[Cybil]
I slowly open my eyes. It’s still kind of dark, but this is so still not looking like my room. I crawl out of bed and check the mirror. I’m totally still her. I get a sour feeling in the pit of my stomach. This me as Darcy thing cannot go on forever. It just can’t.
Meanwhile, what is, is. I shower and fix the hair and put on a little makeup. I rummage around and find an eyeliner pencil that’s never been opened, so I take it out and add a little to the upper eyelid. It brings out the green in the eyes. I study the face in the mirror. It’s not great, but it’s not half bad. I think good thoughts and try to radiate confidence. The face takes on a warm glow.
It’s Saturday and I have the whole morning to kill, trapped out in the middle of nowhere before I go to “volunteer,” and then head off to Pammie’s—and Snowball’s party. I dress in jeans and a peach T shirt that looks good with the complexion, but is plain enough to not arouse suspicion. Before I go to Pammie’s I can pack something better to change into for the party.
I go down to breakfast. The mother and father both greet me warmly, and the mother offers me some “granola, I just made it.”
I try it. Either it’s good, or my system is just so happy to have something besides leafy greens that I think it’s good. It’s probably really good, because Joey is scarfing down a bowl of it as he scans the sports page laid out on the table in front of him.
I see a photo from last night’s game, and on the sideline there’s Darcy, ankle all taped up, a huge smile on the face.
“Nice picture,” I say, tapping my finger right on what should’ve been me.
“Yeah.” Joey shoots me a look, and turns red. “It was a great game.”
“Darcy,” the father says. “Did you do something with your hair?” He wiggles his index finger up and down on his forehead.
Just like a guy to notice a whole day later, but he did notice. “Uh, yeah, I cut some bangs.”
“Hmm.” The father nods thoughtfully. “Looks nice.”
“Thanks ….” I try to think of the last time my actual father noticed anything about me, let alone mentioned it.
The mother and father start talking about Saturday Market and chopping wood, so I try to read the article about last night’s game over Joey’s shoulder.
The mother and father go out back to look at the van or something. The second they close the door behind them, Joey says, “Darcy, about pointing to that picture of Cybil ….” in this vaguely threatening tone.
“Hey, the identity of your secret love is safe with me.” Of course, he doesn’t know I’m me, or I’m sure he’d turn some really fascinating shades of red.
Joey is quiet for a moment, then says, “Do you think she’d, ever you know, be interested in, uh, me?”
Before I can get my brain in gear, my mouth hits the gas pedal. “Why not? You’re one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met, and kind of cute, too.” Oops. Where did that come from?
Joey stares at me as if I have lemmings jumping off my forehead. “C’mon, Darcy. Be serious.”
Okay, try to think like a sister. A younger sister. But don’t be mean. “Um … okay, you’re not the most visible guy around, but, well, you have the mother—uh, Mom’s eyes and a great smile. And as much as I hate to admit it, it is a fact, you are nice.”
“Hmph. That and three bucks will get me a latte at Starbucks.”
“Maybe if she gets to know you a little better ….” This is too weird. Right now “Cybil” is really his sister, and once we switch back, it’s Devon for me. I mean, I really need to stick with the A list plan. Still, I find myself wanting to encourage him—only to get that sad little puppy look off his face, of course.
Joey runs his fingers through his hair. “I am driving Cybil to the party tomorrow night. Maybe ….” He lets the word hang in the air.
Ack! The party. That’s it! Maybe I can figure out a way to make Darcy wish she’s herself again at the party.
[Darcy]
Okay, it’s morning and I still see Cybil’s face staring back at me in the mirror, so I guess this is not some twenty four hour magic spell. Did wishing have something to do with this switch? I mean, okay, living with the Suffields is not something I think I really want to do forever, but it’s a small price to pay for trading faces with Cybil for a while, even though I actually almost miss Mom and Dad and even Joey. Not terminally, but I wonder what’s happening at home, especially with Cybil filling in as me.
I like being popular. I like having everyone say hi to me. I like being pretty enough to not be embarrassed to wear special clothes for fear people will think I’m trying too hard. I love that Devon and I are headed for coupledom. Okay, it’s not so great having Jillian/ Francey/Bethany/Samantha giving me the deep freeze, but it’s not as if they ever talked to me before. I mean, when I was me. Plus, there’s this teeny, tiny little thought that’d it’d be nice if it was really me, Darcy, who was popular and had Devon lusting after her.
Yuck. This is confusing.
I do wish I could talk about all this with Pammie! I as Cybil do not seem to have a BFF to confide in. Not really, truly. I don’t trust Erin. Rachel and Vanna seem nice enough, but under Erin’s thumb, so I don’t know that I could really trust them either.
But enough about that. Back to the good stuff: guys!
Why give up snagging the hottest guy in school? I mean, on the boy o meter Devon is definitely on fire. (I’m not sure what that means, but I think I overheard Erin say something like that once.)
However, there’s the beauty pageant thing. Yeah, going shopping for a gown, how cool is that? Still, even with Cybil’s face and bod, I’m not sure how I’d feel up on stage competing with a bunch of other girls who, let’s admit it, would all be A+ in the looks department too. Being Miss Teen whatsits would be time consuming. I’d much rather be cheerleading and hanging out with Devon than going to supermarket openings, or whatever.
But, again. The dress thing. I like that. I could always go to the pageant and then mess up, so I wouldn’t win and have to give up a year of my life.
So, okay, what do I wear for beauty pageant dress shopping?
[Cybil]
“Guess I’d better go help Dad split wood,” Joey says, as he sticks his cereal bowl in the sink, “so we don’t freeze this winter.”
Wow. This family’s hard core. They chop their own wood?
“And come feed the chickens,” Joey calls over his shoulder. “Gertie’s waiting for you.”
“Gertie?”
“Yeah, you know, your favorite chicken.” Joey looks at me as if he doesn’t have a clue what is wrong with me, which of course he doesn’t.
“Oh. That chicken.” I laugh, as if I’d been kidding all along, and follow Joey outside. He didn’t say anything about scraps, so I’m thinking there’s chicken chow or something like that for their breakfast. I spot two large feed containers that are almost empty. Next to the containers is a big box. I lift the lid and look inside. There’s a bin of cracked corn and a bin of what must be chicken feed, and scoops in each bin. I fill one feed container with the corn, the other with the feed. The chickens are seriously happy about this.
A speckled one comes up and clucks at me. I kind of shrink back, but it doesn’t look as if she’s on the attack. She just looks both suspicious and as if she’s expecting something. Hmm. Maybe this is Gertie, the favorite chicken. Maybe she knows I’m not Darcy. So, okay, what do I do? I guess if Gertie was a cat, I’d pet her, so I pet her. She clucks contentedly, then trots, or however chickens walk, off to eat.
I’ve done my chore. I think. I guess I’ll hear about it if I haven’t.
I now have the rest of the morning to decide what clothes I’m going to take to wear to Snowball’s party. As I head back to the house, I see Joey grab an ax, walk over to a stack of wood, pick up a fat log, and start whacking at it. That must be how he developed those not bad biceps. It’s hot, in, I don’t know, a Paul Bunyon way.
“Darcy!” The mother waves to me from the doorway of a shed set in a small clearing. “I need some help loading my pottery into the van.” She’s looking particularly hippieville this morning in her ankle length tie dyed dress.
I’ve got nothing else to do, so I stroll over to the shed, which I now can see is actually the workshop where the mother makes her pottery.
We wrap bottle shaped vases, rough textured bowls and some smaller glazed bowls in paper, pack them in boxes and carry the boxes out to the van. On my fourth trip, the van is full and the mother says. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Let’s go? As in both of us?
The mother starts the engine and says, “Come on, Darcy. It’s just for the morning, remember? Dad is going to take over at noon so I’ll have time to can tomatoes this afternoon. I don’t want to be late.”
I glance over at Joey, who has now removed his shirt, and has sweat glistening on his back. I like the view. Maybe I could say I was going to help Joey chop wood, so I could get out of going off with the mother, but I’d probably end up having to do it, and get all sweaty. I climb into the van and sigh. I haven’t been to Saturday Market in years, not since Aunt Miriam and Uncle Jeff visited from Michigan. They just loved it, and reluctantly limited themselves to buying only what they could carry back on the plane. I admit, the quality of stuff at the market is really good, but how many hand tooled wallets or hand made ceramic mugs can a person use?
Oh, well, it’s not as if anyone will see Cybil Sheffield there, since I’m not me at the moment. I’m invisible. No one sees Darcy. Now, I know I blogged that I thought it’d be kind of nice to not always be the center of attention, to be more ordinary and not have the pressure of everyone watching every move I make. And I guess there are times there are some advantages to that—such as right now. But never being noticed can be depressing.
We drive past the new grocery store, Dickerson Market, and I see Mrs. Lane County in her tiara and long white dress smiling and waving as part of the Grand Opening. I think how that so is not how I want to spend the majority of my future Saturdays, despite Mother’s wishes. ‘Course, maybe it’s better than being stuck at Saturday Market all morning.
Turns out we have a good spot on the east side of Oak Street, very visible, where we can set up the booth. I’m glad it’s a sunny day, because the tarp roof seriously doesn’t look as if it would do that great a job of keeping out the rain. Booths go up all around us, and people greet each other as they work. We set up shelves, arrange the pottery, pull out a couple of crates to sit on and finally we’re ready for business.
At first everyone is “just looking” while they stroll around and scope out the place. Mom, as I try to remember to call her, greets everyone who walks by, whether they stop at her booth or not. It gets busy, and people start asking questions. Mom explains textures and glazes and prices. Finally, a woman who volunteers that she’s visiting from Rochester, New York buys what I now know is a green lavastone bowl.
It gets busier and busier. “No home football game at the university today,” Mom says with a smile when someone comments on how crowded it is getting. At the mention of football, someone mentions last night’s John Nance Garner victory over Madison, and I say what a great game that was. Next thing, when Mom is busy, I’m doing my best to answer questions based on what I remember Mom telling people. I guess I do okay, because I sell a pink bowl to a woman from Connecticut. My first sale!
Before I know it, it’s eleven o’clock and already I’m, like, starved. Mom says, “I’m hungry. Let’s have a quick lunch here, then I can get started canning as soon as we get home.” I totally agree, and she sends me to get some Rita’s burritos and Raspberry Smoothies from a couple booths around the corner. We nibble and sip and work, and then things quiet down a little, because customers are also getting hungry and crowding around the food booths.
I’m sipping a Raspberry Smoothie and kind of wondering how I’d do in a career in retail, when I see Devon. He’s eating a bowl of fried noodles and laughing—much too hard—at something Jillian Kingsbury is saying!
As I’m wondering if Devon is with Jillian or if he just happened to run into her, I see Francey/Bethany/Samantha off to the side. I decide he just ran into the Jillian/ Francey/Bethany/Samantha four headed Giant Squid, and Jillian extracted herself from the gangly monster to cozy up to Devon. Still.
I can’t do anything right now. But tonight, at the party … I know I’ll so think of something!
[Darcy]
After I scrounge around alone in the kitchen and make myself a breakfast of whole wheat toast and sliced apples, which I think makes for a healthy meal, I decide a strapless bra, a good slip and some sparkly heels are the basics for trying on pageant dresses. Once I find those components, I dig around in the closet and decide on a beaded tank and a flowing skirt with a decorated waist for the outer layer. They’re easy on, easy off, perfect for a morning of shopping.
Father is playing golf, and Tommy has a play date, so we don’t have to drag him along.
I tune out Mother’s ramblings about the importance of selecting just the right dress for this pageant and simply enjoy cruising in the blue BMW on our way to shop. As we pull into the parking lot of Sylvia’s Closet, which is in a pink Victorian house decorated with white gingerbread trim, Mother switches to a lecture about how the pageant isn’t really about beauty, it’s about scholarships and helping girls further their education, and building poise and confidence.
Undoubtedly, this is all true, but I’ve yet to see a plain looking girl win one of those things.
We climb the front steps and our heels click as we walk across the porch to the store entrance. I’m not sure why Mother is decked out for pageant dress shopping too. I’m mean, she’s not buying a dress for herself. At least I don’t think she is!
We step inside onto a plush pink carpet into a room with shell pink walls, white crown molding and a crystal chandelier, and are immediately greeted by a woman who looks thin enough to slip between the rails of the front porch banister.
“Ah, good morning, Mrs. Sheffield, what can I help you find today?”
“Hello, Sylvia,” Mother says in an airier than usual voice. “We’re here to find a pageant dress for Cybil.”
Sylvia beams. I can almost see her counting the big bucks she’ll get from the sale. “Ah! As you know, I do have the best collection of pageant dresses between Portland and San Francisco.”
That sounds impressive, until you think about it and realize that there aren’t a whole lot of cities between Portland and San Francisco. Still, I’ve never shopped at Sylvia’s Closet before, and I’m not about to miss the opportunity based on some technicality.
Sylvia leads Mother and me into a room filled with the sparkle and glitz of crystals, a wall of full length mirrors, and racks of glamorous looking dresses.
Mother pulls out a dress and says, “This is the one I was telling you I saw yesterday.”
“Uh ….” It has a million pleats and is completely awful!
“That’s an Eight. I believe you’re a Four,” Sylvia quickly says, as she takes me over to a rack next to the windows. She gestures towards the dresses, as if I should look through them, so I do.
I immediately pull out a slinky black number dotted with rhinestones and slit on one side all the way up to the hip. I hold it up to myself, but before I can even think of trying it on, Mother says, “Totally inappropriate.”
“But—”
“No black.” Mother takes the dress and hangs it up.
“Okay ….” I flip through the dresses until I see a beautiful shade of lavender. The dress is strapless, with a pattern of pearls across the bust.
“Cybil,” Mother says. “You’re looking for a teen pageant dress, not a casino hostess outfit.”
Back goes the lavender dress.
Mother nudges me aside and rummages through the rack, her lips pursed into a concerned frown until she come upon a dress, pulls it out and hands it to me. “This is perfect.”
It’s a white ruffly thing with what looks like wings on the shoulders. It might look cute on a four year old.
I burst out laughing. “You’re kidding, right? You don’t really expect me to wear that!”
“Of course, I’m expecting you to wear it. This dress personifies sweetness and innocence.”
Sheesh. With those ruffle wings, or whatever they are, that dress takes sweetness and innocence down to the level of pre school.
I cross my arms and give her my No Way cold stare.
“Cybil ….”
“Mother ….”
I get the feeling that the original Cybil and her Mother have never gotten to this point before, that Cybil has always given up as soon as Mother utters, “Cybil ….”
Sylvia to the rescue. “You know, I have a new collection that really is the creme de la creme of pageant dresses for young adults.” She gently guides us over to another rack.
“They’re a little more expensive,” Sylvia says, which I think actually appeals to Mother, judging by the expression on her face, “but they really are stunning. They come in a rainbow of thirty one colors.”
“Like Baskin Robbins?” I say, trying for a joke.
Mother just purses her lips. Clearly it didn’t work.
Sylvia selects a dusty rose colored dress from the rack. “This is a Four. As you can see, it has a halter top. Very flattering. There are beaded accents on the bodice and two layers of shimmering organza over the satin skirt, which, as you will notice, is decorated with a scattering of embroidery and bead work.” Sylvia turns the gown around. “The back is open and has beaded accents, along with a strand of beads.”
I drool.
Mother says, “I’m not sure about that color.”
“Do you have one in blue?” I ask.
“Why, yes,” says Sylvia. “Here’s a lovely azure blue.”
It’s gorgeous.
Mother nods her approval.
I go in the dressing room and try on the gown. I step out and gasp for breath as I look at my reflection in all the floor length mirrors. I also gasp when I see the price tag. Er. Mom and Dad would never spend this kind of money for one piece of clothing. Suddenly I’m struck with the realization that the cost of the dress would buy a lot of clothes for the Return to Work project.
“That fits you perfectly,” Sylvia says.
I feel absolutely beautiful. Kind of guilty, but beautiful. But, hey, maybe Mother will veto it when she sees the price.
Nope. Mother says, “We’ll take it.”
Okay, I tell myself, it’s probably not as if Mother would give this money to the project anyway. As I float somewhere up near the ceiling, for a brief moment I see my face in the mirror. Not Cybil—my real face. My Darcy face. And I look beautiful. Maybe spending so much money for one dress isn’t so cool, but maybe it’s okay to make an effort to look pretty ….
[Cybil]
As Dad takes over at the booth, Mom says, “Thanks for helping today, Darcy. You did a great job.” She gets this big grin on her face and adds, “How can I put this? Thanks, too, for doing it all without the usual whining and complaining. That’s really special.”
“Uh, sure, Mom,” I mumble. Whine and complain? I never dared whine and complain to my real mother, so I wouldn’t start with Darcy’s. Sometimes, though, I think it’d be nice to feel, I don’t know, comfortable enough with Mother to whine and complain to her.
When we get back to the house, Joey is stacking the wood he and Dad spent the morning splitting. For a second I wonder if Devon looks as good with his shirt off as Joey does. Not that it matters! I mean, Devon is A list.
Mom starts getting out pots and jars, which I guess are for canning the tomatoes. I figure this is a good time to mention my, uh, “volunteering,” before I get sucked into squishing tomatoes or whatever happens when you can them. It has to be, like, seriously messy, I’m sure.
“Oh, Mom,” I say quickly, “I forgot to tell you that I’m volunteering at the Return to Work project this afternoon. And don’t worry—Principal Snyder is driving me and, um, some of the other volunteers. I have to leave in just a little while.”
“Darcy, I think that’s wonderful,” Mom says, as she looks at me with this mixture of love and pride that I get from Mother only when I win a beauty contest—and that I don’t remember ever getting from Father.
“Th thanks. Um, I need to brush my teeth.”
“Sure, run along,” Mom says.
I run upstairs to brush my teeth, but also to keep an eye out from the bedroom window for Principal Snyder. I want to get to her before she gets to the door, just to make sure she doesn’t say anything about this volunteering being a punishment for fighting in school. I mean, like, I know she said it wasn’t really, but she could totally change her mind and I don’t want to be grounded.
After I brush my teeth I discover that I still have about forty five minutes before Principal Snyder is supposed to pick me up, so I snoop around Darcy’s room. Hey, she’s so all wanting to stay me, so it’s only fair. I find last year’s yearbook in a bookcase on top of a dresser next to the bed. I pull that out and look through it, glancing out the window from time to time, in case Principal Snyder comes early.
It’s only a year ago, so everyone looks pretty much the same, except Erin’s hair is shorter. The only people who signed Darcy’s yearbook are Pammie, Winston and Malcolm. With Pammie it’s all the usual “friends forever” stuff, except it does sound, like, sincere. Winston is, “Yo, how would we ever get along without our Darce!” Malcolm drew this little picture of a bunny from the back, ears all sticking up, whiskers sticking out at the sides and fluffy little cotton ball tail, with one word, “Dude!” I suppose that meant something to somebody, but I have no idea what.
I place the yearbook back on the shelf, then rummage through the top dresser drawer. Hey, it’s, like, my room now, right? I find pencils, stamps, notepads and—what’s this? A diary? Maybe the secret of switching back is in it!
It’s locked. Key! Where’s the key? I hunt all through the top drawer. I try the second drawer. Nothing! I sit on the edge of the bed and see if I can peek at it by prying at the corners. I can see, like, maybe a fraction of a word on a page. Maybe I could rip the cover off somehow. But, somehow that doesn’t seem, I don’t know, fair. Destroying personal property, even if it is technically mine for the moment, seems like kind of going too far.
Where else would Darcy hide the key?
I look around the room. Maybe in that stained glass hanging light fixture in the ceiling? But how would I get up there? For that matter, how would Darcy get up there? I check under the braided rug. Nope. Taped inside the lampshade? Uh, uh.
I hear tires crunching in the driveway. It’s Snyder! I hide the diary back in the top drawer and run downstairs.
“I’m going now, Mom,” I yell as I head out the door. I hear Mom say something like, Have fun. That’s it. I’ve made my escape with no principal parent interaction.
I run up to Snyder’s car as soon as it stops, and jump in the front seat. Let Darcy sit in back by herself and get carsick or something.
“Hi, Darcy,” Snyder says. “You certainly look eager to get going.”
“Oh, yes, Principal Snyder,” I say in my best suck up voice. The sooner we get going, the sooner it’ll be, like, over.
[Darcy]
As we pull up to the house after the pageant dress excursion, I see three men mowing the lawn. It is a huge lawn, and it’s completely immaculate, yet I find myself thinking, What a waste of energy, all those mowers.
“Mother, have you ever thought of getting some sheep? They could keep the lawn in great shape, and they could even be sheared for their wool.”
Mother puts the car in park and places her hand on my forehead. “Sheep? Do you have a fever, Cybil? Are you coming down with something?”
“Oh. Uh. No!” Oops, that was very un Cybil of me, I’m sure. I don’t want Mother thinking I’m sick or something and therefore keeping me from going out tonight. “I was, uh, just kidding. Heh heh.”
“Oh.” Mother utters a tentative ha ha, but she gives me this sideways look.
We go inside, I put the dress away in my closet in the section with the other pageant dresses, change into a pair of Calvin Klein jeans and a navy blue Sunner ruffled blouse, which looks great on me and yet still looks subdued enough for volunteering at the Return to Work project. I’m about to hurry down to the kitchen for some lunch, when I see Cybil’s computer just sitting there. Hmm. I could just look. I mean, I wouldn’t have to read anything private—unless of course it would help me, um … understand Cybil. Which would be a good idea, since I am Cybil. Well, okay, I’ve swapped bodies with her.
So I do it. I turn on the computer, and what happens? Up pops a box asking for the password. Shoot! I try a few obvious words such as Devon, Antigone and Beauty Queen. Nothing works. Not only that, I get a message that says “Three strikes! You may not try to log on again for one hour.” Then there’s this eerie, vaguely threatening music and a cartoon of handcuffs appears on the screen! Forget it! I don’t need the computer police coming for me.
I shut down the computer and head for the kitchen, where I make a quick salad. I load it up with tuna and Romano cheese in order not to be starving within thirty minutes. I hide the tuna and cheese under a top layer of lettuce, so Mother won’t freak.
Just as I’m finishing up, Mother enters the kitchen and eyes my salad. I guess she doesn’t have X ray vision, because she says nothing about the tuna and cheese. “By the way,” I say quickly, yet casually and last second, “I volunteered to work on the Return to Work project this afternoon. Principal Snyder is driving some of us there.”
“Really, Cybil.” Mother wrinkles her nose. “You’ll be around those … unfortunate women? I don’t know ….”
“It’ll be fine. Principal Snyder will be there with us. And ….” Think! “…and, you know, money from the school play is going to the project, and, well, Mr. Ash seemed really impressed when I signed up.”
“Well.” Mother appears to be thinking it over. “If you think it will help you get the lead in the play ….”
“Oh. I’m sure it will help. A lot!”
I hear a car in the driveway. It’s must be Sneaky Snyder. Just to be on the safe side, I don’t want Mother talking to her. I hop up from the table. “Gotta run!”
I give Mother a quick kiss and dash out the door.
It is Snyder and Cybil. I see I’m going to be stuck sitting in the back seat. Oh, well. In a few short hours I’ll be done with “volunteering” and I can concentrate on The Party.