The Cybil War by Betsy Byars Page B

refused to tell me if there were any daddy-longlegs on the toilet seat.
    Simon’s sentence was way too long, of course, but Mr. Romano gave him an A anyway because he admitted it was hard to condense that much sadness into twenty words.
    After that, Simon had often tried to create the saddest sentence in the world. He knew he had it with “My father is gone,” but he still kept writing. So far he had written twenty-seven.
    Now he tried for twenty-eight.
    I was ajar of peanut butter in the class play and I stepped out and said my line perfectly (“Peanut butter is a nutritious food and good in sandwiches or on crackers.”) but when I stepped back in place, I bumped into Billy Bonfili who shoved me back so hard that I pushed Harriet Haywood who was unsteady in an ill-fitting cottage cheese carton and who sat down on the stage and couldn’t get up until me and the green beans helped her and Cybil looked at me and did not grin and cross her eyes and later the green beans told the teacher I had done it on purpose and the whole thing made me wish I had never seen, heard of or tasted peanut butter.
    Way too long, Simon decided, too tiresome, too many who’s, and anyway nobody cares about the feelings of a jar of peanut butter.
    He was sitting at his desk as he wrote the sentence, waiting for the bell to ring. The sign “Peanut Butter” that he had worn in the play was on the floor under his feet. The dusty prints of his tennis shoes had blurred the letters.
    Simon reread his sentence and then folded it to take home. One day he would have a collection of sad sentences worthy of being donated to a library. They would have a special room—The Simon Newton Collection—and people would pass through and marvel at the sadness of the sentences in the glass cases.
    The bell rang, startling him out of his thoughts. He got up, sighing, picked up his books.
    The sacks of potatoes jostled him as he went into the hall. He barely felt the jabs of their elbows.
    He had the eerie, crystal-ball feeling that there would be another, newer, sadder sentence in the very near future. It was such a strong feeling that he could almost hear the sympathetic sighs of the viewers as they looked into the last case and read—
    It was just as well, he thought, that he didn’t know what.

The Newer Sadder Sentence
    I n the week that followed, Simon sometimes felt he was a yo-yo, he went up and down so quickly. In school he could not concentrate because he had to keep watching Tony Angotti, who was watching Cybil, and then watching Cybil to see if she was watching Tony. His neck began to ache with all this unnatural straining.
    â€œEyes front,” Miss McFawn said again and again.
    Sometimes to Simon’s surprise she would add, “Tony,” and Simon would know Tony had been looking at Cybil and he hadn’t caught him. Then he would glance back quickly himself. Cybil would be writing or looking for something in her notebook, and Simon would feel instantly better.
    One day after school when Simon and Tony were walking home, Tony said, “Everybody likes me but Cybil Ackerman,” in a depressed way.
    Tony’s genuine dismay made Simon feel wonderful. His steps quickened with pleasure. But then he began to analyze that statement, and he slowed down. Everybody did not like Tony. He himself could name at least ten people who didn’t like Tony, starting with Simon’s mom, Miss Ellis, Mr. Repokis, Annette, Harriet Haywood, Billy Bonfili ... And if Tony could be wrong about that, then he could also be wrong about Cybil’s not liking him.
    â€œWhat makes you say that?” Simon asked carefully.
    â€œOh, I don’t know. Do you think she likes me?”
    â€œI don’t know. She’s the kind of person who likes everybody.” He paused, then added, “No matter what they’re like.”
    â€œYeah, there’s no reason she wouldn’t like me.” He held up