The Cybil War

by Betsy Byars

  When they got to his house, Harriet said, “You know, I think Cybil’s feelings were hurt.”

  “What?” He had already started to turn into his driveway, but now he paused. This was the first interest he had shown in anything, so Harriet looked pleased.

  “You know, because you wanted to be with me.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, you know.” She gave Simon a playful poke, and he put his hand over the spot to protect it. “Cybil thought she was going to be with you at the movies, and then this morning Tony called me and said you wanted to be with me, that you would not come unless you could sit by me, and for me to tell Cybil when we—”

  “What?”

  “Well, Cybil had agreed to go to the movies with you because she doesn’t like Tony. It was all set—you and Cybil, me and Tony. I don’t like Tony either, but I wanted to see the movie. Only then Tony said you wanted to be with me and ...”

  She continued, but Simon no longer heard her. This was like something out of a soap opera—lies and plots and misunderstandings. Rage began to burn in his chest like a hot coal.

  “Good-bye,” he told Harriet.

  “Wait. I’m not through.”

  “Good-bye.”

  He went into the house, walked back to the kitchen, and waited for his mother to ask what was wrong. His face had to be so flushed she would go straight for the thermometer. She glanced up and then back down at a cake she was icing.

  “How does that look?” she asked, turning the plate around on the table.

  “Fine,” he snapped.

  “I’m going to a supper tonight—it’s Parents Without Partners—and I want my cake to look, you know—edible.” She smiled.

  He waited, then said, “Is this Parents Without Partners like a date?” He wanted to remind her that he had just come from such an event himself. For the first time in his life he actually wanted to talk.

  “No, it’s just people getting together.”

  “Oh.” He waited again, and then said in a rush, “Aren’t you going to ask how my date was?”

  “Yes, how was it?”

  “Terrible, awful, horrible, miserable, sickening, and infuriating.”

  She made a face. “I’m glad you had such a good time.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “Everything. I was supposed to be with Cybil, and Tony tricked me into being with Harriet. Mom, she poked me all during the movie. I hate Tony!”

  “Now, don’t be too hard on him.”

  “Mom! When I used to like Tony you were always putting him down and wanting me to get new friends, and now that I hate him, you’re defending him!”

  “No, what worried me when you and Tony were friends was that he took advantage of you and you seemed to always get the short end of the stick and take the blame and you never seemed to know what he was doing. Now that you see Tony for what he is—well, I feel better about your being friends.”

  “We aren’t friends.”

  “Tony is his own worst enemy.”

  “No, he’s got me now.”

  She looked up at him. “Do you remember when you were in first grade and Tony moved here and he sat behind you and that whole year he claimed he had gotten an unlucky desk?”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “Every time he got a bad grade, he would start hitting his desk—you told me this, and you told me that one time you went home with him and he had his report card and it was bad and his mother thumped him on the head with her ring and he burst out crying and said, ‘What’d you expect? I told you I got the unlucky desk.’”

  “I remember his mom hitting him.”

  “Well, anyway, that, to me, is Tony. Tony is probably going to go through his whole life without knowing what he’s like or why things happen to him or why things don’t happen to him or what other people think or feel. It’s sad.” She looked at him, waiting.

  “I still hate him,” he said.

  She smiled. “Okay, hate him.” She glanced down at her cake and picked it up. “Now, I am proud of that cake,” she said. “I’ve gotten out of the habit of cooking, arid I bet I haven’t made a cake in—” She paused, remembering the exact day she had lost interest in cooking.

  “In two and a half years,” Simon said.

  “Two and a half years.”

  Simon got off the stool and walked into the living room. “I hope you didn’t fill up on popcorn and candy,” his mother called after him.

  “That is not possible on a date with Harriet Haywood,” he called back.

  “Because your supper’s ready.”

  “Good, I’ve got to go somewhere tonight.”

  “Not over to Tony’s. Not till you cool down.”

  “No, not over to Tony’s.”

  The Victory

  Simon stood at the edge of Cybil’s yard, waiting respectfully with his hands behind his back. Cybil’s sister, Clarice, was having a Miss America pageant on the front lawn. It was the talent portion of the production, and Clarice was dancing to “God Bless America,” which someone was playing on the piano inside.

  Simon had come there right after supper. He had decided that this time he would not pretend to be looking for something. There had been enough lies and pretenses. He would walk straight up to the door like an adult, ring the bell, and ask to speak to Cybil. He would then try to explain the confusion of the afternoon by uttering the understatement of the year. “I did not really want to be with Harriet Haywood at the movies.”

  His intention had been stalled by the Miss America pageant, but as soon as it was over he would proceed to the front door.

  Clarice finished her dance. She said loudly, “I want to be Miss America so that I can bring peace to all the world through my dancing.”

  Applause. Clarice went back and stood proudly on the front steps with the other three candidates. Simon shifted restlessly. He wondered if he could slip past the candidates without disturbing the whole production.

  Too late. A baton-twirling routine to “God Bless America” began. Simon continued to stand respectfully on the sidelines.

  He looked up at the house, listened to the music. The Ackerman house was like a commercial for living, he thought, an advertisement to show how zestful ordinary day-to-day life can be.

  As he stood there, he began to realize that it was Cybil at the piano. He could not see in the window, of course, and never intended to try to do so again, but somehow he was sure it was Cybil, willingly, energetically playing “God Bless America” again and again. A warm feeling came over him.

  The baton routine ended. Now the decision of the judges—Clarice is the new Miss America! Simon broke his respectful stance long enough to applaud.

  “Why do you get to be Miss America?” the baton twirler snapped. Her hands were on her hips. Simon thought this was the way the losers would really act if the TV cameras weren’t there.

  “Because the judges picked me,” Clarice said coolly.

  “The judges are your sisters!”

  “I can’t help that!”

  “Well, I better get to be Miss Congeniality or I’m going home!”

  Simon slipped past them, up the steps, and to the front door. He rang the bell.

  It was Cybil who came to the door. “Oh, hi,” she said.

  His plan, which had seemed so sensible, so adult on the way over, now seemed stupid. Finally he managed to get out his statement. “I just wanted to tell you that I didn’t really want to be with Harriet this afternoon.”

  “Oh, I know that.”

  “You do?”

  “Tony told me. He got mad and said I didn’t know how lucky I was to sit by him. He said most girls would consider it an honor. And you know who he thinks he looks like?”

  “Donny Osmond.”

  “Yes! And you know what he did? He tried to hold my hand in the movies. And you know what I did? I pinched his hand right in the palm where it really hurts. Didn’t you hear him gasp?”


  “I was watching the movie.”

  Clarice stormed by. “Just because I got to be Miss America everybody’s gone home! She turned back to Cybil. ”And you were supposed to play “There She Is, Miss America” so I could come down the steps and—everything is ruined. Mom, Cybil ruined my Miss America pageant!”

  “Cybil,” Mrs. Ackerman called tiredly from the living room.

  Cybil grinned and crossed her eyes. “You want to go bike riding?” she asked suddenly.

  Simon felt a stab of despair. “I don’t have a bike.”

  “You can borrow Clara’s. Clara! Can Simon borrow your bike?”

  “If he’s careful and puts some air in the front tire,” Clara called back.

  “We’ll stop at the gas station,” Cybil told Simon as she led him to the garage.

  As they started out of the driveway Simon glanced at Cybil and paused. Her red hair was streaming behind her in the wind. It made Simon think of flags and banners and bands. She looked back at him. “Are you coming?”

  “Yes!”

  He had a brief struggle with his pedals, and his knee hit the straw basket that was tied onto the handlebars. Then his feet and legs got straightened out, and he pedaled after Cybil.

  They rode down the hill in silence. As they turned the corner in a wide arc, Simon suddenly thought that his father was missing a lot out there in that turquoise mine. It was the first time he had felt sorry for his father rather than for himself. Because in this world, with all its troubles, even if you had to sit by Harriet Haywood in the movies in the afternoon, you could still be riding beside Cybil Ackerman in the evening.

  He thought again about that prehistoric creature who finally got up on his legs in the slime, stepped forward, and found himself not bellied down but—Miracle! on a bicycle, cool wind in his face, going thirty miles an hour with Cybil Ackerman at his side. It seemed so clear a transformation that the whole process flashed through his mind, with himself the final glorious frame.

  “We better stop at the gas station,” Cybil said over her shoulder. “Clara’s real particular about her things. Let’s cut through here.”

  It was Oak Street—Tony’s street. Simon felt his heart beat faster. “All right,” he said quickly. He steered to the right beside her.

  He glanced up as they approached Tony’s house. He braked slightly when he saw that Tony was sitting on the front steps with Pap-pap. He wanted to give them time to see him. Pap-pap was getting ready to cry about something. He already had his handkerchief out, twisting it into a rope. But Tony was staring at the street.

  When Tony saw the bicycles, and who was riding them, he got quickly to his feet. His mouth was hanging open in surprise.

  Risking an accident, Simon lifted one hand in a half wave. Then he clutched the handlebars. The thought of wrecking Clara’s bicycle made him decide not to even glance at Tony again.

  “Wait a minute,” he heard Tony yell. “Hey, come back. Wait a minute. I’ll come with you guys. Hey, wait! I’ll get Annette’s bike!”

  Simon pedaled faster again, and he and Cybil were gone down the hill, around the corner, down Elm Street. Simon’s smile was so broad that his teeth were getting dry. He felt he had had his victory. That wave—just a lift of the hand without wrecking—that was all he needed to acknowledge it.

  He felt he had seen something like this in an old newsreel. It was so clear he had to have seen it. A victorious general came riding through a war-torn city, and he graciously—just like Simon—lifted one hand to the crowd. The crowd waved flags, shouted, wept. There was none of that celebrating for Simon’s appearance, and yet the result was the same, he thought. The war was over.

  Simon glanced at Cybil. He wondered if she would like to ride past Harriet Haywood’s and lift her hand. No, he decided, she was bigger than that. He watched as she made a left-hand signal to turn into the gas station. He did the same.

  “Do you know how to use this?” Cybil asked as they stopped in front of the air hose.

  “No,” he admitted.

  “I’ll show you.”

  Her red head bent over the tire. Her curls blew in the wind. She glanced up at Simon.

  Abruptly he abandoned his pose as the triumphant general. After all, the war was over. This was the real world, and he’d better learn how it worked.

  He knelt beside her and watched.

  BETSY BYARS was born in Charlotte, North Carolina, and graduated from Queens College.

  The mother of four, Ms. Byars began writing books as her family was growing up. She is the author of nearly fifty books for children, including The Summer of the Swans, which received the 1971 Newbery Medal and, more recently, the Herculeah Jones Mystery series.