The Battle of Darcy Lane by Tara Altebrando Page A

hook on the wall, and called out to Dad. “We’re going out for dessert. You want to come?”
    I could hear baseball coming from the TV in the den.
    Dad said, “Nah, I’m good.”
    â€œLeave the phone unplugged.” Mom headed for the door. “We’ll be back in an hour.”
    We drove down to Joe’s Ices—lemon for Mom, strawberry-lime for me—and looked out at the bay. You could see the city skyline—all twinkling and exciting and terrifying—and a bunch of boats on their way to who knows where. I thought about all the creatures beneath the water’s surface and wondered whether or not the fish and sharks down there were doing any better than I was at slogging through life.
    â€œI had this friend when I was about your age . . . ,” Mom said, as we sat at a picnic table with our ices.
    â€œMom,” I said. “Please don’t.”
    She looked at me and I thought for sure she was just going to tell her story anyway, but she just smiled andran a hand over my hair. “You know I love you, right?”
    â€œOf course.” I looked away.
    When fireworks started to light the sky, we grabbed the quilt we kept in the car and moved to the little beach, watching as colors and shapes appeared and then burned out.
    Mom drove us home with the windows down and the radio blaring a song about a place where the streets have no name. She sang along, her hands so tight on the wheel that I thought it must hurt. The song was still playing when I got out of the car in front of our house, but Mom showed no signs of turning off the engine. She stayed there in the driver’s seat, perfectly still, until the last note. I waited for her on the porch.

    When I couldn’t sleep because of a phantom phone ringing in my ear, I got up and stood in my PJs in the middle of my room, playing Russia with an imaginary ball. I made it all the way through sixies—pretending to throw under my arm, pretending to catch in front, six times— before getting back into bed.
    Now I prayed for the end of the world to be swift and to happen while I slept, so that I’d never have to leave the house again.

    I dreamt that baby cicadas had nested in my hair and that Mom had to spend hours upon hours combing them out.

10 .
    Mom told me over breakfast that I had to apologize to Alyssa for throwing the ball at her. “You must be joking.”
    â€œAfraid not.” She took her dish of toast crumbs to the trash and brushed them off.
    â€œEven after the phone ringing torture of last night?” My cereal was already too soggy, inedible. Then when I saw the newspaper on the table—with a big headline that read SWARMS ! and a picture of hundreds of huge flying bugs—I lost my appetite completely.
    Those holes Peter had shown me. He’d said it was just a matter of days.
    Mom turned and leaned against the counter. “Other people’s bad behavior isn’t an excuse for your own.”
    â€œBut I’m not sorry,” I said. Then she launched into a whole speech about how violence is never the answer, but I was stealing glimpses at those bugs and at the article, about millions of newly hatched insects just south of us.
    â€œThis is non-negotiable,” she concluded. “I’ll come with you if you want.”
    â€œAnd bring brownies?”
    â€œYeah,” she said dryly. “As it turns out I’m not going to be doing that.”
    I dumped my cereal and knew this was a standoff I’d never win. “I’ll go. Alone.”
    I got dressed and rang Alyssa’s doorbell, and when she answered I knew 100 percent from the smug look on her face that she was the one who’d made the calls. She held an ice pack up to her face and I wanted to say, Oh, gimme a break!
    An ice pack! A day later!
    â€œMom!” she called out.
    I stiffened. I hadn’t been expecting that . I heard footsteps behind her and quickly said, “I came