[Cybil]
After supper, I take a quick shower. I had planned on a long bubble bath, but there isn’t time. I dress in basic T and jeans, but stick a curling iron, what little makeup I can find, plus a Nicholas K. shirt and a pair of Repetto shiny ballet flats still in boxes that must have come from Aunt Julia into a backpack. After Joey drops me off at Pammie’s, I can transform myself for Snowball’s party.
Finally, it’s time to go, there’s a bunch of goodbyes and have funs, and Joey and I leave. As we bump along the driveway, I notice that there’s a very faint, but very good, fragrance in the pickup. It’s Joey. “Mmm, you smell good,” I say.
“It’s not too much, is it?” Joey asks.
“Oh, no. Just right.”
“I hope Cybil thinks so.”
“She does—uh, she will.”
It’s so, like, bizarre. I’m wishing that Joey has a good time tonight with “Cybil,” except she’s really his sister, so, of course, I don’t really want anything to happen because that would be just too ick.
This is too confusing. I’ve so got to forget about Joey’s love life, and concentrate on how I’m going to get Darcy to wish she was her real self again, even if it means using some kind of force!
[Darcy]
Okay, let’s see. Alexander McQueen sweater, Marc by Marc Jacobs necklace, Habitual corduroy pants, Chloé belt, YSL sandals. I am ready to par tay. At least, I hope I am. Um. These fancy labels sound Wow, but what if they’re all outdated? Or maybe I’ve put them together all wrong? But I’m Cybil now. Whatever Cybil wears is right, just by way of being Cybil—I hope. There was the shoe-and-bracelet thing yesterday. And there’s this guilt thing creeping up again, about all the money that must’ve been spent on these clothes. I mean, the women at Return to Work were so thrilled with stuff that cost what must be only a fraction of the price of this outfit. Well, except for those Prada shoes—but those were an exception.
Enough worrying! I am ready, set, go. Earlier, from talk at dinner, I discovered all Mother knows is I’m going “out with Devon to a Film Festival” and it’s okay. After all, he’s staying with the Cagles and the Cagles are Big Fish in town.
“Clarence is such a nice young man,” Mother said, “So I’m sure Devon is quality too.”
Clarence is Snowball’s real name. You can see why he prefers Snowball.
Father was oblivious, and that works for me, under the circumstances. As a steady diet, I prefer a father who knows I’m alive. Tommy, of course, could not care less. Or at least it looks that way from the expression on his face.
I go downstairs and Mother gives me a look of approval, which gets me fretting all over again. I mean, if she likes what I’m wearing, maybe that means it’s all wrong? I mean, she thinks I’m going to a Film Festival, not the party of the century.
I hear wheels crunch in the driveway, so it’s too late to run upstairs and change into … what? If this look isn’t right for Snowball’s party, then I don’t know what is.
Mother peeks out the window. “That’s Devon?” she says.
“Mother, that’s Joey. He’s picking me up first, then we’ll pick up Devon. Devon doesn’t drive. The whole left side/right side of the road thing,” I say, making excuses. “Don’t worry, I’ll be safe with Joey.”
“Joey?”
“Joey Doane.”
“Who on earth is Joey Doane?”
I try to think of the qualities that will impress Mother. “He’s a senior, makes High Honor roll, he’s statistician for the football—”
Mother lets out a loud sigh and dismisses all that with a wave of her hand. “I mean, who are his parents?”
“Oh. Well, Mom—I mean, his mother is a potter and his father gathers and sells mushrooms and firewood and—”
“Eek! You mean, they’re hippies?”
“Not exactly—” I start to say, but I’m saved by the doorbell. I run over and fling open the door. “HiJoeythisismymother. MotherthisisJoeybye!”
I see the van parked in the driveway. Hmm, the van instead of the truck. Just what does Joey have planned for tonight, anyway???
In silence, Joey walks me to the van, opens my door, then goes around to the other side and gets in. As we pull out of the driveway he says, “Um, it was nice meeting your mother. She’s, uh, very nice.”
Poor Joey. 1) He didn’t really have a chance to meet Mother. Just as well. She wouldn’t compare well to our Mom. 2) If that’s the kind of conversation he uses to impress who he thinks is the girl of his dreams, he’s in big trouble.
Because I’m going to drop him for Devon the second we get to the party, I decide to give him a small thrill now, since he’s so crazy about Cybil and I have the power to do it. “Oh, Joey,” I say, touching his arm in that there’s no reason to be touching your arm except that I want to-touch you way, “You’re so sweet.”
I swear, even in the dim light in the van I can see his face glowing red. Maybe some day he can trade faces with someone Pop U Lar, so that he’ll know what it feels like and gain some confidence with girls. I mean, maybe that’s what this switch with Cybil is all about. I’ll gain confidence and she’ll gain …. What? Humility? Well, I can’t worry about that now. I’m in Cybil’s body and I’m going to Snowball’s party and I might as well make the most of it.
We get to Snowball’s house, and there are cars everywhere. They fill the driveway, both sides of the road and part of the front lawn. Joey drives down the street and finds a spot around the corner. As we walk toward the house, he tries conversation again. “Should be a fun party.”
“Yes,” I say. I flash him a big smile, but I don’t hold his hand or anything. 1) That would give him too much false hope. 2) Since he’s really my brother, or at least my mind’s brother, it would be too yucky.
As we approach the house, a black SUV pulls onto the front lawn and out hop three generic second string football players and Erin and Rachel and Vanna. Rachel and Vanna see me and Joey and squeal, “Hi, Cybil!”
As we pull even with them, Erin twists herself like a python around Football Player #1. “Oh, hi, Cybil,” she says in this terribly bored voice.
Am I supposed to care that she’s disassociating herself from me? “Hello, Erin,” I say in a tone that is just as jaded as hers.
On the front porch there are a few seniors smoking—cigarettes mostly, but also a couple guys suck on cigars, and I think maybe someone’s passing some green matter over in the shadows.
We go inside. The room is huge—high ceilings, grand staircase, Oriental rugs scattered casually on gleaming hardwood floors. I see every senior at John Nance Garner High, even the not so popular ones. Who knew Snowball was an equal opportunity party giver, at least when it comes to the senior class? When it comes to juniors, however, Snowball has been more selective, and, except for Walt Stocking and a couple other football players, the only sophomores are Erin, Rachel, Vanna and me. We are On Display.
Music blares loud enough that the light fixtures swing back and forth, reminding me of the pendulum in The Pit and the Pendulum, which we read in Mr. Byrne’s class in middle school. Couples are dancing so close they are practically braided together.
Front and center are two beer kegs and a Thank you for not smoking inside—-or else! sign. The furniture is covered with sheets. There are more hand scrawled signs taped up everywhere with warnings such as, Don’t spill the beer, and if you do, wipe it up! or Don’t leave wet glasses on the coffeetable!, which is the only furniture not covered with a sheet, but it does have a couple of placemats on it.
I get the feeling that Snowball is not really cut out for wild, my parents are out of town parties. I wonder if the party was totally his idea or if maybe Devon had something to do with it.
Erin, Vanna, Rachel and the football players head straight for the beer. Snowball warns them not to spill any.
“Uh, Cybil, can, uh, I, uh, get you some, uh, beer … or something?” Joey says.
Just then I see Devon coming down the grand staircase. His dark eyes lock onto mine. He gives me a smile that is as intimate as a kiss. “No, thanks,” I say to Joey, before I ditch him.
[Cybil]
Joey’s so sweet that I almost give him a charity kiss when he drops me off at Pammie’s before heading over to my house to pick up Darcy, until I remember he thinks I’m his sister, so I just say, “Thanks for the ride.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Joey says.
“I won’t.” I have the feeling there’s a mile long list of what he wouldn’t do, so I totally cross my fingers as I say this.
As I go up the front walk I see that Pammie’s house is a quaint white cottage with a small porch and a green porch swing. I knock on the edge of the screen door.
A boy a little older than Tommy opens the door. As I step inside, he asks “Why did you knock, Butt face?”
“Rodent!” Pammie runs over, grabs him by the waistband of his jeans and yanks him deep into the room. She shakes her fist in his face. “I’ve warned you about talking to my friends like that!”
“Friend, singular,” Rodent says. “And why did she knock? She never knocks, she always just walks right in!”
“Get lost!” Pammie gives Rodent a scorching look, and he runs for parts unknown.
“Sorry about that,” Pammie says.
“No problem—”
“Why did you knock?”
“No reason—” I start to say, but Winston and Malcolm burst through the front door.
“Greetings, Earthlings,” they say in unison.
“What are you guys doing here?” I ask, before it occurs to me Darcy should probably know.
“Duh. We’re always here,” Winston says.
“Yeah.” Pammie lets out a long, exaggerated sigh. “That’s one of the disadvantages of having these guys as next door neighbors.”
Next door neighbors? That explains a lot.
“Uh, uh, uh,” Winston says. “Is that any way to treat the superior beings who are going to take you to the party of the millennium?”
“Snowball’s party?” I ask. Suddenly, I’ve developed great respect for Winston.
“Are there any other parties of the millennium happening tonight?” Malcolm says.
Pammie signals us to whisper, “I don’t know. My Mom ….”
“It’s Friday night,” Winston says. “Your Mom has five hours of TiVo-ed ‘General Hospital’ shows to watch. She won’t even know you’re gone.”
“But, Rodent—”
Malcolm fakes a yawn. “Rodent won’t blab. You fully have enough blackmail material on that dude to last through your senior year.”
“True.” Pammie shrugs. “Give us a half hour to get ready. It’ll be dark by then. We can sneak out my bedroom window and meet you in back of the garage.”
Well, that so was easy. Since Winston got us invited and talked her into it, there was no need for me to convince Pammie to sneak over to Snowball’s party.
Pammie’s room is small, surprisingly girly, and filled with what I’m sure are do it yourself projects. The chipped paint iron frame bed has a white fishnet canopy and is covered with at least a dozen little pillows covered with pieced together scraps of lace. An old table painted sage green sits in one corner and serves as a desk. A creamy white dresser that looks as if a hammer and sandpaper have helped give it that distressed look holds a vase of slightly wilted daisies and a small lamp perched on a stack of books. Clothes and magazines are strewn everywhere, but the look is more casual chaos than plain old messy.
The walls are covered with unframed watercolors of every herb imaginable. I take a close look and see they are signed Pamela Bloom. Who knew Pammie was so artistic?
“Yikes!” Pammie says. “Who’d’ve thought we’d really be going to Snowball’s party? What’ll I wear?” She grabs a handful of hair. “My hair! What’ll I do with my hair?”
Unfortunately, she’s not artistic in all aspects of her life.
While Pammie runs around the room in a panic, I pull the Nicolas A. shirt and Repetto shiny ballet flats out of the backpack and slip them on. “This is what I’m wearing, if that helps.”
“More Aunt Julia clothes?” Pammie says, not really asking. “Okay, what’ve I got that’ll work?”
Hmm. If I can help displaced homemakers and ex-felons, I ought to be able to help Pammie. I rummage through her closet and dresser and find a green and white shirred top that could pass as J. Crew and a miniature leather belt bracelet that has a different but classic look.
While Pammie puts those on, I hunt through her shoes, which doesn’t take long, because she doesn’t have very many. I find a pair of yellow sneakers that in dim light could probably look as if they came from Nordstrom’s.
I fix my own hair, then work on Pammie’s. It keeps wanting to fall over the left side of her face, so finally I give it a few twists with the curling iron to make it look as if it is supposed to dip over one eye. A speck of lip gloss and a touch of eyeshadow, and I think Pammie looks more than okay, if I do say so myself.
I hold up the mirror for her inspection. “Well …?”
A little natural blush enters Pammie’s cheeks. “Hmm … not bad. Thanks, Darcy! I don’t know when your Aunt Julia’s sense of flair took hold in your brain, but I’m glad it did.”
Oh. Of course, she gives credit to Darcy. Well, I have other things to worry about, such as finding the real Darcy and trading faces back with her. “Ready?”
“Ready!” Pammie opens a window. She signals to me to follow. “Come on,” she says as she climbs out.
That’s one advantage to a one story house, I guess. Sneaking out is a lot easier.
We tiptoe around to the back of the garage, where we find Malcolm and Winston waiting for us. They are both dressed all in black, so basically all I can see is the whites of their eyes.
“Where’s the car?” I ask.
“Car?” Winston says. “What car? You know I’m not old enough to drive. We’re walkin’.”
“It’s not that far,” Malcolm explains.
O o o o kay, I guess I can pretend we parked around the corner or something. I mean, that was my plan when I thought I’d have to sneak my way in. “How’d you get invited to Snowball’s party?”
“Huh?” Winston grabs my hand and leads me along a path in a woodsy area in back of the garage. “Who said anything about being invited? We’re crashing this party!”
[Darcy]
“Hi, Devon.” I try to suppress the dizzying current running through me.
“Hullo, Luv.” Devon takes my hand, leads me to the nearest keg and gets us a couple of beers.
Snowball, who is standing with his arms crossed in front of his chest, says, “Be careful, don’t—”
“We won’t spill any beer in here, Mate,” Devon says with a smile. “We’re going out in the back yAHd.” He leads me through a pair of French doors to a flagstone path that takes us to a secluded gazebo. We sit on a bench, and Devon gulps down half his beer before I’ve had two sips.
“C’mon, luv, drink up,” Devon says.
It’s not as if I’ve never had beer before. Dad makes his own, and it’s okay for me and Joey to have some, as long as Dad knows and we don’t drink too much. Dad’s beer tastes way better than this stuff. I don’t want to say that it tastes horrible, since Devon has no trouble slugging it down, but I don’t think I can force myself to drink more than the two sips I’ve already had. “I like to savor the flavor.”
“Savor the flavor!” Devon laughs. “Come to England some time and I’ll take you to a pub and buy you pint of good ale. This stuff is odorless, colorless and tasteless. It’s good for only one thing, and that’s to get squizzed. So drink up!”
I place my glass of beer on the bench. “You really know the way to a girl’s heart,” I say, trying to be funny.
Laughter floats up from Devon’s throat. He gulps down the rest of his beer. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his breath hot and moist against my ear, and smelling of beer. His hands slip up my arms, bringing me closer.
I’m totally conscious of every inch where his warm fingers touch my skin.
Devon presses his lips against mine. The kiss is slow, thoughtful. He pulls back and gazes into my eyes. Then his mouth is on mine again, in a soft, velvety kiss.
I tingle from head to toe as I slip my arms around his neck. I think I hear my heart hammering against my chest, but then I realize it is footsteps.
“Oh! Hi! Sorry! I didn’t know anyone was out here.” It’s Joey. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Yeah, right!
“‘Lo, mate,” Devon says, turning to face Joey, but keeping one arm comfortably around my waist.
“Great party, isn’t it?” Joey says with a too big smile on his face.
How he would know it’s a great party is beyond me. 1) He doesn’t have a beer or any other beverage or form of nourishment with him and 2) all he’s done so far is follow me and Devon to the gazebo.
“Thing is, Mate,” Devon says, “Luvy here and I are trying to have our own little private party.”
“Oh! Right! Private!” Joey’s smile looks tighter and more forced. If he knew I was really me, he’d probably grab Devon by the throat, pick him up with one hand, throw him out of the gazebo and take me home. Luckily, he thinks I’m Cybil, so he’s trying to be civilized. “Well, uh, I’ll, um … leave you two alone.”
“Thanks, Mate,” Devon says, already turning his attention back to me.
Joey stands there for a couple more seconds, then kind of stumbles off in the dark.
“Where were we?” Devon says. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He pulls me close, my body molding to the contours of his, and he gives me a kiss that sends the two sips of beer in my stomach into a wild swirl.