The Diamonds (25 page)

School was uneventful that day. I had a lab in physics. A test in calculus. Ms. Ariana made me audition for a solo in chorus, and the Diamonds laughed the entire time I sang. (I'm not a good singer.) Anderson's psychology class was canceled, and we left campus and had lunch at Wendy's. I ate a salad and half his fries.

In Mr. Townsen's class, we were supposed to pair up and choose a U.S. Supreme Court case, writing a
report either in support of the majority decision or against it. Everyone immediately claimed a partner as I sat alone at my desk. I felt like the fat kid in gym class, except I wasn't fat. And I wasn't in gym class.

Finally, a kid named Arjit took pity and sat down next to me. Well, that's not exactly true. Mr. Townsen approached him and pointed at me, and Arjit slunk toward me with a look of defeat on his face. (You know you're unpopular when the teacher has to
force
someone to be your partner.)

Arjit was small, maybe five foot five, and had a constellation of acne across his forehead. His eyebrows were thick and untamed, and his sideburns trailed all the way down to his jawline. He was the type of guy I never would have spoken to a few months earlier. But I was a different person now. Wasn't I? I thought about my interaction with Boyd and decided that being nice to Arjit was exactly the type of thing I
should
be doing. Turning over a new leaf. Becoming a kinder, more sincere person. Arjit was probably a great guy, and now I had the opportunity to know him better.

“So,” I said in a light, sweet voice. “Which case do you want to work on?”

Arjit glared at me in a way that said,
Back off, bitch
.

“Arjit?”

“Whatever,” he said, looking away. I followed his eyes, which were locked on the Diamonds. They were staring right at us. “I don't care. Can you just, like, not talk so much? Your voice is really irritating.”

I won't lie: getting told off by Arjit was a definite
blow, but I was used to it by now. Kind of. I turned over a new page in my binder and wrote my name at the top. This whole being-nice-to-people thing was going to be a lot harder than I'd imagined.

“I can
not
believe he said that,” Boyd said, taking a sip of his coffee. We were back inside his car, listening to
Sunday in the Park with George
. “Who knew Arjit could be such a douche?”

“Apparently I bring out the worst in people,” I said, staring at Clarissa's house, an old Victorian with a wraparound porch and a canary yellow door. How many times had I sat on that porch? Knocked on that door?

“You're just going through a rough spot,” Boyd said knowingly. “It'll pass. All storms do.”

“It certainly doesn't feel that way.”

Boyd traced the steering wheel with one finger. “You're actually pretty lucky, Marni. You just can't see it right now.”

I laughed. Me? Lucky? “I can't see it because it's not true,” I said, “but it's nice of you to say so, Boyd.”

“No, I'm serious,” he said, turning to face me. “I mean, sure, your friends turned out to be total gorilla bitches, but you're, like, gorgeous, you're smart
and
funny, and you have, like, a
way
hot boyfriend.”

I raised an eyebrow, and he blushed. I guess he'd answered my question after all. “I won't say anything, you know. About you … being … well… you know.”

Boyd shrugged. “I'm not ashamed of who I am, but I'm not ready to tell my parents. Not yet. Maybe once I go away to college.” He touched my shoulder. “Thanks, though.”

“You're welcome,” I said.

“I know you don't think I'm right about your being lucky,” he continued, “but I am. And even if I wasn't, you have friends now. You just have to give us a chance.”

Despite our belonging to a secret organization, I had yet to think of the Stonecutters as my friends. Sitting there with Boyd, though, I realized that was exactly what they were. Well, not yet. But that was what they had the potential to be.

If I let them.

Nothing happened at Clarissa's until the fifth time we followed her home. It was a Thursday, around six o'clock. Mock trial had been over for nearly an hour. The sky was dark, and I had to squint to see anything at all. Boyd was in the driver's seat, as usual, but this time Turbo was with us, sprawled along the backseat as though it were a couch. Every five minutes or so, I would glance at him in the rearview mirror.

“Dude,” Turbo said, taking off his hat and scratching his head, “how long are we gonna stay here for?”

“Why?” Boyd asked. He was reading the latest
In Touch
. “Got somewhere better to be? Hot date?”

Turbo snorted. “I wanted to do some skateboarding.”

I was always surprised when people who looked like skaters actually
skated
. I thought it was more of a fashion statement than anything else.

“Are you any good?” I asked, craning my neck toward the back of the car. “I don't mean that in a rude way, Turbo. I'm just wondering.”

“Nah, it's cool. I'm all right. I used to be a lot better.”

“What happened?” Boyd tore his eyes from the magazine. “Did you pop a wheelie?”

Turbo laughed. “Do you even know what that means?”

Boyd shook his head. “I've always wanted to say it, though.”

“I guess.” Turbo put his hat back on. There was a skull on it, and it was incredibly tattered. I think he thought it made him look tough. “Anyway, I just practice a lot less. Back when I went to Dover, a bunch of my friends skated, so we'd all hang out after school and shit. But I lost touch with them when I started at Bennington, so, ya know. It sucks.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You went to Dover?”

Fact: Dover (elementary, middle, and high schools) is the public school district I belonged to before starting at Bennington.

“Yup,” Turbo said. “Up through freshman year.”

“That's weird,” I said. “I don't remember you. I went there for middle school.”

The years I'd spent at Dover middle school were ones I rarely spoke of. Not because it was a bad school
or anything (although compared to Bennington, it was) but because I was no longer the same person I'd been when I'd gone there. I'd grown out of my awkward, gangly years, of having as many friends as I had pairs of shoes (very few), of simply
waiting
for my real life to begin.

Oddly enough, despite my metamorphosis from public school caterpillar to private school butterfly, I felt more like the girl I'd been at Dover
now
than when I went there.

Turbo rubbed his chin, which was spotted with blond stubble. “I remember you.”

I was shocked. “You do?”

“OMG,” Boyd said, bouncing up and down, “I want to know
everything
. All the details.”

I wondered what, exactly, Turbo remembered about me. The too-big jeans and plain colored T-shirts I wore? My L.L. Bean backpack? The lonely circular table I sat at during lunch with Franny Shirlington, who had the face of a pug and the body of a Great Dane?

For the first time since I'd known him, Turbo looked, well, thoughtful. “Marni was… Marni was”—he glanced at me and smiled with all his teeth—“really cute.”

“Cute?”

“Yeah,” Turbo said. “I had a crazy-ass crush on you in seventh grade. I wanted to ask you to the Halloween dance but I never did because I thought you'd say no.”

Seventh grade. Halloween dance. I hadn't even gone.

“You can't be serious,” I said. The idea of someone having a crush on me back in middle school was incomprehensible. I couldn't wrap my head around it.

“Dude,” said Turbo, rubbing the brim of his hat. “I am.”

“Awww,” Boyd said, clasping his hands. “You two could have been, like,
lovers
. I think I'm gonna cry. Or throw up in my mouth a little bit.”

“Whatever,” Turbo said, laughing. “It's all old news anyway.”

It wasn't old news, though. Not to me. Before I could think about it any more, however, I was temporarily blinded by a pair of headlights.

“Ow,” Boyd said, covering his eyes. “Brights are
to tally
unnecessary in a residential area.”

The car—a dark-colored BMW—pulled into Clarissa's driveway. Once the lights were off, I was able to make out the identity of the driver. A thick scarf was wrapped around her neck, covering nearly half her face, but it was definitely her: Emmy Montgomery. Juror no. 9. (We didn't actually refer to the jurors by number, but it's more dramatic this way.)

“Quick,” Boyd said, poking me. “Get my camera out of the glove compartment.”

I grabbed the tiny Nikon and tossed it to him. He immediately began clicking away. I was worried Emmy would notice the flash, but she seemed all-consumed,
rushing up the steps and knocking on the door until it opened and she slipped inside.

Boyd turned off his camera and rested it on his leg. “That was thrilling!” he said. “I feel like a paparazzo or something.”

Turbo, from the back, said, “Well, what do we do now?”

I wasn't sure. We had shots of Emmy outside Clarissa's house, but they didn't really
prove
anything. Was this what we'd been waiting for all these days? Some random pictures taken from a few feet away? Suddenly, our plan seemed, well, futile.

“I guess we should go home,” I said. Boyd nodded in my direction, and Turbo exhaled something that sounded like “Finally.”

I pulled out my cell phone. One text. Anderson.

WANNA MEET UP LTR … 10PM?

The digital clock on my phone read 6:59. What was I going to do for three hours? Homework? The idea made me cringe.

Boyd started his engine. We turned out of Clarissa's neighborhood and onto Willis Avenue, heading nowhere in particular. I would probably go home and take a nap. Or avoid my mother.

“So,” Boyd said, “who am I dropping off first?” He looked at me, then at Turbo, but neither of us said anything. I guessed that—despite his whining—Turbo didn't really have anywhere to be, either.

Up ahead, on the right, was a Baskin-Robbins Clarissa and I had frequented whenever we'd needed a little pick-me-up. The neon lights seemed to be calling my name.

“Anybody want ice cream?” Boyd asked.

My stomach rumbled. “I'd have some.”

“Me too,” Turbo chirped.

“Okay, then,” Boyd said, putting on his blinker. “Baskin-Robbins it is!”

As Boyd parked his car and I opened the door, Turbo rushing out ahead of me, I thought,
This is the sort of thing friends do
.

If a friend, enemy, or frenemy accuses you of a heinous crime, you have the right to appear before the Diamond Court. Wear diamonds.

—
The Diamond Rules

Opening myself up to the Stonecutters did not happen overnight. Tiny things at first, like getting ice cream, allowed me to shed the layers that had accumulated during my years as a Diamond and discover what lay underneath.

“I'm so proud of you,” Anderson told me one night in front of my house. We were inside his Jeep. Making out. Ryan Adams sang from the speakers.

“Why?” I remember asking.

“For hanging out with these kids and not being a total bitch.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Whoa,” he said, both hands in the air. “I just mean, like, you're being really nice to everyone.”

“I
am
really nice.” Wasn't I?

Anderson smiled. “You're a lot of things, Marni, but nice isn't exactly one of them.” He leaned over
and kissed me. “What's so good about being
nice
, anyway? The important thing is that the Stonecutters like you, and I think they're really starting to.”

I couldn't have disagreed more. I wanted to be nice. I wanted people to like me because of the person I was, not because of who they
thought
I was.

But this was Anderson. My boyfriend. And sometimes you have to pick your battles. So I chose to focus on his lips instead of the words coming out of them, and let him kiss me until I was tired.

That conversation with Anderson kick-started a desire to return to a time pre-Diamonds, before Clarissa; the only problem was I didn't know the first thing about getting there. I decided to reach out to the Stonecutters—not just Boyd—and actually
connect
with them, hopefully finding some answers (and friends?) in the process.

One afternoon, I went skateboarding with Turbo. Believe me, I know. When he asked me to go, my immediate reaction was
No
, but then I thought,
That's the old you; the new you would go skateboarding
.

That's the interesting thing about self-improvement: you have to
try
.

So I met up with Turbo outside his house for my first lesson in “boarding.” That afternoon—it was a Thursday—I was
supposed
to be trailing Clarissa with Boyd, but Monique went in my place. “Don't worry,” she told me, “eet is my pleasure. Boyd always smells so nice—like soap. And babies.”

Turbo had one of his old skateboards for me to use. Let me just say it was a lot harder than it looked. I stepped onto it and fell immediately. Then I tried again and managed to keep my balance for about all of three seconds before—you guessed it—dropping to the ground. I think I fell about ten times in the first minute.