The Battle of Darcy Lane Read Free

twelve years waiting—I wasn’t even sure for what—and the idea that I might have to wait another five years for it made my skin jump and crawl.
    But I wasn’t sure I had it in me to fight about whether I was old enough to watch End of Daze . Not after having spent the last six months of school campaigning unsuccesfully for a cell phone and not after the day I’d had. So I said good night and went up to the office, where the other TV was, and moved some papers off the futon so that I could sit. I’d wanted this room to be mine when we’d moved in but the movers had put Mom’s desk and sewing machine in there. She said we’d move them another time, but we hadn’t yet, even though I still asked my parents like every week if I could switch rooms. I hated that my room was so far down the hall from theirs, like I was a guest in their house.
    There was nothing worth watching on regular TV (the one downstairs was the only one with the good cable channels), and I had already seen all the movies we owned too many times. So I watched a half hour of nothing and then went to Mom’s laptop to try to see if I could watch End of Daze online, but you couldn’t unless you had a mobile/device login, which I was sure we didn’t. My parents prided themselves on being “late adopters,” which explained why I was the only person my age I knew who still didn’t have a phone. So I snuck back downstairs and tiptoed to the door to the den. A mushroom cloud exploded on the screen. Plumes of dark smoke chased people around corners. The air itself seemed to be shaking.
    Back in bed, I couldn’t get the images out of my head and couldn’t get to sleep. So I started playing Russia in my head.
    Throw. Catch.
    Throw. Bounce. Catch.
    Throw. Bounce. Catch.
    Throw. Clap. Clap. Clap. Catch.
    Throw. Clap. Clap. Clap. Catch.
    Throw . . . Clap . . . Catch . . .
    It seemed no more or less dumb than counting sheep.

4 .
    There were still no cicadas in the morning, so I got dressed and told Mom I was going next door to get Taylor. But when I stepped outside, I saw Taylor’s almost white-blonde hair—her parents had thought she was albino for a split-second when she was born—glinting in the morning sun . . . in front of Alyssa’s house. They were playing Russia on the driveway.
    â€œHey,” I called out as I crossed the street to join them. Then in a near-whisper I said to Taylor, “I thought we were going swimming.”
    Taylor looked at me blankly, and I felt my face get hot, like I was getting sunburned.
    â€œMaybe later.” Taylor spoke in an annoyed whisper.
    Alyssa asked, “What are we doing later?”
    â€œNothing,” I said.
    â€œGoing swimming at Julia’s house,” Taylor said.
    How could she be so clueless?
    â€œOh.” Alyssa bounced her ball. “I have a pool, too.”
    â€œDuh.” I itched a pretend scratch on my neck, just for something to do. “We watched your whole house get built. We saw the pool being dug.”
    We all stood there and my mind drew a triangle with the three of us as the three points, and then Alyssa said, “Good for you, Julie.”
    â€œJulie- ah ,” I corrected.
    Alyssa shrugged. “I like Julie better.”
    They went back to their bouncing and throwing.
    â€œThis game is dumb,” I said.
    Alyssa didn’t even look at me. “Then don’t play.”
    But I wasn’t going to fall for that. I picked up a ball that had rolled to the curb and started at threesies, since that was the move they were on.
    â€œYou have to start at onesies.” Alyssa pushed some hair out of her face.
    â€œSo, anyway, did you end up watching it?” Taylor asked her.
    â€œOh my god, it was so good!”
    â€œI know !” Taylor nodded a few times, quickly. “Right?”
    â€œTotally.” Alyssa nodded, too, and I watched her move on to foursies, throwing the ball