case the members of the Diamond Court will treat you as they see fit.

—
The Diamond Rules

The next morning, I slept in.

I went downstairs around noon to make myself a cup of coffee. It was the only thing I could do without pulling my hair out and crying. I didn't even check my Stonecutters Gmail account; I was sure my inbox was flooded with tons of What Went Wrongs, but I couldn't deal with the repercussions of our stunt-gone-bad. Not yet.

I was bustling around the kitchen—what does that even mean? Who
bustles
anymore?—when I saw a familiar license plate roll into my driveway. For a minute I was puzzled about where my own car was, but then I remembered I had left it at school, which meant I would have to get my dad to drop me off at some point later that afternoon.

I closed my robe, tied the flannel strip around my
waist in a floppy bow, and opened the front door. “What are you doing here? I'm busy.”

“Yeah, you look
really
busy,” Tommy said. He was dressed casually that morning, his black hair tangled and loose; if I'd seen him randomly on the street I would've assumed he was twentysomething and bohemian—a musician, perhaps, or an artist. Not a neurotic, news-obsessed seventeen-year-old who carried two tape recorders and a notepad in his pocket at all times.

Tommy had one of those recycled-paper holders from Dunkin’ Donuts in his hand, two cups of coffee resting diagonally. A paper bag was wedged between them. “Hungry?”

I looked back at my bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I hadn't put the milk in yet. “Sure,” I said, letting him inside. He was wearing a pair of soft-looking khakis (brown) and a thin long-sleeved shirt (orange). “You look like a pumpkin.”

“Thanks,” he said. “That means a lot coming from you.”

We sat on opposite ends of my kitchen table, staring at each other. Tommy passed me one of the coffees—skim milk, two Equals—and opened the bag. There were two bagels inside.

“Regular or vegetable?” he asked.

“Regular.” He slid one across the table (don't worry, it was wrapped) and took a sip of his own coffee. Before I knew it, I was done with my bagel, and my coffee was only half full. “I know why you're here.”

“Okay,” he said, tucking his hair behind his ears. It was the kind of gesture that would make some guys seem effeminate but, for some reason, made Tommy seem pretty chill. “Let's go.”

“Go?” I asked. “Where?”

“To get your car,” he said. “Why else would I be here?”

Right. My car
. “No reason,” I said, even though I could think of ten or so right off the top of my head—specifically, the Fashion Show Fiasco. “Let me get dressed.”

“So,” Tommy said, pulling up next to my car and shifting into neutral once we arrived at Bennington. “What are you up to this afternoon?”

I shrugged. “I'll probably hang out with Anderson for a while.”

“Yeah, about that…,” Tommy said. “Can I tell you something without you getting, like, crazy offended?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I don't know. It's just that, well, I don't want you to take this the wrong way. But I think there's something you should know. About Anderson.”

“What about him?”

Tommy looked at me skeptically. “Are you
sure
you're not gonna be offended?”

“You're really freaking me out.”

He shifted in his seat so that we were facing each other. “I have some, uh, information about him, and, well, this is hard—”

“Just spit it out, Tommy.”

“Anderson's a rat,” Tommy said quickly, as if he were a contestant on a game show and his time was almost up. “He's been slipping Clarissa information about the Stonecutters.”

I laughed. “You can't be serious.”

“I
am
serious,” he said. “He's the reason they knew about our plan for the fashion show.”

“And what, exactly, makes you think so?
I
was the one who told him he should do it in the first place!”

Tommy's cheeks pinked. “I can't say. But it's true, Marni.”

“So, you're expecting me to believe that my boy-friend, who absolutely hates Clarissa, has been going behind my back, sneaking information about the Stonecutters to the Diamonds—without my knowledge—and you have no proof?”

“I have proof,” Tommy said nervously. “I just can't tell you what it is. But I have it.”

“Whatever, dude,” I said, opening the door. I was about to step outside when a realization hit me. I turned back to look at Tommy. “Is this about last night?”

“Yes,” he said. “That's what I'm trying to tell you.
Anderson
is the one who sabotaged our plan.”

“No,” I said, “not that. You. Me. Outside the art wing. When you tried to kiss me.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “It was an accident, Marni.”

“I don't know, Tommy. Last night you basically try to soul kiss me, and this morning you're bringing me
bagels and telling me that my boyfriend is double-crossing me. That's pretty messed up, even for you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh,
sorry,”
I said. “I meant, even for a
reporter.”
I banged my fist on his dashboard. “You know what I think? I think
you're
the snitch. I think
you're
the one telling Clarissa everything just so you can have more information for whatever article you're in the middle of writing. You've never liked Anderson. You're just using this as an opportunity to pin the blame on him.” I got out of the car and slammed the door behind me. “I never should have trusted you.”

I fumbled for my keys and unlocked my own car door with a single click.

“You're wrong, Marni,” Tommy said. “If you think about it,
really
think about it, you'll know I'm telling the truth.”

“Leave me alone,” I said, sliding into the driver's seat and closing the door. I could still hear him through the window.

“Think about it,” he was saying.

But that was the last thing I wanted to do.

Four more cups of coffee, three phone calls, and two (pathetic) voice mails later, I decided to pay Anderson a visit.

Tommy's accusation had jarred me: without him or Anderson, I had nobody left. Sure, there were the rest of the Stonecutters, and we'd grown to be pretty great friends. If I'd felt like eating fondue (Monique) or
skating in the park (Turbo) or sewing my own clothes while listening to Broadway cast recordings (Boyd), I would have given one of them a ring in a second. But just to
talk
, well…

It was one of the moments when I truly missed my girlfriends. Clarissa or Lili—even Priya!—would know exactly what to say. I realized I was at an all-time low when I considered going to my mother for advice, but she wasn't even home. So I did the only thing I could think of: took a shower, got dressed, and drove over to Anderson's house.

When I arrived, I knocked about a million times and rubbed my hands together to keep warm. I called Anderson's cell phone, then his landline. Then I knocked again. Just as I was about to give up and go home, the door opened.

“Hi!” I said enthusiastically.

Anderson looked sleepy-eyed and sweaty. A pair of sweatpants were tied loosely around his waist. No shirt.

“You didn't pick up your phone.”

Anderson frowned. “Sorry. It's broken, I think.”

“That sucks.” I was still standing outside, mind you, and it was cold. The wind blew the back of my dress up, and I shivered, smoothing it down with my hands. “Um, Anderson?”

“Ya?”

“Can I come in? It's freezing.”

“Oh,” Anderson said, opening the door a little wider. “I was actually just about to hop in the shower.
Tough practice today. And then I have to get some work done.”

“I could wait for you.” Then, in my sexiest voice (which wasn't too different from my regular voice): “Or I could
join
you.”

“You want to play basketball?” Anderson said, sounding confused.

“No, silly.” I stepped toward him, resting my head on his shoulder. “The shower part.”

He sniffed my hair. “But you already took one. You smell clean.”

“I'm trying to be romantic. Give a girl a break.”

Anderson sighed. “I'm just really tired and I have a lot to do. You understand, right? We can get together tomorrow.” He kissed my forehead. “Maybe even later tonight if I get enough done.”

What was there to say? I was getting the boot from my own boyfriend. Dejected, I turned to leave when the glimmer of something silver caught my eye.

An Audi.

Now, around where I lived, a lot of people drove Audis—Clarissa von Dyke being one of them. And it wasn't as though I had a eureka moment when I saw the license plate and realized that it was Clarissa's, and everything Tommy had told me clicked into place like the pieces of a bookshelf from IKEA.

What
did
happen was I saw a car I was pretty sure was an Audi almost entirely concealed by the arms of a weeping willow nearly two blocks away. And when I saw that car—which might or might not have
belonged to my former best friend—I thought about what Tommy had said. Mostly, I thought about my relationship with Anderson, which, though exciting and passionate in the beginning, had remained somewhat stagnant since the Closet Incident.

I thought about how he had surreptitiously scored a spot in the fashion show and how, even though we were both technically outcasts at school, he'd somehow managed to maintain the thinnest strands of his former friendships while I had absolutely nothing left. I thought about our history together. His relationship with Clarissa. His relationship with me. I thought about other things, too, but those are private.

Propelled by the collection of all those musings and, of course, by Tommy's cryptic speech from earlier that afternoon, I said something I normally wouldn't have.

“That's okay. I should actually get home myself, because I'm writing this huge exposé about Clarissa and the Diamonds that Tommy is planning on printing in this week's paper. Even though the fashion show didn't go off as planned, I have enough evidence—what with all of the files I've saved from the trials and such—to really end this once and for all.”

Anderson looked at me with fresh eyes. “Oh, wow.”

“No one else knows about it,” I said, “except Tommy, of course. I'm going to tell the Stonecutters tonight.”

“Cool,” Anderson said, rolling back his shoulders. The muscles underneath his skin danced with every
movement. “Let me know if you need any help.” He leaned over and gave me a peck on the lips. He tasted salty. “I'll call you later. Love ya.”

I walked back to my car, trying to calm myself down. Anderson wasn't sneaking off to see Clarissa behind my back. He loved me. He was proud of me, and he wanted me to succeed. Sure, it was weird that all the lights were off, and
yes
, it was bizarre that he didn't invite me inside, but there was simply no way Tommy could be right.

I would find out soon enough, though. No one except Tommy and me (and now Anderson) knew about the exposé. I had no intention of telling the rest of the Stonecutters about it that evening. If Clarissa and the Diamonds found out, their only possible source was Anderson; it would mean he was a liar, a bastard, a sneak—everything Tommy had claimed. If not, Tommy was the liar, trying to get Anderson out of the way for some unknown purpose and exploit me for the benefit of his journalistic pursuits.

The exposé, I realized, was the key to everything. I would simply have to wait and see what happened next. And meanwhile, I'd have to write the damn thing.

Any rights not specifically discussed in the Diamond Rules are applicable only to those who score a four or higher on their AP exams and/or compliment the Diamonds on their hot faces/hair/bodies, etc.

—
The Diamond Rules

The rest of the weekend passed as weekends do—quickly and without warning—and on Monday it was back to school.

In English, I couldn't help overhearing the twins’ gossip.

“And did you
see
her disgusting Jell-O legs during the fashion show?”

“I know. But wasn't Clarissa's dress ah-freaking-mazing?”

“We should totes get ones like that for prom. But we don't want to look like we're copying, you know?”

“We should get them in, like …
a different color
.”

“You're so smart.”

I had totally forgotten that the Snow Court—the final five princes and princesses—was being announced
today. When the television flickered on for the morning announcements, I suddenly felt nervous.

Onscreen, Lili held two sealed envelopes. “The moment we've all been waiting for …,” she said.

Watching Lili, I felt both angry and sad. Hurt and enraged. It was the paradox of my entire life—wishing things were the way they used to be, but having enough perspective to understand that would never happen and that maybe, just maybe, it was for the better.