Queen of Diamonds

3 Days Until The Sorting

Felicity pounds her fist on the projector three times, and the white light sputters and then clicks into clearer focus. We're pulled up in the bed of Brayden's truck (Brayden is Felicity's boyfriend), parked a few feet away from the white brick wall of a building that's going to be a bank, but for now is the only thing in an abandoned field of clovers. It's perfect for the idea that Gracie had: make our own drive-in movie. We grabbed all the tapes of our classic favorites, all the best cheesy movies about high school and best friends. Gracie brought snacks, and Brayden and Felicity bought the car, and me and Chris brought blankets and pillows so we can all pile on top of each other and stay warm in the chilly spring air. Chris throws his arm around me as the title screen lights up against the brilliant white wall. I glance up, looking at the stars all around me, and lean into Chris. I pull my polaroid camera out of my bag and snap a few pictures of Gracie and Felicity, totally engrossed in the movie, and Brayed, staring at Felicity. I tuck the photos into my shirt, lean back, and try to enjoy the movie. 

By the time the movie is over, it's dark. Chris drives me home, and something about him seems off. I want to ask him about it, but I don't want to push him. I just want this time to be absolutely perfect, with no regrets. I lean over to put my hand on his leg, but he pulls away. I sigh and gaze out at the perfectly square houses we're driving past, all muted pastels and whites. I close my eyes, trying to memorize the smell of the flowers from the yards we're passing, the smell of Chris's cologne, the residual must from the blankets that we pulled down from the attic. This is perfect. I'm going to remember this moment forever. I pull the polaroids out of my pocket and glance at the aesthetic photos of my best friends against the night sky. Chris glances over and sees the photos, but he doesn't say anything. I wonder what's up with him. Besides, of course, the impending thought of our separation and our lives being entirely turned upside down. I sigh and shut my eyes. I just can't take this. 

My mom has already gone to bed, but my dad is sitting in the living room, watching TV. He glances up at me when I enter. 
"Hey, Dad," I say, shutting and locking the door behind me. The Diamond Suit is far from what I could call crime-ridden, but it never hurts to be safe. 
"Hey, honey," he responds, "how you doing?" For some reason, when he says that, I feel like crying. I can't believe that I may never see him again, that this could be one of the last conversations we have, that...no, I can't think about that. I'm going to be a Diamond, I just know it. Frankie down the street was a Diamond, and he moved into an apartment a block from where he used to live, and his family still does dinners every night. I'm going to be a Diamond. But what if you're not? A voice in the back of my head says. I try to rationalize it out. If I'm not a Diamond, I'll at least be a Heart. I know plenty of people who became Hearts. I can meet up with Jake MacNamara, who was a sophomore when I was a freshman. It'll be okay. It has to be. I don't even want to think about life as a Spade or Club. I can't. 

I say goodnight to my dad and head up the carpeted starts, past rows and rows of family photos in neat frames. My sister took lots of the photos with her when she left, but we still have plenty. Enough that me my younger siblings can take some when we leave, too. There are pictures of us on our boat, doing picnics, camping. Everything I hope that I will be able to do after the Sorting. No, not hope. Know. In anticipation, I take one of my favorite pictures down from the wall. It's one of my whole family at a parade downtown, and my oldest sister, Jayme, is still there, smiling with her hands on my shoulder. She must only be eight or nine in the photo, and Timmy isn't even born yet. I'll have to get another of him, too. I grip the pale pink frame with both hands and climb the rest of my way to my room, fighting back tears. 

My bunny, Tabby, is sitting in her cage, and I pull her out and set her on my bed. She's the perfect pet, completely adorable but not the type to run away. I sit down next to her and pull out the giant pink binder I keep under my bed. I got the binder when I turned ten years old, and its regulation size, so I can take it with me to whatever Suit I get sorted into. I pull the polaroids from the night out of my pocket and slip them into little sleeves. My binder is almost full. I have thousands of pictures probably, almost all polaroids, of dances and school trips, cheer meets and dates with Chris. There's pages of shots from Christmases and Thanksgiving, lots and lots of pictures of my sister smiling at me, posing like she's on the runway. Even ordinary things, like family breakfasts and tests, I took pictures of. My entire life is in these pages. My eyes well up just looking at them, so I close the book and set the frame on top of it. As per the rules, everyone is allowed a set number of regulation-grade memorabilia items to remind them of home. They have to be rigorously checked, but mine are sure to pass, I've had the rules pinned to my wall for years. The other things pinned to my wall, posters of my favorite singer LUCY, and my friends shows and games, are all coming with me as well. 

I slide my binder back under my bed, trying not to sniffle. I know I should shower tonight, but I'm not in the mood, so I slip out of my jean shorts and tube top and into a long white gauzy shirt and a pair of pink pajama pants. I slowly undo the Ace bandage around my arm. I don't take it off often, but sometimes I just like to look at my Soul Mark. I wonder if my Soulmate is out there, looking at theirs. My Mark is hard to explain. It's a little like a flower collapsing in on itself. I think it's pretty, but my sister, the only other person who has seen it (besides my parents and the doctors that delivered me, of course), said it gave her weird vibes. I never saw her Soul Mark. I hope wherever she is now, she's found the person with a matching mark. I sit down at my desk to journal a little bit before bed, but I don't know what to say. I have been keeping a journal since I was ten, and just like my photos, it's coming with me, but I want to use to to catalogue the good times, like my first kiss with Chris, not the bad times. So I end up doodling recreations of my Soul Mark for a little bit before closing and locking the journal and sinking into my pink bed, Tabby curled up next to me.