The Age of Amy

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  Motown Mondays,

  Teen pop Tuesdays,

  Woodstock Wednesdays,

  Thrash metal Thursdays, and

  Funk rock Fridays."

  "You suck!" shouted a lone voice from the back of the gym.

  "So remember," I concluded, "a vote for Amy Dawson is a vote for a brighter tomorrow. Thank you."

  I returned to my seat to a smattering of applause.

  Lydia didn’t wait for her introduction. She strode up to the podium like it was at the center of a boxing ring.

  "You all know me," she said, in a commanding voice. "You know I can get things done. We, the student body, have demands that our lame-ass school board refuses to recognize, like:

  texting in the classroom . . ."

  That got the audience’s attention.

  "more restrooms, especially for girls . . ."

  They were now sitting upright.

  "and the distribution of free condoms."

  A roar of jubilation filled the gym.

  "So, would you rather have a bonehead as your president," she said, flashing me an evil grin, "or someone who will fight for the changes you want?"

  The students were now on their feet, chanting, "Ly-di-a! Ly-di-a! Ly-di-a!"

  I stood up, folded my notes, and quietly walked off the stage.

  I walked home alone that day, past the split rail fences, past the open fields, past the cud-chewing cattle. My cell phone didn’t ring once the entire time, as if I was the only human on the planet.

  I felt abandoned. Worse, I felt ashamed. The next morning I would be off to Bonehead Bootcamp, a place that was causing me grief before I had even passed through its gates. The whole thing was just a huge misunderstanding, and I was determined to prove it. I had to, if I was ever to show my face at school again.

  As I rounded the final turn for home, I heard the sound of a bell clanging. My little sheep friend was right where it had been the day before, and true to form, its eyes tracked my every move. I didn’t want to give it the satisfaction of upsetting me again. I turned away and completely ignored it as I crossed the road.

  The sheep’s bell suddenly began rattling violently. Startled, I dropped my schoolbooks and turned around to see what was happening. The sheep was gone! The bell lay silent in the grass where the sheep had been standing only seconds before.

  Okay, I told myself, now you’ve really lost it.

  Chapter 3

  Day One

  The silver and blue bus screeched to a halt. It was early morning, and the day was already starting out to be a scorcher. Too bad the bus’s air conditioning failed the moment it left Shankstonville. The windows could only be lowered a few inches, so most of the passengers had to settle for fanning themselves with magazines to keep cool. Anyone fortunate enough to have gotten a window seat savored the limited airflow. I was one of the lucky ones.

  Taking the bus to Bonehead Bootcamp was my own idea. Accepting my dad’s offer to drive me was out of the question; I was not about to surrender any ground to the enemy. I even walked to the bus station by myself. As my suitcase wheels click-clacked over the sidewalk, I hatched a plan to hop off the bus before reaching my destination in spite of my dad’s warning: any shenanigans, and he would lock me out of the house with deadbolts. What a guy!

  I wiped the sweat from my brow and looked out the bus window. There were no highway signs or billboards to indicate our location. The bus had passed the Shankstonville city limits an hour earlier, and I had no idea where I was.

  The driver motioned me up to the front. Grabbing my suitcase from the overhead bin, I moved forward, past the scowls of the other passengers anxious to get moving again.

  I stopping at the front and stared out through the bug-splattered windshield. The landscape was barren and lifeless. Tumble weeds rolled across the deserted highway. A column of dust swirled into the air like a Kansas twister in miniature.

  The bus stop was marked by a bent-over metal pole, its sign having blown off in the wind. "You sure this is my stop?" I asked the elderly driver.

  "Yup," he said. "This here’s the place."

  "You absolutely sure?"

  "Young lady, I’ve been drivin’ this route near fifteen years now. Don’t stop here often, but I know my stops, and this here’s yours."

  "But where are all the trees? Where are the flowers and the green hills?"

  "Ain’t gonna find none of that ‘round here, missy. Used to be farm over yonder, but the bank foreclosed it twenty years ago. Ain’t a seed been planted there since." He pulled on a lever that opened the squeaky door. "Funny thing, though."

  "What’s funny?" I asked nervously.

  "Don’t never pick no one up here. Just drop ‘em off." With that illuminating bit of information, I stepped off the bus.

  Black exhaust fumes swirled into the air as the bus continued on its way. It left behind a cloud of dust, making it hard to see my surroundings. I waved my hand in front of my face. As the dust settled, I spotted something across the road. A wrought iron gate came into view—the same one I had seen in the boot camp brochure.

  The wind sent a thin layer of dirt skimming across the black asphalt. I checked the road in both directions, then clutched the handle of my suitcase tightly and headed over to the other side.

  I followed the deep tire tracks that led to the gate. Bonehead Bootcamp was spelled out in large letters across the top. Below that was a crudely painted sign that read "Trespassers will be deployed!"

  Chain link fencing, topped with coiled razor wire, stretched for miles on either side of the gate. Burlap sandbags were stacked at the base of a decaying guard tower that looked ready to collapse at the slightest touch. Its ladder had completely rotted away making the guard shack impossible to reach—a bonus for the vultures nesting on the roof.

  I looked through the gate’s metal bars. In the distance, I saw what was left of the old farm: a dilapidated farmhouse, a crumbling red barn, rusted farm equipment.

  A few feet in front of me, a lizard was lying on its belly, basking under the hot sun on a rock. He looked right at home. My home seemed light-years away. I longed for the comfort of my room, the coziness of my bed, the softness of my plush animals. I let go of my suitcase to dab the tear forming in the corner of my eye.

  Suddenly, the lizard scurried off. I heard a loud, metallic clunk and jumped back. The massive gate began opening inward, its rusty hinges wailing like a hungry Tyrannosaurus Rex.

  Another loud clunk and the gate stopped. Beyond it lay miles of desolation. Though I had no idea what awaited me inside, there was nowhere else to go but forward.

  I had just grabbed my suitcase handle when the front door to the farmhouse swung open. Out stepped a stout-looking man in a military uniform. He marched toward me like a soldier in a Labor Day parade. It was hard to make out his face at that distance. Though I couldn’t be sure of his intentions, I was pretty certain he wasn’t coming to welcome me to a barn dance!

  My heart pounded. I looked down the empty road behind me, hoping a passing car would offer me a ride back to town. I would have gladly hopped a cattle truck if it meant getting away from that place.

  Convinced that no one was coming to my rescue, I turned back around, only to come face-to-face with the man-in-uniform. He was a big brute: large chest, broad shoulders, solid forearms. His fists were firmly planted on his hips. Military stripes were sewn to the sleeves of his spotless uniform.

  He was everything you would expect to see in a disciplined officer—everything except his head. His face was covered in soft, white wool. He had a long, protruding nose and droopy ears that stuck out under his pointy, green hat. Apparently, not all of the livestock had been removed from the farm, for while the man standing before me was unquestionably human, he had the head of a sheep!

  I thought half-man/half-animal creatures only existed in Greek legend. True, he looked nothing like the Minotaur I learned about in school, but he did share one thing in common with that mythical beast: he had the f
ire of a raging bull in his eyes!

  The sheep leaned toward me, his eyes in shadow beneath the brim of his hat. "All mobile devices will be confiscated!" he insisted. The cell phone in my pocket was my only connection to the outside world. I was reluctant to part with it, even though finding a wireless signal this far from nowhere was pretty remote.

  The sheep’s squinty eyes shifted to my pocket. Then, quick as an ear twitch, he reached in, retrieved the phone, and tossed it into a shoebox he had tucked under one arm. The box was full of other electronic gizmos.

  "Anything more to declare?" asked the sheep. I stood rigid as an ice cube and shook my head.

  "You will follow me," he commanded.

  The sheep performed an about-face and headed back toward the farmhouse. I followed the footprints of his combat boots as the iron gate slammed shut behind us. All I heard then was the squeaking of my suitcase wheels and the drone of the lonesome wind.

  We walked past the farmhouse and followed a picket fence to a rickety gate that was falling off its hinges. On the other side stood an old chicken coop. It was a long, white building with moldy green shingles on the roof. The dirt around it was sprinkled with chips of flaking paint.

  A row of doors ran across the front like a city housing project. "These are your quarters," said my unsmiling host, pointing to one of the doors. "Stow your gear and be ready for inspection at oh-nine-hundred hours. You will report there." He pointed to a spot a short distance away. Painted, white rocks encircled an area the size of a backyard swimming pool. A flag pole stood at the center of it.

  Then the man-sheep spun around and marched back to the farmhouse. I took a deep breath and climbed the wobbly steps to my new digs.

  My first look inside confirmed my hunch. Not only were chicken feathers scattered all around, it smelled of the building’s former inhabitants. I pulled the string on a hanging light fixture. The wire mesh around the light bulb cast weblike shadows on the walls. The only furnishings were a sagging cot, a termite-ravaged dresser, and a small desk. I slid open the desk drawer; no writing paper, no Gideon Bible, no reminders of the world outside the camp.

  The phone booth-sized bathroom was even less inviting and smelled even worse. I looked for something to deodorize the room with. I opened the medicine cabinet over the sink. Empty!

  I started to slam shut the cabinet door to get my frustrations out. Then I stopped myself. There was no point in getting angry. I was a prisoner of Bonehead Bootcamp and nothing was going to change that. I should just do as I was told and get the damn thing over with.

  I was feeling more confident now. If others girls had survived that miserable place, then so could I. Then I noticed some handwriting on the back of the cabinet door. A message had been written in pink lipstick. It read, simply, "Beware the sheep!"

  Oh-nine-hundred.

  I arrived at the inspection site just as the sheep had ordered. Leaning against the flag pole were two boys about my age. They stood silently with their backs to each other. One was tall and thin. He tapped away on a small calculator he held inches away from his face. The other was heavier and shorter—shorter than me, even. He stared off into space while blowing smoke rings from a cigarette. Neither of the boys seemed the least bit interested in me.

  I stepped in front of the lanky one with the calculator. "Nice day," I said.

  He lowered his sunglasses and glared down at me. "If you’re in Hell," he replied.

  "Where’d you get that?" I said, pointing to his calculator. "I thought we had to give up all our electronic gadgets."

  "Only the wireless ones, sweetheart," said the boy, returning to his handheld device.

  I didn’t like the way he spoke to me. I was just trying to be friendly, and he brushed me off like a bad case of dandruff. Then I understood why he was so rude. As his finger raced across the keypad, sunlight reflected off his diamond-studded Rolex. Tiny points of light danced over his perfectly-manicured facial scruff and bounced off the American flag pin on his polo shirt collar. He was obviously the son of privilege, and under no moral obligation to be nice to anyone.

  The boy turned off his calculator and stuffed it into the pocket of his pleated pants. "I’m Devin," he said, removing his designer shades. "And what in heaven’s name brings you to this god-awful place?"

  "My god-awful parents," I said. I reached out to shake his hand. "My name’s Amy."

  At that moment, the short boy cut in between us and looked angrily into my eyes. "Parents are screwups!" he yelled, his cigarette dangling from his lips. "They screw up their kids, they screw up the country, they screw up the whole screwed up world!"

  The boy would have seemed more threatening if not for his size. He had to stand tippy toed to reach eye level with me. His shaved head and bleached goatee impressed me even less. Still, I had to admire his creativity in trying to look tough, even though the pirate tattoos down both arms were way over the top.

  The smoke from his cigarette was making my eyes water. I plucked it out of his mouth. "Don’t you know those things will kill you?" I said.

  "So will fast food," he replied, "but the FDA lets them serve it anyway."

  "The Surgeon General says smoking’s worse."

  "The Surgeon General’s a spineless liberal."

  "Congress should outlaw smoking."

  "Tobacco lobby won’t let ‘em."

  "Opinionated, aren’t you?"

  "Free Speech: it’s the only freedom we got left in this country."

  I shoved the cigarette back between his lips. There are some people in this world against whom you will never win an argument. This guy was one of them.

  "And who might you be?" I asked him.

  He lowered himself onto the heels of his motorcycle boots. "Name’s Jake."

  Devin stepped forward. "Pay no attention to this fugitive from The Doobie Brothers," he told me. "He’s a hotheaded, un-American swine."

  "Call me a swine if you want to," said Jake. "That’s your constitutional right. At least I’m not a greedy hog like you!"

  After a brief staring contest, the two boys resumed their back-to-back stance.

  Then Devin grabbed my wrist and took me aside. We walked a short distance, and with Jake safely out of earshot, Devin dug deep into his pocket and pulled out a sizable wad of money. "I don’t usually ask for favors," he whispered, extending his cash-filled fist, "but I don’t suppose you know a way out of this hellhole?"

  Jake’s head popped up over Devin’s shoulder. "Ya see?" said Jake. "He’s one of them capitalist worms who thinks he can buy his way out of anything."

  Boneheads! I was in the company of infantile, pea-brained numbskulls. I refused to believe that I was in the same league as them. On the other hand, if that was how people saw me, then I was definitely where I belonged.

  We all walked back to the flagpole.

  "So, Amy," said Devin, "what devilish deed has brought you to this teenage wasteland?"

  "Self-expression," I said.

  "What’d I tell ya, man," said Jake. "Speakin’ your mind these days only gets you into the clink."

  "Not just that," I said, "now my family hates me and I’m the laughing stock at school. I would’ve made such a good student body president, too."

  Jake’s face lit up. "Runnin’ for office?" he asked.

  "Was," I said. "The polls have me losing by a landslide."

  "Polls can be wrong, ya know," said Devin.

  "The scumbag’s right," said Jake. "Get back in there and fight for your rights. Give the other guy a good smearing and get yourself elected."

  "That’s dirty politics," I said, "and I’m not going to lower myself to the level of my opponent. She slings more mud than a monkey in a pigsty."

  "You listen to me," said Jake. "Dig up some dirt. Spread some ugly rumors. That’s how you win elections."

  "I should say it is not," demanded Devin. "You’ve got to outspend the opposition. One well-financed media blitz and those sheep will be eating out of your hand."

&n
bsp; "Phony sex scandals," said Jake. "It’s the only way."

  "Market saturation," said Devin. "Works every time."

  The boys were really getting on my nerves, and I was about to tell them so, when a brilliant light suddenly flashed across my face. I shaded my eyes as I turned toward it. I could see someone standing alongside the light source. The boys stopped their bickering at the sight of the new arrival.

  Then the bright light went out. As my eyes readjusted to the daylight, I got a good look at the culprit: it was Lydia! She had been bouncing the sunlight off her ever-present makeup mirror.

  Lydia swaggered over to Devin and Jake, like she was strutting down a fashion show runway. "I like your campaign strategies, boys," she said, "but you’re forgetting one thing." Then she ambled over to me and pointed her finger in my face. "People don’t vote for boneheads—especially this one!"

  Devin leaned down to Jake and whispered in his ear, "It’s the monkey."

  "There must be some mistake," I told Lydia. "How can you win the election if you’re here? That leaves no one at school to rig the voting."

  "You’re such a butthead!" said Lydia. "I only entered the race to teach you a lesson. Losing doesn’t bother me in the least, so long as your sorry ass goes down with me."

  "Lydia," I said, "you’re gonna fit in with this place perfectly. Why are you here, anyway?"

  "For something I totally didn’t do."

  There was no point in asking Lydia to explain herself. I had learned not to believe most of anything she had to say:

  She said she had traveled Europe.

  She hadn’t.

  She said she was a straight-A student.

  She wasn’t.

  She said she knew Johnny Depp.

  She didn’t.

  But Lydia’s lack of scruples was far from the minds of Devin and Jake. Knowing a smokin’-hot babe when they saw one, they rushed over to introduce themselves to her. But the formalities ended abruptly as a loud voice suddenly roared out from the heavens.

  "ATTEN-TION!"