[Darcy]
I’m standing in front of the school and I’m wondering if I can use Cybil’s cell phone right now, even though I’m on school property. I mean, I was in such a hurry to escape from Mrs. Sheffield this morning that I completely forgot to ask about a ride “home.” I try to think. Which is closer? “Home,” Mrs. Sheffield’s office or Mr. Sheffield’s office? I can either risk having the phone confiscated or walk until I’m off school property.
I take about three steps, when I hear a familiar squeal of brakes. It’s Joey, Dad and Cybil. The bed of the truck is loaded with baskets of mushrooms. Joey must’ve asked Daddy to pick him and “me” up after the auditions.
“H-hi, Cybil. Um, need a ride?” Joey asks.
Awk ward. I don’t really want to walk the two or so miles to Cybil’s house, not when I have to get ready for the game tonight. Er! I hope I can fake the routines!
I’ll have to worry about that later. Right now I have to decide if I should accept a ride from my own family, when the only one who knows I am family is the one who isn’t really family! If that makes sense. Finally, I smile and say, “Thanks!”
Joey hops out and holds the door open for me. I climb in next to Cybil, and Joey springs into the compartment we laughingly call the backseat. It’s really big enough for only a couple bags of groceries, but he wedges himself in there. What some guys will do for love. To make it worth his while, I look over my shoulder at him and give him a big smile.
Cybil glowers at me. I lean as close to the door as possible, so I won’t invade too much of her space.
Joey introduces me to Daddy. Daddy says “Hi, Cybil, where to?”
I can’t remember Cybil’s address! I mean, I remember the street and I’ll know the house when I see it, but what’s the number? Cybil sits there with a smirk on her face. I say, “Um … Trillium Avenue.”
“Trillium it is,” Daddy says, apparently not noticing or not caring about the missing house number.
When we get to Trillium, I get my bearings and say, “it’s just a little further. There! The yellow house with the white porch and the blue hydrangeas.”
Daddy pulls over to the curb. As I start to open the door, Joey leaps out of the backseat, lands on the sidewalk, takes my hand and helps me out of the truck. I turn and say, “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Doane. Bye, Darcy.”
Daddy says, “You’re welcome.”
Cybil frowns.
Joey looks at me so adoringly that I can’t help myself. I give his hand a little squeeze, stare deep into his eyes and say, “See you tomorrow.”
“T tomorrow.” Joey looks as if he’s going to melt into the sidewalk. He climbs back into the truck, not even realizing that the “sister” he’s sitting elbow to elbow with is really the girl of his dreams.
[Cybil]
What a day. I’ve never felt so invisible in my life. Maybe once in a while anonymity would be okay, but as a full-time thing—yuck! And now I’m heading back to the boonies again—where there’s no computer in my room, no blog. Gruesome!
Mr. Doane taps the steering wheel in time to some song that apparently is going only through his head. Joey stares straight ahead with a goofy smile on his face. No wonder, the way Darcy leads him on! I guess she thinks she’s doing him, you know, a favor, but it’ll be tough on him when I’m me again. I mean, now that I know him a little, I guess he’s nice enough. But Devon is seriously A list, being a cute exchange student staying with Snowball Cagle and all, and I have it planned that Devon will fill the position as boyfriend this year. I mean, I can’t afford to be seen with any guy who isn’t A list.
[Darcy]
Mrs. Sheffield pulls a family sized Four Cheese Noodles and Chicken dinner out of a Cornucopia’s Deli and Catering box and sticks it into the oven. While my actual mother sometimes gets carried away with the whole tofu sprouts health food thing, our meals aren’t loaded with salt and fat, something Mom points out whenever Joey and I ask for fast food. But then I remember my breakfast of leftover salad. Maybe salad is what I’ll be having for dinner.
“Hi, Mother,” I say.
Mrs. Sheffield whirls around. “Cybil! I didn’t hear you come in. I had a little time after I visited the Pioneer Museum—where I got some great decorating ideas, by the way—so I stopped in at Sylvia’s Closet. I saw the most perfect dress for you!”
“That’s nice,” I say. I open a couple cabinets, looking for something to nibble before dinner. I am starved. “The audition went—”
“It’s ivory, very simple, little tucks at the waist.”
Mrs. Sheffield goes on and on and on about the dress. I find some cheese flavored crackers. They are loaded with partially hydrogenated palm oil, one of the store bought food evils Mom preaches against. But Mom isn’t here and I am starving. Eating only salad is already getting old and the crackers are a guilty pleasure.
Mrs. Sheffield must have to breathe or something, because she finally stops talking about the dress.
I sense this is an opportunity to say something. “My audition for—”
“Cybil!” Mrs. Sheffield points at my face and shrieks.
It’s such a strangled cry that I’m sure I must have a tarantula on my chin or something. I brush my hand across my face. Nothing.
“Stop eating those crackers! They’re full of calories.”
Crackers? She’s freaking out over a couple of crackers. Okay, they’re not no-fat wheat crackers, but they were sitting in the cabinet. Somebody in the house must eat them. “But I’m starving.”
Mrs. Sheffield points to the refrigerator. “If you’re so hungry that you have to eat between meals, have some carrot sticks. You really do have to do a better job of watching your figure.”
I’m tempted to crush a few more crackers into my mouth, but I actually do like carrots, and I don’t want to get into a major argument that could lead to me being grounded or something. I mean, from what I could tell at school there’s no problem with “Cybil” going to the party tomorrow, or at least going out. Who knows what she might have told her parents? I’ll have to be careful what I say. I don’t know how long this whole Darcy Cybil switch is going to last, and I don’t want to blow my chance to go to something as major as Snowball’s party.
I force a smile and say, “You’re right, Mother.”
[Cybil]
It turns out everyone in Darcy’s family is expected to pitch in preparing dinner. Mr. Doane says that he stopped long enough on his way back from mushroom hunting to catch a salmon near Dexter Lake, so that’s what we’re having. Fortunately, he not only caught the fish, but he’s cleaning it, too. Since I’m so familiar with salad, I volunteer for making that. Praying that Mr. Doane knows an edible mushroom from a poisonous one, I slice a bunch of them into the salad.
Joey is making scalloped tomatoes. Mrs. Doane has some rolls baking in the oven, and they smell heavenly. I’m not used to this much temptation, so I am, like, drooling.
When we sit down to eat, my plan is to take only some salad.
“Here you go, Darcy.” “Dad” slides a piece of salmon on my plate.
The rolls smell just too good to pass up, and, after taking that stuff I couldn’t very well ignore Joey’s scalloped tomatoes. I chew slowly and savor every morsel. That way maybe I can enjoy everything, but not eat too much. It’ll be easier when I get my life back, ‘cause I won’t have actual, you know, home cooked food around to tempt me.
Mr. Doane asks, “How was school today?”
Joey tells all about his audition, then I describe mine. I guess I go on and on, because “Mom” and “Dad” kind of stare at me, but I never really had such an attentive audience at dinner before.
Mrs. Doane says, “I am so glad to hear that you tried out for the lead, Darcy.”
“Yes,” says Mr. Doane. “It’s wonderful that you’ve decided to come out of your shell,”
“Oh. Um. Yeah.” I stuff a huge bite of salmon in my mouth, so that I won’t say, “You should see how the real Darcy is ‘coming out of her shell’ ever since she took over my body.” I don’t need anyone hauling me off to a psychiatric unit for observation, because, unless I switch back to me before then, I’m going to have to figure out a way for “Darcy” to go to Snowball’s party.
After dinner I’m about to go up to the
bedroom, when Mr. Doane says, “Darcy, the chickens.”
“Chickens?”
“Yes.” The father looks at me funny. “You need to feed the scraps to the chickens.”
“Uh ….”
Joey taps his finger to the side of his head. “Yeah, you know. The chickens out back that you feed every day?”
“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” I fumble around, gathering up some leftovers. Everyone else is busy clearing dishes and stuff, so no one notices if I’m collecting the right scraps or not. I head out back and see the chicken cage thingy. Playing Farmer Brown is totally not my thing, but far be it for me to let some innocent chickens starve. I just hope I can figure out what to do. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m losing my mind and sending me away in a straight jacket.
As I carefully enter the chicken cage, on the lookout for chicken droppings, I am suddenly surrounded by clucking chickens who seem totally thrilled to see me, especially one speckly one who I swear almost smiles at me, but when she gets close, looks all confused. I throw the scraps on the ground and make a run for it. Me, Cybil Sheffield, feeding chickens. This is so too much!
Even more too much is that when I go back inside I’m expected to help Joey do the dishes. Does this family not realize how totally primitive it is to wash and dry dishes by hand?
[Darcy]
Dr. Sheffield is not home for dinner, which doesn’t seem to be a surprise to Mother or Tommy, who kind of talk over each other about a spelling quiz. That makes it easy for me, because I don’t have to say much. How does Cybil function eating salad at every meal??? Maybe I can grab something from the snack bar before the game. Speaking of which, I wonder how I get to the game. Devon didn’t say anything about him and Snowball picking me up, he just said he’d see me there.
“Cybil, remember, we’re going to look for your pageant dress in the morning,” Mrs. Sheffield says. “Now, you’d better hurry up so you can change for the game. Erin’s father is driving you girls tonight, and you know how he is about being punctual.”
Well, even though I don’t know how Erin’s father is about being punctual, that answers my question.
I haven’t mentioned going to the Return to Work project in the afternoon, because I don’t want Mother asking questions about it. Since Sneaky is driving, I don’t even have to say anything to Mother about a ride tomorrow.
[Cybil]
I hear a knock at the door, and Joey says, “Are you ready to go, Darcy?”
“Just a sec!” I fidget with the clasp of the etched teardrop pendant I’m wearing with the cropped cardigan, striped long shorts and ribbed knee socks that took me half an hour to find hidden in boxes in the back of the closet. Thank you “Aunt Julia” for these never worn, still had-the tags on them items. Since I made cheerleading squad, I didn’t have to think about what to wear to a football game before.
I get the clasp hooked and fling open the door. “Ready!”
For a second Joey looks at me as if, I don’t know, he can’t quite believe I look as good as I do. Then he says, “Where’s your flute?”
Flute? What flute? “Um ….” I hear the phone ring.
“Darcy!” Mrs. Doane yells up the stairs. “Telephone! Some girl named Cybil!”
“I’ll get it up here,” I say. “Excuse, me,” I say to Joey, who has turned pink at the mere mention of “Cybil,” and I go back into the bedroom and shut the door behind me. I pick up the extension and wait to hear the click at the other end. “Why’s Joey asking me where ‘my’ flute is?” I growl.
“Oops!” Darcy says. “My flute! It should be on the top shelf of my closet. It’s in a black case. Don’t play it. Just fake it. If Mr. Choker hears one wrong note, there will be nothing but grief.”
“Ack. You mean, ‘I’m’ in the band?” Who knew? Maybe I’ll just suddenly be sick. No, I need to keep an eye on Devon! I haven’t completely secured him yet.
“You’re lucky it’s just the pep band. No uniform, no marching, you just have to sit in the stands.”
“Oh, well, that’s a relief,” I say, almost choking because my saliva is so filled with sarcasm.
“Listen! Never mind all that,” Darcy says. “I need some pointers about the cheerleading routines!”
“Can’t you just fake a broken leg or something? I mean, I don’t want to look like a fool out there!”
“Right. I’ll just pretend my leg is broken, and when I’m in the emergency room, they’ll see it isn’t and I’ll be committed!” Besides, I don’t add, I don’t want to miss this chance to be a cheerleader. Who knows how many opportunities I’ll have!
“Okay, so just … just tape up your ankle. Say that you tripped on the stairs, fell and sprained it. That way you can follow what everyone else is doing and if you miss a step, just wince as if you’re in pain.”
“Tape? Tape? Where’s some tape?”
“There’s some in my bathroom in one of the drawers near the sink.”
“Okay. I guess I can do that.”
[Darcy]
I find the tape and wrap my ankle. I hope it looks legit. I quickly practice limping and wincing in the mirror. I still look cute. In fact, in the cheerleading outfit, I look both cute and sexy. Even with a taped ankle. This is the life!
I go downstairs and it takes about one millionth of a nanosecond for Mrs. Sheffield to spot the tape on my ankle.
“Cybil!” she shrieks. “What is that tape doing on your ankle?”
“Oh. Um … I tripped running up the stairs and, uh, I sprained it.”
“She did not!” says Tommy, who seems to materialize from out of nowhere. “I saw her go upstairs. She didn’t trip.”
The little tattletale. “What you didn’t see, Tommy,” I say, sending dagger eyes his way, “is me coming downstairs, and then going up again. That’s when I tripped and sprained my ankle.”
Tommy withers under my glare.
“Well,” says Mrs. Sheffield, “I just hope that it heals before the Miss Most Beautiful Teen of Oregon pageant. You wouldn’t look very graceful traipsing around with that tape on your ankle!”
Sheesh! This woman doesn’t care about my ankle. She’s obsessed with the Miss Most Beautiful Teen of Oregon pageant! Yikes. Apparently one drawback of being beautiful, or at least being Cybil, is having a mother who is completely focused on your looks.
[Cybil]
Joey opens the door of the truck for me. “Got your flute?”
“Right here.” I hold up the flute for him to see, then climb into the truck. I don’t know what’s with this guy that he opens the door for his own sister even when there are no parents around to witness it. They’re invited to some organic potluck, otherwise they’d be at the game they said. Still, Joey being so polite is kind of nice.
We ride along in silence for a few minutes, then Joey says, “Um … how well do you know Cybil Sheffield?”
“I know her inside and out,” I don’t say. What I do say is, “Uh. … today is the first time I’ve ever really, you know, talked to her. But … I’ve, um, heard she’s very nice.”
“Do you know what’s the deal with her and Copperfield?”
“They’ve got couple status,” I say quickly, and without really thinking.
“Oh.”
It was the saddest “Oh” I ever heard in my life. Now, I mean, I know guys are always falling in love with the real me and stuff, but I’m not usually—well, until now, not ever—in the audience when they express their disappointment.
I can’t stand it. I have to give him a crumb of, you know, hope.
“I’m sure it won’t last,” I say. “He’ll be going back to England in June.”
“And I’ll be going off to college next fall ….” Joey says.
“There’s always the summer,” I say. I don’t care what it takes, I will be back to being me long before next summer. It might be very convenient to have a summer romance all planned out ahead of time, and make Joey feel good at the same time.
“I want more than just a summer romance,” Joey says in a voice so wistful that it’s almost, I don’t know, heartbreaking.
But I don’t have time to be so concerned. We’re almost to the school, and I need to focus on Devon. If I’m going to keep my social standing (once I’m me again), I have to be with the right guy, and Devon is so the right guy this year.
[Darcy]
I’m squished between Vanna and Rachel in the back seat of Coyne’s van. I can’t remember if Mr. Coyne is Erin’s third or fourth step dad. Erin turns, leans over the front seat and says, “Too bad about your ankle, Cybil.”
Only she doesn’t sound exactly sympathetic. “Uh, yeah.”
“Jillian, Francey, Bethany and Samantha all graduate this year,” Erin says, “so four spots open up on the cheering squad. It’s a sure thing that I, um, we make the cheering squad next year.”
“I hope!” Rachel says.
“We’ve just got to make it next year,” says Vanna.
“That’ll be great, uh, us all together on the squad,” I feel obligated to say. Right now I’m trying to remember the routines. I’ve watched them, but I never thought of memorizing them. I mean, until today, I never would’ve dreamed I’d have a reason to.
“Hey! Did you hear that Francey’s parents are getting divorced? And it’s real nasty,” Erin says gleefully, either forgetting or not caring that her mother has been divorced several times and husband-number-whatever is driving the van, and that Rachel’s parents went through a horrible divorce when she was in middle school, and they made a scene at our eighth grade graduation, because they were still fighting over who would sit where.
“Francey’s parents?” Vanna says, all I can’t believe it. “But her mother is a psychologist!”
Please. As if psychologists never have marital problems.
“I heard they’re fighting over everything,” Erin says. “Kids, houses, cars, boats. Not necessarily in that order.” She lets out a scornful laugh.
Vanna makes this half laughing, half-sympathetic sound, as if she’s not sure if it’s better to suck up to Erin or be kind to Rachel.
Rachel scrunches down into the leather upholstery.
Mr. Coyne drives along hunched over the steering wheel, acting as if he has no ears.
“Not to change the subject,” I say—though of course that is exactly what I’m doing, because I feel bad for Rachel—”but what are you guys wearing tomorrow night?”
“You mean for the film festival at the university?” Erin says, gesturing toward Mr. Coyne.
So … Erin’s using a film festival as a cover for Snowball’s party. I’ll have to remember that, in case it’s what Cybil planned too. “Uh, yeah, the film festival.”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Erin says.
I wonder if she 1) really hasn’t decided, 2) doesn’t want to say, because she’s wearing something sexy and doesn’t want her step dad to hear, since who knows when parents really are listening, or 3) because she wants to out glam me.
When we pull into the school parking lot, Mr. Coyne fixes this dark, angry looking expression on us and growls, “Pete’s Pizza, eleven thirty sharp. Don’t be late!”
“I so will be glad when I have my license,” Erin says as soon as her step dad pulls away, “so I don’t have to be home by his bed time.”
I don’t have time to pump Erin about what she’s going to wear tomorrow night, not that I’d give her the satisfaction, anyway. As we pile out of the car, I brush some imaginary lint off my miniskirt and say to her, “See you after the game.”
Because I’ll be with the cheering squad and you won’t!