The Diamonds (16 page)

The entire table watched Arlene take one sip, then two. “It tastes fine to me.”

Clarissa took back the drink. “That's all. Oh, and, Arlene?”

“Yes?”

“I appreciate you.”

Arlene backed away from the table slowly until I could no longer see her. “Whoa,” said Ryan with disbelief. “You're, like, evil.”

Clarissa smiled and raised her glass. “To senior year,” she said.

“To senior year,” we all repeated, and as we did, the lights dimmed. Anderson was about to begin.

Everyone clapped and cheered, a few of Anderson's buddies yelling things like “Yeah, St. James!” and “I want your balls, Anderson!” as a joke. (I think.) Clarissa grabbed my hand underneath the table, and I suddenly remembered that she was his ex-girlfriend; it was probably hard for her to be there, with Anderson getting all the glory, her own face masked by the dark lights and shadows thrown by the candles. I thought about how I would feel if Jed were up there, about to play his own music (the very idea was ludicrous). I'm pretty sure I would have cried.

“Are you okay?” I whispered.

Clarissa squeezed my hand. “I'm just glad you're here with me.”

That was the amazing thing about Clarissa. She could act so rude and superior all the time but really, inside, she was a little girl.

Anderson's music was incredible. The first thing he played was “I Hope You Don't Kill Me in My Sleep,” a funktastic song about trying to break up with a girl who won't take no for an answer. (I had to keep reminding myself it wasn't about me.) I was surprised by how smart his lyrics were; he sounded like a real musician, not just some arrogant high school kid who'd picked up a guitar and thought he was the Next Big Thing.

The other guys were awesome, too—a drummer
named Jared and this guy Marshall on bass. (Anderson introduced them.) Anderson looked hot underneath the lights; he was born to play music in front of a crowd. I knew then and there, as he kissed the mic and sang about love and death and heartache and sex (I wondered,
How does he know about all these things?)
, that no matter what, he was The One, and that night we would take our relationship to the next level (aka get freaknasty with it).

“Thanks so much for coming out, guys,” Anderson said into the microphone. “There's one more song I'd like to play tonight. I've never played it for anyone before, so it might totally suck.” He laughed, and I wanted to melt, like the candle on the table, and have him scoop me into his arms and reshape me. “But I don't think so. It's about this girl who's really special to me, and who, you know, changed my life. It's pretty deep.”

He gave a quick nod to Marshall and Jared and began tapping his foot on the stage. “Here goes. It's called ‘Into Your Eyes.’

I used to wear these colors proud
But they're fading

I used to live my life out loud
But that noise is grating

Hold me close so the moment won't pass
The weekend flies by and we're right back in class
If only we could be honest
But we promised
I hope you've got a plan
’Cause these secrets are killing me

I used to hold my head up high
But not since I dissed her

So I let you pass me in the hall
With a wink or whisper

Kiss me hard and our secret is out
My guitar chords ring doubt after doubt

If only we could be honest
But we promised
I hope you've got a plan
’Cause these secrets are killing me

Everybody here's got a problem with us both
So I paint and you write
And we savor the night
As we make our faithful oath

But if my heart breaks, I can't take it
So I look into the stands
As my heart beats with the band's
And I see right through her eyes
Right into yours

I see over their helmets into the lights
But if I look right into their eyes, I can see all my
  nights before me

I sink into my groove
They're all looking at me
Waiting for my move

Everybody here's got a problem with us both
So I paint and you write
And we savor the night
And we make our faithful oath

But if my heart breaks, I can't take it
So I look into the stands
As my heart beats with the band's
And I see right through her eyes
Right into yours.”

•
EXHIBIT L
•

When it was over, the lights went from extra-dim to regular-dim and I sat motionless in my chair.

“I never knew Anderson was so intense,” Duncan said.

I imagined that when Anderson saw Duncan and me together, a ball of jealousy would grow and burst inside him, exploding through his pores, out every inch of his body. There would be a brawl, perhaps, and Duncan and Anderson would trade punches over me, and somehow, in the middle of it all, Jed—who wasn't even at the show but would appear magically out of thin air—would get pushed between them and they would (accidentally) punch his head off. He would be
rushed to the hospital, but there'd be nothing the doctors could do for him; Darcy would cry rivers and oceans and I would say,
It's okay, I'll handle it
, taking his head and wrapping it in a box with a beautiful bow to give to Darcy as a present. Clarissa and the girls would videotape the exchange and Anderson would be waiting for me in a horse and buggy and we would ride together into the darkness and I would lose my virginity to him.

“Me either,” I said.

“Let's go.” Ryan got up from the table. “We gotta beat the crowd.”

I felt for my purse and Clarissa grabbed my hand. “I'm just going to steal her for a moment, okay?” she told Duncan. “We'll be right back.”

Clarissa dragged me toward the bathroom, parting the throng of people with a simple gesture. Once we were inside the ladies’ room, she leaned against the door. “That song,” she said, “wasn't it… incredible?”

You mean my song?

“Yeah,” I said. “It was.”

“I think it was a sign.” She looked ethereal, hair over her eyes, skin perfect and milky and clear. “I think Anderson wants me back.” She lowered her voice slightly. “And I think I want him back, too. I'm going to tell him at the party tonight. I mean, how could I not, after hearing that song? He said I
changed
his
life.”

Clarissa did a little jump, and all I could think of was how much I wanted to punch her in the face.

I'm sure I don't have to tell you how crazy house parties are, and how dumb it is to throw them while your parents are away. But Ryan had been doing this since he'd gotten his braces removed, and his parties were perfect to the very last detail.

They were
not
open to the general Bennington public; you had to be invited. Very A-list. And since the invention of the Diamond Court, that list had been getting smaller every day. This left tons of room for drinking, dancing, smoking, and general naughtiness in practically every corner of Ryan's not-so-humble abode.

Debauchery at its finest.

While I certainly wanted to have a good time, I had one goal in mind: getting to Anderson before Clarissa did. She might have been my best friend, but I wasn't about to let her misinterpretation of a love song lead to the loss of my secret boyfriend. Clarissa was the girl who'd dumped Anderson and broken his heart; she was the girl who could have any guy she wanted at the snap of her fingers. (This is actually true; I've seen her snap her fingers and make a guy fall in love with her. His name was Dennis Abramson, and it was the ninth grade.)

She didn't need Anderson. Not like I did.

The party was going strong by the time we got there. Ryan lived in a tremendous mansion in a ritzy neighborhood. The house was set back at the end of a long,
winding driveway with foreboding trees and granite statues everywhere. During the day, the ambiance would have been romantic; at night, it was a bit scary.

Inside, a makeshift bar was set up in the corner, bottles standing like soldiers at attention; some type of electronica was blasting through strategically placed speakers.

“Can I get you a drink?” Duncan asked.

“Sure,” I said. “Vodka and some kind of juice?”

“At your service,” he said. I took the opportunity to fix my face in the bathroom. I was pleasantly surprised. My makeup hadn't smeared, and my hair was finally at the point where I didn't look like an eight-year-old boy; I was wearing just the right amount of lipstick, my boobs looked perky, and after a quick touch-up, I was ready to go.

“Hi, Marni,” Rebecca Steade, a pretty blond lacrosse player, said to me as I left the bathroom. “You look gorgeous.
So
effing fierce. Like a mountain lion.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I sauntered over to the bar. “Let me,” I said, grabbing a cup with reddish liquid from Duncan. There was no ice and way too much alcohol.

“I didn't get a chance to tell you before,” Duncan said hesitantly, “but you look, like,
really
pretty.”

“Aww,” I said. “That's sweet.”

“Wanna dance?”

I finished my drink in one gulp and handed it back to him. “Maybe later?”

“Sure.” Duncan nodded. He seemed disappointed, but not devastated. “I'll get you a refill.”

By the time I found who I was looking for, I'd had three more drinks, two of which I'd taken from other people while they weren't paying attention. I would say, looking back, that I was pretty drunk. Not enough to stumble and fall or throw up all over myself, but the sort of drunk that makes you feel tingly all over and so numb that everything—lights, sounds, people—in the world (or in my case, the house party) seems beautiful.

There he was, leaning against the wooden railing of the staircase: Anderson. He was chatting with Amy Spanger, who (supposedly) was addicted to painkillers, (supposedly) had had two nose jobs, and (supposedly) had made a YouTube video in which she humped her dog to the sound track of the movie
Xanadu
, had posted it for five minutes, and then had taken it down. Beer in hand, he excused himself and walked toward me with the sort of swagger that made me want to rip his jeans off and sew them into a jean pillow that had
I HEART ANDERSON
written in big swirly letters. Just kidding. It was the kind of swagger that made me want to Do It.

“Hi,” he said. We were standing closer than we'd ever stood in public. I could smell his breath on my face—sweet, intoxicating.

“Hi.”

“Follow me,” Anderson said, scanning the hallway. He opened the first door he saw and dragged me inside.

It was a closet. Pitch-black. I didn't mind at all. I grabbed his collar and pulled until he was on top of me.

“You were incredible tonight,” I said, taking a breath. “That song…”

“You liked it?”

I ran my fingers across his face, tracing the wispy feel of his eyebrows; the strong, straight slope of his nose; his cheeks; and his lips, wet from mine. “I loved it.” And then, because I had to, I asked, “It was about me, right?”

“Mmm,” he said, and then he kissed me. That was all I needed to hear.

If you had told me that I was going to lose my virginity in the hall closet of Ryan Brauer's house, jocks crushing Coors Lights on their foreheads and playing beer pong a mere few feet away, Kylie Minogue singing,
“La, la, la,”
in the background, I would
not
have believed you.

But there I was, kissing Anderson, my arms wrapped around his neck, when I felt something hard against my leg. At first I thought it was a sneaker, or a hanger (we were, after all, in a closet), but when I shifted my weight and it was still there, I realized that it was neither of those things.