The Cybil War Read Online Free PDF Page A

conversation from the bushes where he happened to be hiding.
    That night, after supper, he had decided to walk over to Cybil’s house. He would just walk up the sidewalk slowly, perhaps pretending to have lost something, and then when Cybil came out of the house he would tell her that it was Tony, not he, who had thought up the unfortunate similarity between her legs and Popsicle sticks. “I like straight legs,” he would tell her.
    He would then go on to say that he was glad she was going to be Ms. Indigestion. This was true. Now that he had had a chance to realistically imagine himself in costume, his peanut butter sign and his one line, “I am rich in protein and blah—blah—blah—” did seem like a reprieve from public humiliation.
    He was going over this in his mind, practicing it, when he turned the corner and saw Cybil’s house.
    Simon had walked past Cybil’s house many times since that Arbor Day when he fell in love with her, and he never tired of doing so. Cybil had four sisters—all had red curly hair and looked alike, and so he had the pleasure when the youngest—Clarice —came running out, of seeing what Cybil had looked like in first grade. And when the oldest—Cynthia—came out, of seeing what Cybil would look like in high school.
    Tonight, for the first time, when he looked at Cybil’s house, he got a nasty shock. Tony Angotti was standing on the porch. Tony Angotti was ringing the bell and straightening his jacket. Tony Angotti was smirking.
    Keeping low, Simon had made his way behind the hedge, up to the shrubbery, and behind the bushes to the side of the porch. He had been here before too. Once he had sneaked up to look in the window so he could see what Cybil’s living room looked like, and at that exact moment Mrs. Ackerman had come out to cut some oleanders for a party she was having. Simon had crouched there, head against his knees, heart throbbing, sweat running down his legs, while Mrs. Ackerman snipped blossoms around his head with a pair of shears.
    This time he crouched in place just in time to hear Cybil ask, “What do you want?” and to hear the crunch of her carrot. And now, only minutes later, with every word of the conversation between Cybil and Tony burning in his brain, he watched through the leaves as Tony Angotti made his way to the sidewalk.
    Simon was stunned by what he had heard. “Simon’s the one who acts like he’s still in kindergarten ... Just let me tell you one stupid thing that Simon Newton did ... Simon was going to this funeral, see ...”
    A funny lie—that was how he had thought of Tony’s attributing the tub of blubber and sack of potatoes comment to him—a funny lie was one thing. He had survived dozens of those over the years. What he had just heard was character assassination. He could sue.
    Simon watched with slitted eyes as Tony paused at the edge of the street. Simon was breathing through his mouth, the way he did when the pollen was bad.
    Tony lifted his head as the opening notes of “Under the Golden Eagle” floated through the window. He scratched his head, a sure sign of thought. He adjusted his jacket. He turned his face toward the window as alert as a listening bird.
    Tony Angotti was having a hard time believing that Cybil had called him a juvenile. Him, Tony Angotti, who looked like Donny Osmond! He paused, head turned to the music, trying to find an answer.
    Tony’s head shifted with another thought. Tony could not keep his head still when he was thinking. Sometimes during a science test, his head would snap up as quickly as if he had a sudden toothache.
    Cybil Ackerman was trying to make him jealous by pretending to like Simon Newton who, everyone knew, really was juvenile! That was it! At this very moment, Tony thought, she was probably watching him through the window.
    He turned. With studied nonchalance he made his way to the hedge. Quickly,