The Diamonds (5 page)

“Do you know who I am?”

The girl shook her head.

“Do you know who she is?” I pointed to Lili, then Priya. “What about her?”

Still no answer.

“Interesting,” I said.

Just when I was about to provide Ms. Freshman with a (brief) education she would never forget, a pale hand shot across my vision like an arrow. The owner of said hand was none other than Elana Brockham, one of the more popular freshmen, a regular Diamond devotee, and proud owner of two fur coats.

“Jesus
effing
Christ
, Jess,” Elana said, pulling the girl away from me, “stop annoying Marni.” Elana flashed me an apologetic half smile. “She's new.”

“Whatever,” Priya said. “Just get her out of my face or I'm
totally
going to heave. And I had tacos for lunch.”

Meanwhile, Mr. Townsen was tapping on the blackboard. “Okay, guys,” he said, “I really need complete silence in order to continue. Clarissa has a lot to tell you.”

Clarissa gave a tiny wave at the mention of her name and everyone stopped talking immediately.

“Thank you,” Townsen said, shifting his weight so that he was slightly tilted (see the Leaning Tower of Pisa, 1173). “Now, let me tell you all a little bit about our club.”

Townsen recounted the in-class trial of JeDarcy—which everyone already knew about—and shared his hope of revitalizing the Bennington mock trial team.

“Serving on a jury is a privilege not to be taken lightly. If chosen, your decisions will affect the lives of
your fellow students. Ideally, you will learn both about the law and about yourselves. I have no intention of holding your hands throughout this process. I will be observing, of course, and available to chat if you have any specific questions, but I am eager for you
all
to discover the wonder known as the United States legal system. Here, in this room, each and every opinion matters. You are all on an equal playing field.”

Townsen spoke until his words were merely sounds and Lili had to pinch the underside of my arm to keep me awake.

“What's going on?” I asked.

“Clarissa just called the first twelve names,” said Lili. “Go up there.”

“To ensure fairness,” Mr. Townsen was saying, “the prosecution will be selecting half of the jury, as will the defense.”

For jury selection, Clarissa and I were the prosecuting attorneys, while Jenny Murphy and Eric Ericsson represented the defense. Lili had volunteered to be the stenographer (she was skilled at taking notes), and Priya fought Sherry Something to claim the title of clerk, which meant she was responsible for swearing in the jury and the witnesses.

“Welcome,” said Clarissa, scanning the jury box (two rows of six chairs), “to what I'm
sure
will be the best part of your day so far. In my hand I have a series of questions, preapproved by Mr. Townsen. Please be honest in your responses. We want to find people who
are as excited as we are to bring
real
justice to the halls of Bennington. Let's begin.”

In the second Clarissa took to open her file, Jenny Murphy extended one arm and said, “I would just like to add that—”

“Steffie,” Clarissa said, cutting her off with a single word, “do you have a boyfriend?”

Steffie Jacobs was a sophomore with a good complexion and a round face. The year before she gave the Diamonds Christmas cards with personalized notes. (I'd thrown mine away, but it was a nice gesture.)

“Yes,” Steffie said. Diagonal to her was Maria Patrinko, who would occasionally let me copy her physics homework; next to Maria was Jake Snider, a senior who Clarissa had kissed during the Halloween dance freshman year. According to Priya, Jake had “legit been in love” with Clarissa ever since.

On the far end was Adam Belling, who was in student government with Lili, and in front him was Patricia Kim, whose parents owned the nail salon Priya and I got manicures at every other Saturday.

“Let's say you were in AP Government on the day Jed broke up with Marni over the announcements. Do you think, as someone with a boyfriend yourself, you would have been
more
or
less
sympathetic to Marni?”

Steffie thought for a moment before saying, “Probably more. I think.”

“I see,” Clarissa said, taking a few determined steps and stopping beside Jake Snider, who was scratching the top of his head. “Jake. We kissed once. Do you
think that makes you more or less likely to believe whoever I am representing is innocent?”

Jake blushed. “I guess
maybe
I would be more likely to, you know, vote in your favor.”

“I would always vote in your favor,” Boyd Longmeadow interjected. “As long as you were wearing something fabulous.”

Clarissa chose not to respond. Over my shoulder, I saw Jenny scribbling furiously on a pad no larger than her palm.

I studied the remaining six jurors and then peered at the rest of the room. Everyone here was personally connected to the Diamonds in one way or another. It would be impossible to construct a fair jury. If the whole point of this newly envisioned student court was to make United States law accessible to the halls of Bennington, it was destined to fail.

Townsen was wrong. Everyone was
not
on an equal playing field. The only opinion that would truly matter was ours.
Diamond law
.

I glanced over at Clarissa, who was discussing the finer points of proving guilt beyond a reasonable doubt (I'd explained them to her the night before) while gliding her fingers through miles and miles of thick copper hair. I no longer had to wonder why she had been so eager to join mock trial. I knew.

In what seems completely unrelated but isn't (I promise), about two weeks earlier my mother had been operated on for carpal tunnel syndrome. How she got
carpal tunnel I'll never know; she can't even turn
on
a computer, let alone use a keyboard for endless hours. The surgery left her wrists encased in two plaster casts and rendered her unable to do such basic things as eat with a fork and a knife, use the remote control, or be nice to me.

This meant one very important thing: I was in charge of walking Hot Dog (don't laugh; he's a dachshund, and my mother isn't terribly original), a chore that would ultimately change the course of my entire senior year.

(“If you lose that dog, Marni,” said Mom, propped up on the living room couch with a cup of apple juice and a straw that changed colors while she drank from it, the first day I was supposed to walk him, “I'm converting your room into a Yogalates studio and you'll be out on the street. And that's not a threat. It's a promise. I
love
Yogalates.”)

So, after spending more than three hours listening to Clarissa grill prospective jurors, I returned home to take Hot Dog out around my neighborhood, which was when I ran into Anderson St. James.

Anderson St. James was gorgeous. He had a classic, all-American look, with enough rugged charm to find his way onto magazine pages or, better yet, onto a ranch in Montana with horses and flannel and dirt and sweat and spurs. His sandy hair was short, his smooth cheeks always the slightest bit red. He wore colored button-downs with khakis and wasn't afraid to wear
jewelry, either; sometimes two or three silver chains dangled against the tanned skin of his chest. He was tall and broad and slim yet muscular; he sometimes wore faded loafers or plain white sneakers to school with his favorite band names sketched onto the canvas in inky script.

•
EXHIBIT B
•

Anderson was Jed's complete opposite. Jed, forever pressed and cuffed, steamed, primped, hair gelled to one side, shirts buttoned all the way; Jed, who thought it was rude to wear sneakers unless he was in gym class, who tried just a little too hard.

•
EXHIBIT C
•

It's equally important to mention that Anderson was Clarissa's ex-boyfriend, and I wasn't allowed to talk to him. Literally. It was one of the rules our entire friendship was based on (“hos before bros,” as Priya
would say). Flirting with one of the Diamonds’ former flames was a serious, serious matter—a crime that would
not
go unpunished.

It's funny to say that I “ran” into Anderson while he was actually running, but that was exactly what happened. I fell, and the first thing I did was drop Hot Dog's leash. “Hot Dog!” I yelled after the tiny dachshund as he scurried farther and farther away. Anderson sprinted, catching up with the dog and scooping him into his meaty, football-player arms.

I stood and wiped the gravel off my knees. Now I knew why Mom took her dog-walking so seriously: you never knew just
who
was around the corner.

“Here ya go,” Anderson said, plopping Hot Dog onto the sidewalk and handing me the leash. He looked flushed from running.

“Thanks. My mother would've killed me if anything had happened to this dog.”

Anderson laughed. It was rich and satisfying, like chocolate mousse. “Yeah, I've seen her walk him around the neighborhood once or twice. She gets really into it, huh?”

“That's an understatement.” I felt myself starting to grin but stopped. What was I doing? If Clarissa ever saw me like this, she would murder me.

“So, how are you holding up?”

Anderson's question surprised me. I'd run into him a few times over the summer, after he and Clarissa had broken up, but I couldn't for the life of me remember the last time we'd actually
spoken
. I searched
Anderson's face, waiting for the moment he would smirk, act distant, and jog away, but he didn't move an inch.

“Marni?”

“Fine,” I said all too quickly. “I mean, I've been better, but I'm hanging in there.”

“Yeah,” he said, scraping his sneaker on the curb, “that whole Jed thing really sucked. I'm sorry.”

I gave a tight smile. “I'm okay.”

“Good,” he said. “I'm glad.”

“How've you been?”

He looked at me with soft eyes, the lines of his face and jaw so well defined I wondered if it hurt him to speak. “All right, I guess. You know”—he paused, and I waited for him to continue—“sort of lonely.”

“I understand.” If anyone knew about being lonely these days, it was me.

“Do you have a partner for the art project yet?” he asked.

Anderson and I took AP Visual Art, a class for seniors only, together. Anyone who'd taken basic drawing and painting classes could enroll; you didn't have to be the next Degas or anything like that. For our first big assignment, we were supposed to choose another student in the class and paint his or her portrait. It wasn't due until the end of the semester, and I hadn't given it much thought.

Until then.

I studied Anderson's face, tracing his features with my eyes. I imagined setting up an easel and being able
to stare at him for hours and hours with a legitimate excuse.

“Why?”

Anderson looked confused. “Well, uh, I don't have a partner, and I thought maybe you and I could …”

“You want to be
my
partner?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Everyone else in that class is totally lame.”

“I don't know, Anderson. It's a little weird.”

“Why? Because of Jed?”

I shook my head.

“Clarissa?”

I nodded.

“Don't be ridiculous.” He stretched his arms behind his head. “Things are fine between us. It's a non-issue.”

Anderson, not being a girl, obviously had no idea how long emotions could stay buried, especially inside someone as complex as Clarissa. I was about to decline his offer in favor of Diamond loyalty, but then I thought,
Why not?
It was just a school project. I didn't even have to mention it to Clarissa; it was
that
innocent. Besides, after everything I'd been through, I deserved to be a little selfish.

“Okay.”

“Great! You're a really good artist.”

Not true. It was kind of ridiculous that Anderson would be so excited to be my partner for a silly art project, but I would be lying if I said I wasn't flattered.

“So, what are you doing Friday night?”

“Why?” I said. “Are you asking me on a date?”