He grinned, a warm, bright smile that lit up his face and even made the room a little less barren. “I’m Daryl,” he said.
“Matthias.” We shook hands. I remembered my parents and introduced them. Then Daryl’s parents came in, tall and slim and dressed as if for church, his dad in a three-piece suit and his mom in a dress and hat. We shook hands all around. I remember being astonished once again at how easily my parents, especially my father, could talk to anyone. Daryl took the opportunity to ask if I cared which bunk I got, and when I shrugged, he tossed his duffel onto the bottom bunk. “Got to get up early for football workouts,” he explained. “Don’t want to be climbing down out of bed and waking you up, shaking the bed frame.”
Eventually, our parents left. Daryl shook his father’s hand and then hugged his mother, telling them not to worry because he would be tearing up the place soon. He punched me on the arm when he said this, as if for emphasis, and I gave a sickly grin. I was too embarrassed to cry in front of Daryl, and a little in awe of him, so I screwed my face on tight and suffered my mother’s tears and my father’s proud smile. Daryl and I watched our parents drive off, their taillights flashing red as they neared a curve on the road around the Hill, and then their cars slipped around the curve and vanished. I cried into my pillow that night—fierce, silent, jagged sobs. If Daryl heard me, he didn’t say anything, for which I was grateful.
It was our hall prefect, John Cole, who gave Daryl his nickname when he told him to take his diamond stud out. As a prefect, a member of the student-elected Judicial Board, John was in charge of our floor as a kind of resident advisor, or RA, making sure we woke up on time, made our beds, behaved somewhat better than caged animals, and went to sleep at lights-out. Our first week of school, he also talked to us about Blackburne’s honor code, which had been in existence since Colonel Blackburne began his school in 1876. My parents had sung high praise for the wonders of such a code of conduct, which, to me, seemed only to offer more reasons for which I could be expelled.
That first week, John Cole took everyone on our floor outside onto the Lawn, where we sat in a ragged circle under one of the oak trees. John was from New Hampshire, and for that alone I held him in some respect, having never been farther north than Virginia. John was fair-skinned with bright blue eyes and straight brown hair neatly parted to one side. If he’d worn glasses, he might have been pegged as a geek, but he was self-assured in the way only high school seniors can be. A wrestler, he also displayed a kind of monastic discipline, an economy of movement and expression that made him seem older and wiser than seventeen.
When we had all sat down underneath the boughs of the oak tree, John asked us if we knew about the honor code. Dutifully, we murmured yes. We’d all been given a small white pamphlet outlining the honor code and the role of the Judicial Board. John nodded thoughtfully. “The honor code is the oldest institution here at Blackburne,” he said. “Older than some of these trees, probably. It has not changed since it was first implemented. Think about that. Over a hundred and twenty years.” He looked each of us in the eye as he said this last part. I glanced away, slightly embarrassed.
“It hasn’t changed because it’s simple and it’s effective,” John said. “Don’t lie. Don’t cheat. Don’t steal. Don’t permit others to do those things, either. Simple.”
Miles Camak raised his hand. “So, you just get kicked out if you do one of those things?” he asked.
“Yep,” John said.
Miles scratched his cheek. “Okay,” he said, somewhat doubtfully.
John gave a little smile. “Hard to imagine, isn’t it?”
“Harsh,” murmured Roger Bloom.
“Yes,” John said. “But it’s the only way an honor code can work. Really work.” He looked at us. “Imagine that you’re taking a test and you see your neighbor cheat. Could you turn him in?” Silence. “Could you, Matthias?” he said, turning to me, and heat rose in my face and the back of my neck as everyone stared.
“I—I don’t know,” I managed.
John seemed to consider this, while I had the distinct impression that I had failed some sort of test. John didn’t change his expression, though, so I couldn’t be sure.
“Centuries ago, in Japan,” John said, “the samurai followed a code of conduct known as Bushido. It means ‘the way of the warrior.’ One of the most important tenets of Bushido was a sense of honor. The samurai valued honor above life. If a samurai felt he had failed in his duty, he would commit seppuku, ritual suicide.” He paused, lifting an eyebrow. “Now that’s harsh,” he said. Several people chuckled.
I glanced at Daryl, making a face like Can you believe this guy, but Daryl was staring at John, a bit wary but obviously engaged. Quickly I looked back over at John, too.
“The honor code seems cruel, I know,” John said. “I thought the same thing at first. But it makes this place what it is. There are no locks on the doors to our dorm rooms. You can forget your backpack in the library and come back the next day and it will still be there. Your word takes on real meaning. Someone tells you something and you know it’s the truth. There aren’t many places on Earth where that happens. This is one of them.”
Over the next few days, the guys on my floor would whisper “Bushido” to one another and we’d crack up, but we did it secretly, out of earshot of John Cole. And although we didn’t want to admit it, his earnest speech about the honor code, instead of sounding corny, had struck home with most of us. We were now a part of this century-old tradition.
However, the most immediate impact John Cole made on us was telling Daryl to take his diamond stud out of his ear or he’d give him detention. Daryl did it grudgingly, and the next morning, John woke us up for breakfast by knocking loudly on the door, throwing it open, and proclaiming, “Morning, Matthias! Morning, Diamond! Rise and shine, boys!”
“Don’t know what Diamond that motherfucker be talking about,” Daryl muttered, but the nickname stuck, and pretty soon he was Diamond to everybody.