by Ted Michael
One night, a few weeks ago, I was talking to Garrett on the phone (it was probably around one or two in the morning) and she was saying something about her dad and I made a comment about my own, and what she said was this: “You’re both hurting and you need each other. If he’s not going to reach out to you, then you have to reach out to him. You have to push him. It will be hard but I promise you that eventually it will all work out.”
At the time, I thought it was kind of bullshitty advice. Why should I be the one to go to him? He’s the adult. If he wants to run away and sulk every time I even try to mention my mother, that’s his problem.
It’s not just his problem, though, which I guess is what Garrett was trying to say. It’s our problem. I only have a year left—less than a year, actually—before I move out of the house and go to college. Sure, I’ll be back on breaks and stuff, but it won’t be the same. Even though I’m dying to get out of Long Island, I don’t want to leave and have things still be so shitty; I don’t want to feel like I have no idea who my father really is or like he has no clue about me.
Here’s what I know: I swore I’d never fall in love but I did. And it has messed me up and who knows when I’ll actually recover. It could be days, it could be weeks, it could be months—or maybe I’ll be thirty and still reminiscing about the time I shared with Garrett Lennox. Maybe not. What has been revealed, though, is that I have the possibility to change, to become whole, when for so long I have felt so half. Everything until now has been a test, and I have crashed and I have burned and I am weak, but I will come out stronger. I don’t have to live my entire life hiding behind a computer or a television or a movie screen. I can step in front of one. And I know just where to start.
I go downstairs to where my father is sitting on the living room couch, watching a college basketball game on the flat screen.
“Dad,” I say.
DAD
What’s up?
“Not much.” I grab the remote and shut off the TV. I take a long, deep breath. “We need to talk.”
He looks at me with weary eyes. He sees me. Then he pats the empty spot on the sofa next to him. “Okay.”
GARRETT
This is officially the swiftest my life has ever come “Full Circle” (Miley Cyrus, 2008).
I feel like it’s my first day at East Shore all over again, only worse. Then, no one really paid me any attention. Now, I’m definitely getting attention, but not the kind anybody wants. Some people, I think, are impressed that I was the first girl to really crack Henry Arlington. It’s important to remember, though, that Henry is as popular as you can be at East Shore; most people—the girls, at least—are pissed at me for breaking his heart. The guys don’t want anything to do with me for fear of being ostracized by Duke and Nigel, the leaders of the Hate on Garrett parade. I can’t really blame them. Only, I wish someone would understand this isn’t easy for me, either.
When you break up with someone, there is, for the most part, a winner and a loser. The winner is the one who initiates the breakup, who’s already moved on or has confronted his or her feelings. The loser is the one who is sideswiped, who has no control over the fact that something that once seemed so stable has been decimated.
But anyone who has ever dumped someone knows that it sucks for the winner, too, and really the winner hasn’t won anything at all—the only accomplishment is having hurt someone’s feelings. Which sucks no matter how it happens.
I hate that I hurt Henry. I hate myself for lying to him and for letting the charade go on as long as it did. I hate myself for developing actual feelings for him and for being unable to express them properly and make him understand that I really do care about him, that I have never known anyone like him before, and that I doubt I ever will.
But I don’t hate myself for ultimately being honest. I don’t hate myself for trying (and failing) to make girlfriends for once in my life, for putting my own feelings before a boy’s, for trying to have some semblance of independence.
When I first moved to Long Island, I thought that if I could make a guy understand what it’s like to be dumped, I would feel better about myself. But I’ve learned that hurting someone doesn’t make you strong. And hurting someone I care about feels worse than anything I’ve ever suffered. It was foolish to think that toying with Henry’s emotions would ever provide me with validation, or that hanging out with the J Squad and pretending they were my friends would actually turn them into people I’d want to be friends with.
I still have a lot to learn, it seems. But I am ready to start.
The J Squad officially reject me from their cafeteria table.
London approaches me at my locker. “Just so you know,” she says, “you can’t sit with us at lunch.”
“I wasn’t exactly planning on it. Where are Jyllian and Jessica—did they send you to be the official bearer of bad news?”
“Jyllian has a physics test and Jessica is scared of you. She’s totally having diarrhea in the bathroom right now. And just so you know, you didn’t win the bet.”
At this point, I don’t even care. I know enough to see that London is putting on her brave face and that, inside, she’s still reeling from Henry’s rejection. If asserting power over me makes her feel better, whatever. I don’t need the J Squad.
“If you say so,” I tell her.
“Now’s the time we would make your life a living hell, but judging from the gossip I’ve heard, you’ve already done a fantastic job of that yourself,” she says. “I just can’t wait until MTV airs the episode of Destiny’s party in a few months so the entire country can see what a skank you are.”
There are a few choice responses I think of immediately, but I’m not really in the mood to fight, especially not with London. I close my locker and give her a “Smile” (Lily Allen, 2006). “There’s toilet paper stuck to your shoe,” I tell her, and then I walk toward the cafeteria to find a table for one.
En route, I see Henry—it’s the first time I’ve seen him since the party. He did send me an e-mail afterward. The subject said “Friends …” and underneath he wrote: “I wish I could, but I can’t.”
I didn’t respond.
It’s pretty clear that he’s avoiding me. I don’t exactly blame him, but I wish things were different. But you can wish and you can pray and at the end of the day, that doesn’t really change anything. I stand still and watch him pass. He sees me, that much I’m sure of. I give a tiny wave, but he doesn’t return it. I think I see a smile, a tight-lipped one, but it may just be the light. I’m too far away to tell. Whatever his expression is, he walks away to somewhere I am not invited.
It’s devastating to lose a friend. I wouldn’t wish it on my fiercest enemy. I wouldn’t wish it on the worst person in the entire world. There is nothing like having everything and then having nothing—no matter how it happened—and longing for that person but being rewarded only by memories that play out like scenes in a movie until you can barely recall what is real and what is not, what is life and what is fiction.
I finally reach the cafeteria. I expect the entire room to stop when I enter, but it doesn’t. I maneuver through the crowded room until I find a dingy table that is completely empty. Four or five chairs surround it; I put my books on one, sit on another, and take out my lunch. I debate picking up one of the books and reading, or pretending to read so I don’t look so lonely, but screw that—I am lonely. I might as well embrace it.
The J Squad are gathered at the other end of the cafeteria, and I avoid eye contact completely. A few minutes go by. I’m staring at the wall to my left when I hear a voice I don’t recognize.
“Hey, Garrett.”
I look up. Two seniors are standing in front of me: Melody Brickman and Josie Ramirez. I know them peripherally; they don’t socially orbit the J Squad, but they’re not complete losers, either. They’re just normal, regular girls with normal, regular-looking paper bag lunches of their own.
“Hi,” I say. My voice cracks and I take a sip of
water.
“We don’t want to pry or anything,” Josie says, “but we were at Destiny’s Sweet Sixteen.”
Ah. A few people have come up to me since then, asking me for details about Henry (“Does he have any tattoos? Is it true he hooked up with one of the Pussycat Dolls? Does he use a lot of tongue when he frenches?”); these girls probably want in on the secrets too.
I sigh. “He doesn’t have any tattoos but he’s not opposed to getting one if he can figure out a meaningful design, he didn’t hook up with one of the Pussycat Dolls, although I’m sure he could if he wanted to, and he’s a great kisser. Anything else?”
They look at me like I’ve just escaped from a loony bin.
“Um, what?” Melody asks.
“Henry. That’s why you’re coming over to talk to me, right?”
Josie frowns. “Not exactly. We just wanted to say that we saw what happened, and we’re sorry. If you want to talk about it with anyone, I mean … I know we’re not really friends, but I’d be happy to lend a shoulder to cry on.”
“Ditto,” Melody says.
I’m kind of shocked. “I don’t really know what to say.” I look around for cameras to see if someone is filming our interaction (it wouldn’t be the first time), but I don’t see any.
“I broke up with my boyfriend over the summer and it was awful. I feel your pain,” Melody says. “He still won’t talk to me.”
“Guys are crazy,” Josie says, stifling a laugh.
I smile and a sort of warmth fills my stomach. A tiny ball of hope. “Do you guys want to sit down?”
“Is that okay?” Melody asks. “We weren’t sure if you were eating alone or if you just have a lot of imaginary friends.”
“Oh,” I say, shrugging, “I do, but they don’t leave the house. Except on weekends.”
We all laugh. Then they sit.
INGRID MICHAELSON LYRICS RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD AT THE POSSIBILITY OF MAKING NEW FRIENDS
“I just wanna be okay.”—Be OK
“I am giving up on half-empty glasses.”
—Giving Up
“I think I’m starting to feel something good.”
—Oh What a Day
“Thanks,” I say.
“For what?” Josie asks.
“Oh.” I take a bite of my sandwich and feel some of the weight on my shoulders dissolve. “You know.”
At the end of Shakespeare in Love, there’s a moment when you wonder whether Gwyneth Paltrow’s character, Viola, will stay in England with Shakespeare, who she loves, or if she will travel to Virginia with Lord Wessex, who she was forced to marry.
“How is this to end?” Lord Wessex asks the Queen. To which the Queen replies, “As stories must when love’s denied: with tears and a journey.”
This part of the movie is particularly wrenching—even though Shakespeare and Viola are devastatingly right for each other, even though they have a love most people would kill for, a love most people never know their entire lives, it’s simply not meant to be.
But unlike Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare and Viola will not suffer tragic deaths. (This is assuming they are real people as opposed to film characters, but stay with me.) There will be heartbreak, yes, but they will live. There will be tears and there will be a journey. They will go on to have full lives and do wonderful, exciting things. Henry and I will too. I’m sure of it. Because love, no matter how tragic (or rusty, as the J Squad would say), is not an ending. It is a test and a textbook; it is a map to undiscovered places and a lexicon of languages yet to be spoken.
Love.
Really, it is a beginning.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to:
Everyone at Random House Children’s Books, especially Krista Vitola, Marci Senders, Kathy Dunn, and Beverly Horowitz. Also to Jillian Karger and Colleen Fellingham for their keen eyes.
My editor, Stephanie Elliott, for her wisdom, wit, and warmth—plus making sure I stay (semi) appropriate.
My family, for their love and support.
Lastly, to the friends who Virgiled me through my own CTL: thank you for helping me realize that it’s better to feel everything than nothing at all.
CONTINUE READING
FOR AN EXCERPT FROM
The Diamonds
Excerpt copyright © 2009 by Ted Michael
Published by Delacorte Press
an imprint of Random House Children’s Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York
The light flicked on, and I was blinded by my nakedness, and his nakedness. The door flew open. Before I could move (there was no time to do anything but freeze), a sea of faces stared down at me—Duncan’s, Priya’s, Lili’s, Ryan’s, faces I had never seen before, shocked faces—and in the center of them all was Clarissa’s, eyebrows arched in surprise, mouth pulled together in a tiny O that said a million things and nothing at once.
And I remember thinking: My life is over.
The next day, nobody returned my calls.
When I stopped by each one of the Diamonds’ houses on Sunday afternoon, they were conspicuously “unavailable.” I even went to our regular brunch at Bistro, but they were nowhere to be found. By Monday morning, what had happened at Ryan’s party was all over school. For discretionary reasons, I won’t repeat the gossip here, but know that it was awful, and that by third period, the entire school was under the belief that there was a sex tape of me, Anderson, and a live chicken floating around the Internet.
AP Lit with the twins was the worst.
“I heard she has ‘I heart Anderson’ tattooed across her back,” Dana said while Mrs. Bloom drew stick figures of Romeo and Juliet on the board. “And underneath that, ‘I heart balls.’”
“I heard that Lili and Priya never even liked her,” said Dara, “and the real reason Jed dumped her is because she has warts. Not the kind on your feet, either.”
The Diamonds weren’t at lunch; they didn’t show up for government, either.
Nobody was outright rude to me, but everyone stayed far, far away. The only human contact I had that entire day was two seconds with Anderson after art class, when he whispered, “Call me later, it’s gonna be okay,” into my ear and fled down the hallway before I could follow.
After school, Duncan was waiting for me at my locker with an incredibly peculiar expression on his face.
“Hi, Duncan,” I started, “I’m really—”
He held up his hand. “Whatever, Marni. I’m just here to give you this.”
Duncan handed me a thin slip of paper, which I immediately recognized (I’d helped design them, and conceived the entire text): it was a subpoena, the kind the Diamonds slipped into peoples’ lockers if they were supposed to appear at a trial.
“It’s for today,” he said, leaving before I could reply.
That was okay. I didn’t feel much like talking.
There were more people in the chorus room for my trial than for all the previous ones combined. People were clumped around the doorway, balancing on their toes to see inside. To see me.
Clarissa, Priya, and Lili looked formidable and gorgeous in their chic black robes; I thought about mine lying in its garment bag somewhere, and about how—now more than ever—all I wanted to do was put it on and stand beside them.
Members of the jury scowled at me. Neither Mr. Townsen nor Principal Newman was anywhere to be found. Only the Diamonds and me, separated by a judges’ bench and an apology.
Clarissa looked stone cold. “You are being charged with multiple offenses, Ms. Valentine, including First-Degree Backstabbing with Intention to Hurt, Second-Degree Being a Huge Slut, and Third-Degree Fugliness. How do you plead?”
Despite everything, I couldn’t help laughing at the ridiculousness of the entire scenario. “Is this for real?”
“We need your answer,” Priya said.
“Why didn’t you return any of my calls?” I asked.
“Please note that the defendant refuses to answer the question,”
Clarissa said stiffly, “which automatically enters a default plea of guilty.”
I could tell I needed a better tactic. “Look, I have absolutely no desire to talk about this with you guys in front of all these people”—I glanced around the room—“but you’re making it impossible to do otherwise, so here goes: I’m sorry.” I locked eyes with Clarissa. “This thing with Anderson just … happened. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be upset. I don’t want to lose your friendship over something like this.”
For a moment Clarissa’s face softened, but then she said, “So you admit to having a secret relationship with Anderson behind my back, and behind Priya’s and Lili’s, too?”
I felt my heart fold itself in half. “Yes,” I said, because really, what else was there to say? Someone behind me whispered, “Slut,” and someone else whispered, “Dumb tranny,” which I hoped wasn’t about me (but probably was), and before I knew it, Clarissa slammed down her gavel and said, “The Diamond Court finds you guilty of all the above charges.” Apparently, she didn’t even need to check in with the jury for this one. “You betrayed our trust and you’re never to speak to us again. If you see us in the hall, look the other way. Delete our numbers from your phone, and forget our e-mail addresses. Don’t sit next to us in class.” She leaned forward and scowled. “From this moment on, Marni, you no longer exist.”
I was speechless. Lili stepped down from the bench and walked toward me. She looked the same as always, only there was something meaner, something crueler, that lay just beneath her skin. “Hand over your necklace, Marni.”
My hand involuntarily went to my collarbone, where my diamond pendant lay against the base of my throat. “You can’t be serious,” I said, waiting for her to apologize for this outrageous scenario.
