The Cybil War Read Online Free PDF

head low, he ducked behind the hedge and walked in a crouch to the bushes. Holding his hands over his face to protect it from scratches, he squirmed through the bushes to a place beneath the window. Cautiously he lifted his head.
    Simon watched all this with an awful fascination. Seeing Tony come closer and closer, knowing a facedown here in the bushes was inevitable, he still made no effort to get away or hide. He waited, his eyes bright with anger.
    Tony straightened and peered into the window. His face reflected his disappointment. His mouth hung open.
    He had somehow expected to see Cybil Ackerman standing behind the curtain, peering out, trying to see him as he walked away. That was what Annette did when Rickie Wurts left. Instead here she was, playing the piano with a carrot stuck in her mouth.
    It was hard for/Tony to believe. Cybil Ackerman was not even pretty. Her legs really were like Popsicle sticks.
    And yet here she was treating him, Tony Angotti, the image of Donny Osmond, as if he were an ordinary person. No, worse—as if he were nothing. He was glad no one was around to see this humiliation.
    â€œCybil!”
    One of Cybil’s sisters rushed into the living room. Cybil’s hands stopped playing, hovered over the keys.
    â€œQuick, play the Wedding March while Clara goes down the steps to meet Tommy. Hurry, she’s leaving.” ,
    â€œI don’t know the music.”
    â€œFake it!”
    Cybil’s hands twitched, hesitated, then struck.
    Dum da-da- da . Dum da-da- de . Dum da-da-daaaaaaaaa-da-da dadadadada-deeeeeee.
    â€œCybil! Cynthia! That’s not funny!” Clara yelled. She spun around on the porch and glared back at the open window.
    Tony Angotti crouched so quickly his knees popped. He bowed like a Muslim.
    Clara waited, eyes on the window, until she was sure Cybil was through with the Wedding March. Then, as the labored strains of “Under the Golden Eagle” floated through the window again, she went down the steps to where Tommy was waiting.
    â€œExcuse my sisters,” she said, “they think they’re soooooo funny.”
    Tony Angotti lifted his head. He brushed dirt from his brow. He pulled his T-shirt from his stomach where it had stuck with his sweat. He was now doubly grateful that no one could see him here on his knees.
    It was then that he turned his head and saw Simon Newton.

The Spies and the Lies
    â€œ I didn’t know you went around hiding in the bushes, spying on your friends,” Tony Angotti said as soon as they were safely on the sidewalk. After that one long, hard moment in the oleanders when their eyes met and locked, they had not glanced at each other. They were now walking, eyes down, toward Simon’s house.
    â€œMay I point out,” Simon said, “that you were in the same bushes?”
    They kept walking. Each was torn by the feeling that the other’s crime was worse, and yet unable to put that proof into words.
    â€œThat don’t count,” Tony said. “I had a reason.”
    â€œMaybe I had a reason too.”
    There was a silence, awkward and long, while each searched for another accusation. Then Simon brushed his hair from his forehead and said with a faint smile, “Anyway, did you find out what Cybil said about you?”
    â€œYou didn’t hear?”
    â€œNo,” he lied, “I got there right after that.”
    â€œYou didn’t hear what she said?”
    â€œNo.”
    Tony glanced at Simon, quickly, then away. “Well, she didn’t say anything about me, pal. She said you were juvenile.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou heard me—juvenile.” Tony would have liked to have spelled the word for emphasis, but he wasn’t sure if it started with aj or g.
    â€œOh.”
    Tony sighed, partly from relief, partly from being on safe territory—lying. “I tried to tell her you weren’t, but she wouldn’t listen. Right in the middle of a long