flirting. With me. And even though it felt sort of nice, I couldn't help thinking about Clarissa, about how ex-boyfriends were off-limits. And also about Jed.
“You know, I should really get going.” I stood up and brushed invisible lint off my jeans. “Maybe I can come back another time so you can finish—”
“No need,” Anderson said, standing up himself. “I'm done.” He turned the canvas around to face me. “See for yourself.”
Other than in a mirror, there aren't many times in life when you stare at your reflection. I've heard that some movie stars don't watch their own films because they don't want to see themselves onscreen. Looking at Anderson's creation, though, the fine lines ofcharcoal so evenly blended, dark and light in just the right places, the shading, shape, and detail of my features so immaculately perfect, I couldn't understand why. Not because I'm vain or anything—at least, I don't think I am—but because the feeling of being part of something larger than myself was overwhelming. It might have been just a drawing, a sketch for a high school class, but to me it was art.
“What do you think?” Anderson asked.
I looked at him and felt everything strong inside me collapse. “It's beautiful.”
I'll be the first to say it: mock trial turned out to be fun. Like, really fun. After Tommy's second article, the suggestion box in Café Bennington overflowed with student requests to have their trials heard. The Diamonds would sort through applications at Clarissa's house after school and pick the best—i.e., the funniest—ones to schedule for trial the following week. We'd write up subpoenas and have freshmen slip them inside people's lockers, notifying them of when to appear before the Diamond Court.
Part of it was the power, sure. We had our (manicured) hands in every aspect of the court. The only thing we didn't control was whether the jury found the defendant guilty or innocent, but usually it was pretty obvious, and for the most part, the jury was filled with Diamond wannabes. All we had to do was drop a hint or two about what we wanted the outcome of the trialto be, and That was That. Then it was up to us—the Diamonds—to dole out the punishments as we saw fit. Mr. Townsen sat in the back of the room, taking notes and drinking it all in; most of the time he didn't say a word. He strongly believed that “we must learn to govern ourselves,” a motto that proved easier with each successive trial.
Another part of it, though, was simply spending time with my best friends. Any excuse to spend more time with them—yes, even morphing the Bennington mock trial team into a court where students could settle their relationship problems and personal grievances in a professional manner that simultaneously served the Diamonds’ best interests—was a good one. At least in my book.
“All rise for the Honorable Judges Valentine, Ramnani, Chan-Mohego, and von Dyke.”
The entire audience in the chorus room—which was packed, by the way—stood at attention while Clarissa, Priya, Lili, and I sauntered forward, making sure our skirts swished just the right amount, and took our seats. Marco, our bailiff, looked like an overgrown string bean in a pair of green khakis and a green long-sleeved shirt. (“It makes me feel like there's a tree growing in the room,” Priya said after she'd ordered him to dress that way, “and I love nature. Kind of.”)
Once we were settled, Clarissa said, “You may be seated.” The collective noise of seventy or so bodies sitting down filled the room. The trials were so popular that people had to sign up on a sheet outside thechorus room the day before to watch the proceedings. (There was even an alternate list.)
“Today's trial, Goldstein v. O'Hara , is about to begin. Are all parties present?”
I glanced around the room. There was Rosie Goldstein, a junior who played lacrosse (which, in my opinion, was totally lesbionic) and had teeth that reminded me of
“You know, I should really get going.” I stood up and brushed invisible lint off my jeans. “Maybe I can come back another time so you can finish—”
“No need,” Anderson said, standing up himself. “I'm done.” He turned the canvas around to face me. “See for yourself.”
Other than in a mirror, there aren't many times in life when you stare at your reflection. I've heard that some movie stars don't watch their own films because they don't want to see themselves onscreen. Looking at Anderson's creation, though, the fine lines ofcharcoal so evenly blended, dark and light in just the right places, the shading, shape, and detail of my features so immaculately perfect, I couldn't understand why. Not because I'm vain or anything—at least, I don't think I am—but because the feeling of being part of something larger than myself was overwhelming. It might have been just a drawing, a sketch for a high school class, but to me it was art.
“What do you think?” Anderson asked.
I looked at him and felt everything strong inside me collapse. “It's beautiful.”
I'll be the first to say it: mock trial turned out to be fun. Like, really fun. After Tommy's second article, the suggestion box in Café Bennington overflowed with student requests to have their trials heard. The Diamonds would sort through applications at Clarissa's house after school and pick the best—i.e., the funniest—ones to schedule for trial the following week. We'd write up subpoenas and have freshmen slip them inside people's lockers, notifying them of when to appear before the Diamond Court.
Part of it was the power, sure. We had our (manicured) hands in every aspect of the court. The only thing we didn't control was whether the jury found the defendant guilty or innocent, but usually it was pretty obvious, and for the most part, the jury was filled with Diamond wannabes. All we had to do was drop a hint or two about what we wanted the outcome of the trialto be, and That was That. Then it was up to us—the Diamonds—to dole out the punishments as we saw fit. Mr. Townsen sat in the back of the room, taking notes and drinking it all in; most of the time he didn't say a word. He strongly believed that “we must learn to govern ourselves,” a motto that proved easier with each successive trial.
Another part of it, though, was simply spending time with my best friends. Any excuse to spend more time with them—yes, even morphing the Bennington mock trial team into a court where students could settle their relationship problems and personal grievances in a professional manner that simultaneously served the Diamonds’ best interests—was a good one. At least in my book.
“All rise for the Honorable Judges Valentine, Ramnani, Chan-Mohego, and von Dyke.”
The entire audience in the chorus room—which was packed, by the way—stood at attention while Clarissa, Priya, Lili, and I sauntered forward, making sure our skirts swished just the right amount, and took our seats. Marco, our bailiff, looked like an overgrown string bean in a pair of green khakis and a green long-sleeved shirt. (“It makes me feel like there's a tree growing in the room,” Priya said after she'd ordered him to dress that way, “and I love nature. Kind of.”)
Once we were settled, Clarissa said, “You may be seated.” The collective noise of seventy or so bodies sitting down filled the room. The trials were so popular that people had to sign up on a sheet outside thechorus room the day before to watch the proceedings. (There was even an alternate list.)
“Today's trial, Goldstein v. O'Hara , is about to begin. Are all parties present?”
I glanced around the room. There was Rosie Goldstein, a junior who played lacrosse (which, in my opinion, was totally lesbionic) and had teeth that reminded me of
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