The Age of Amy: Mad Dogs and Makeovers

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  Hubert went first, scurrying up the ladder like a cat up a tree. Safely on the roof, he waved for me to join him. I started up slowly, grabbing each rusty rung tightly. Not being too fond of high places, I was careful not to look down.

  Making it to the roof wasn’t that difficult, but it was tiring. Taking a moment to catch our breath, Hubert’s cell phone rang.

  “It’s a text from Lydia,” he said. “She’s asking when I’m coming back. How do I reply?”

  “You don’t,” I said. “You’re going to pretend you didn’t get her message, and if she asks why, you were out of signal range.”

  Being in charge is a great feeling. I was the commander and chief strategist. My plan was moving along nicely, until an unexpected hitch abruptly halted our progress. A four-foot alleyway separated the two buildings.

  “Hmm,” said Hubert, looking over the edge. “Looks like we’re gonna have to jump over it.”

  I was afraid he would say that. The thought of leaping over that divide terrified me. Hubert had tried to warn me that this was a task better suited for Spiderman, but I wouldn’t listen.

  My stomach sank as I stared down into the chasm below.

  “What’s the matter, Amy? You look a little pale.”

  “We’re two stories up,” I said nervously.

  “Don’t think of it that way. If I drew a four-foot chalk line on the sidewalk, you could jump it end to end easy. Just imagine you’re on the ground.”

  “Well . . . alright.” I backed up to get a running start.

  “Keep your eyes on the other side,” advised Hubert.

  Mentally I was ready for the challenge, but my shaking body didn’t want to cooperate.

  “I can’t do it!”

  Hubert pointed his index finger in the air, like holding a starting pistol. “It’s the Olympic long jump finals. Clear four feet and the gold medal is ours. Your country is counting on you!”

  You’re not a child, my dad had told me that very night. He proclaimed his faith in my judgment and courage. Now, it was time to prove that I was made of the Right Stuff.

  “On your mark . . . get set . . . bang!”

  I sprinted across the rooftop and jumped, like my legs were made out of bedsprings. Tumbling onto Ravi’s roof, I had made it across—with an extra three feet to spare!

  “Bravo!” cheered Hubert.

  Brushing myself off, I yelled back to him, “Your turn!”

  As Hubert backed up to start his run, he looked down at his feet. “Oh, look what I found!” A wooden scaffolding plank was laying up there the whole time. He placed it across the gap like a bridge and leisurely crossed over to me.

  “I swear I didn’t know it was there,” he said.

  Yeah, right!

  We easily climbed the fire escape down one floor. The only obstacle left was an old-style casement window. I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the glass, finding a kitchen sink just on the other side. Jamming my fingers under the window’s wooden frame, I pulled up on it, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Looks like your plan has hit another snag,” said Hubert. “It’s locked from the inside.”

  Again, Hubert’s phone sounded its annoying ringtone. “Shut that thing off!” I insisted, but Hubert tuned me out while staring at the screen.

  “I am so screwed!” he said. “Lydia was just crowned Queen of the Junior Prom.”

  “Goody!” I said. “Now, help me open this blamed window.”

  Hubert pulled a credit card from his wallet and slid it under the window frame, unlatching the inside lock.

  “Where did you learn that?” I asked.

  “James Bond. He did it in that movie you refused to go see with me.”

  Crawling over a sink full of dirty dishes, we finally made it into the dark apartment. I stopped Hubert just as he was about to switch on the lights. We didn’t need a passing patrol car to report a lit room in an uninhabited building. Fortunately, a flashlight from a kitchen drawer provided all the light we needed.

  I shined it down the darkened staircase, as we slowly tiptoed the creaky steps to the ground floor.

  To make sure the shop was empty, I shined the light in every corner of the room, then pointed it at the mirror.

  “There it is,” I whispered.

  We huddled close together as we crept toward it. The squeaking of Hubert’s dress shoes sliced through the stillness. Then, we both jumped from the sudden blare of a cell phone ringing. Hubert tapped on his phone’s screen, but the noise continued. He tapped it again and again. “Why doesn’t the blasted thing stop?”

  “Here’s why,” I said. “Look!”

  In the beam of my flashlight was Harley Fink’s phone, ringing on the other side of the mirror. Hubert instinctively reached in to shut it off, banging his knuckles on the glass.

  “What the hell is this!” he said.

  “What I’ve been trying to tell you. The phone is locked inside that mirror, and there’s only one way to get it out.” I dug a straight razor out of a drawer.

  Seeing the threatening object, Hubert threw his hands up. “What are you going to do?”

  “Relax. I’m only going to slit my wrist.”

  The phone’s ringing continued.

  “Are you out of your friggin’ mind?” said Hubert.

  “It’s okay. The mirror will take me before anything bad happens. Once I’m in there, and have the phone, you’ll shampoo me back out. Understand?”

  Hubert grabbed the blade. “Let the mirror take me.”

  I seized it back. “It has to be me. I’ve used the Guilt Remover. You haven’t.”

  As we struggled over the shaving razor, the ringing stopped. Inside the mirror, Harley’s phone was resting in the palm of someone’s hand—Alec’s hand!

  “I knew you were in there!” I said excitedly. “Are you alright?”

  “I’d be a lot better if someone got me outta here,” said Alec.

  Perturbed, Hubert said, “You must be Alec, the one whose been causing Amy so much grief.”

  Alec replied pleasantly, “And you must be Hubert, her trusting friend.”

  “Do you realize all the trouble you’ve caused?”

  “Sorry about that. No hard feelings.”

  Alec offered to shake hands, but Hubert hadn’t yet grasped the concept of the one-way reflection. Again, he thumped his fingers against the mirror.

  Seeing Alec safe warmed my heart, but I couldn’t be sure he was so glad to see me. A lot of bitterness was exchanged the last time we were together. But as he chatted with Hubert, he face me, and his forgiving smile seemed to be saying, “Don’t sweat it.”

  While the boys got better acquainted, I went to the cupboard where I last saw the Back Splash. As I reached for the door handle, I looked down into the rinse basin. The bottle was laying at the bottom of the sink. The cap had been removed. I turned the bottle upside down. It was empty!

  Suddenly, the lights came on, and standing by the wall switch was Harley Fink, holding Hubert’s tuxedo jacket. “Does this belong to anyone?”

  “You sneak!” I said. “You’ve been following us.”

  “I’m surprised at you, Amy,” said Harley. “Did you really think you were the only one after that phone? I was out celebrating when I realized it was missing. I knew I had left it in the mirror. I suspected that you knew it, too, and would be coming back for it.”

  “Who is this man?” asked Alec.

  Harley stepped up to the mirror. “We haven’t been properly introduced. Harley Fink’s the name. I’m the one who put your father in jail. Everyone says he’s a terrorist, but don’t believe everything you hear. You see, I’m the one who planted the bomb, forced Ravi to take the fall, then tricked Amy into shampooing me out of the mirror. My performance was flawless. Leaving my phone behind was my only screwup. Now, I’ve returned to the scene of the crime to reclaim it.”

  “Where’s the Back Splash?” I demanded.

  “The sewer. While you were chatting with you
r little friends, I poured it down the sink.”

  “Not a very bright move,” said Hubert. “With no Back Splash, that phone is as much out of your reach as it is ours.”

  Harley stroked his chin in thought. “You know, you’re absolutely right. Best to leave it where it is.” He picked up my receptionist chair and lifted it over his head. “And, to make sure it stays there . . .”

  He took aim at the mirror as Hubert jumped into action. He tried to wrestled the chair away from him, but Harley was stronger. I was about to join the fight, when a voice spoke from the back of the room:

  “Smile, Daddy!”

  The struggle for the chair ended as we all turned toward the sound. It was Debbie Fink, pointing her smartphone at her dad. The phone’s glowing orange light went out as she tapped on the screen. “And . . . saved to the cloud.”

  “What did you just do?” asked Harley.

  “Caught on camera, as they say on TV. I recorded your whole confession, and saved the file where you can’t get at it.”

  With Harley frozen in fear, Hubert easily removed the chair from his grip.

  Debbie tucked her phone into her back pocket. “You should have come to my graduation, Dad.”

  “I wanted to go, sweetpea,” said Harley, with arms open. “Honest!”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard. While I was getting my diploma, you were somewhere at the bottom of Grand Gorge.”

  “What are you going to do with that video?”

  “Nothing. Think of it as my own little insurance policy. It guarantees that you won’t miss any more of my special days.”

  “That’s blackmail!”

  “So it is. Hmm. Must be a genetic thing.” She smiled sweetly and took hold of Harley’s arm. “After you, Daddy. I want to tell you about the new car I’ve had my eye on.”

  Sending Harley up the stairs, Debbie turned to me. “Sorry to put you through all this,” she said. “Hope I can make it up to you someday.”

  “Nothing to feel sorry for,” I said. “You saved the mirror. If only you could have saved the Back Splash, too.”

  “Don’t be so negative. There must be more around here someplace. Besides, where there’s love, there’s hope.” She winked at Alec, then joined her dad up the stairs.

  Hubert gave me a puzzled look. “What did she mean by that?” He then scowled at Alec.

  “Calm yourself, ol’ buddy,” said Alec. “Amy’s heart doesn’t belong to me. Now, if you’re finished with this soap opera, you’ll find more Back Splash in the lab.”

  Alec would soon be back in the real world, along with Harley Fink’s phone. The incriminating evidence we had hoped to find on it was intact. I couldn’t wait to tell Ravi.

  Kicking down the plywood door, we stepped outside. Alec tugged on the yellow crime tape. “Don’t like the idea of sleeping at a crime scene,” he said.

  “Where will you stay tonight, then?” asked Hubert.

  “At my house,” I insisted. “My parents are very liberal-minded about these things.”

  “Thanks,” said Alec, “but that won’t be necessary. The VA has a bed ready for me whenever I need one.” He breathed in the cool night air. “Freedom never tasted sweeter. Thanks, you two. I owe you, big time.”

  The drive to the VA hospital gave us time to talk. With situations explained and apologies accepted, we were all friends again.

  We said our curbside good-byes in front of Alec’s temporary home, and as Hubert and I drove off, his phone signaled another incoming text. “It’s Lydia.”

  GETTING RIDE HOME WITH GARRETT KAMINSKY.

  SOBERING HIM UP. LOL :)

  Chapter 13

  Squirrelly

  Like a swarm of attacking locust, the media descended on our little farming town. Capturing a terrorist in small-town America was big news. TV furnished the fear. Radio supplied the rage. Tabloids provided the blame. If it happened here, it can happen anywhere was the dominant theme.

  Social media was especially brutal. Cell phone video of Ravi in handcuffs went viral. Angry tweets demanded that all Middle Easterners be deported. Radical websites tried and convicted Ravi online, even before any details were released.

  TV satellite trucks grabbed up all the prime downtown parking spots. The fast-spreading fury was bound to escalate into violence, and the producers wanted to capture every minute of it.

  The locals didn’t disapoint them. Demonstrators took up positions outside the barbershop. A mob of angry protesters gathered at one end of the street, shouting, Muslims go home! At the other end were men in long robes and women in hijabs, proclaiming, We are not terrorists!

  What was happening to our humble little community? Our tolerant townsfolk, who had shown such hospitality toward their immigrant neighbors, had turned into vicious animals. But whether you were a hatemonger or a pacifist, everyone turned out to watch the media circus—including me.

  Shankstonville’s own Eyewitness News team was on scene, too. The rooftop antenna on its TV news van was extended in preparation for a live report. And as the technical crew unloaded their mobile studio, out stepped Mr. Lewis, the station’s News Director.

  He mixed in with the crowd, searching for someone willing to comment on the situation. He must have thought that interviewing a teenager would attract a younger audience, because he approached me.

  This was a bad move on his part. I had once begged Mr. Lewis to report on my young niece’s sudden disappearance. He refused, stating that simply being missing wasn’t sensational enough. Unless she had been murdered or assaulted, he wasn’t about to disrupt his precious programming schedule. Now I saw a chance for a little payback. Fortunately for me, his recollection of that meeting had long faded.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “Mr. Lewis, WSVL-TV. Mind If I ask you a few questions?”

  “Not at all,” I replied.

  “What’s your take on the recent terrorist arrest?”

  “Nobody likes a terrorist.”

  “How do you feel about the protests?”

  “Free speech: you gotta love it!”

  “May I interview you on camera?”

  “Absolutely! I’ll give you the most honest answers I can.”

  Mr. Lewis pressed on his earpiece, listening to the director back at the station. Breaking News! whirled onto a small video monitor resting at the cameraman’s feet.

  “Standby!”

  As the camera’s red tally light lit up, this is what the TV viewers saw:

  Mr. Lewis nodded to the camera.

  “I’m here in downtown Shankstonville. As you can see behind me, demonstrators have assembled, outraged that a terrorist has been living in their midst. As fear grips this sleepy midwestern town, its citizens have taken to the streets in protest. Let’s get some local reaction.”

  The camera panned over to me.

  “How does it feel knowing that a terrorist has been living in your own backyard?” asked Lewis.

  “Suspected . . . terrorist,” I said firmly. “Suspected!”

  “Yes, of course. But learning that a bomber has been lurking in the shadows—”

  “Alleged . . . bomber. In this country, a person is ‘alleged’ to have done something until it is proven.”

  I batted my eyelashes at him like a character in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. His embarrassment showed as he turned back to the camera.

  “Clearly, tensions have left these tormented townsfolk in shock. Back to you in the studio.”

  “Clear!”

  I could tell that Mr. Lewis wasn’t pleased with my performance. “Thanks for nothin’, kid!”

  “Always happy to serve the Media,” I said.

  Coiling his microphone cable, he suddenly remembered who I was. “Wait a minute! Don’t I know you?”

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  A sudden burst of gunfire sent people scattering in all directions. Women shrieked in terror. I instinctively dropped to the ground. Lewis instinctively didn’t—grabbing his cameraman and racing toward the disturbanc
e. Everyone was panic-stricken, all except Snipper Jim, standing in front of his shop, casually inhaling on a cigarette.

  As an all-out brawl erupted between the rival protesters, Jim waved me over to him. I darted across the street, hunched over like an infantryman ducking enemy fire.

  “Best hullabaloo this town’s had in years,” said Jim.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” I said. “What are they all so mad about?”

  “Not mad. Scared.”

  I jumped behind Jim as a flying beer bottle shattered on the sidewalk next to us. “They don’t look so scared to me.”

  “They’re not afraid of buttin’ heads, that’s for sure. No, it’s what they don’t understand that really scares ‘em. Strangers move into town lookin’ different—skin different, church different. So, the locals whip up a firestorm to drive ‘em out. I’ve seen it a hundred times before. Crazy thing is, they think it’ll make things better, but it don’t.”

  “Since when did you get so smart?”

  “Don’t know about that. Jus’ know human nature. Can’t succeed in business if you don’t know how people think.”

  “What success? Your salon is always empty.”

  Jim laughed. “Let the damn thing fail. Got a new enterprise that’s a real money-maker. Want to see it?”

  The back room of Jim’s shop was filled with wooden pallets, stacked high with hundreds of shipping cartons. He opened one box and pulled out a shampoo bottle. Its label read, Guilt-Be-Gone!

  The product name was eerily similar to Ravi’s Guilt Remover—too similar to be a coincidence.

  “What’s that used for?” I asked Jim.

  “Like it says on the label: Lather it on, and guilt be gone!”

  “I knew it! You stole Ravi’s secret shampoo!”

  “Take it easy! You should be thankin’ me. With Ravi in the slammer, how’re people gonna know about it?”

  “Don’t give me that. You’ve twisted an important discovery into a cheesy novelty to make a quick buck.”