The Age of Amy

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  "It’s our Back-to-School Sale," said the smiling elevator man.

  Whatever they were selling, going in there was just asking for trouble. Then I noticed Mr. Pierce’s laptop lying open on his desk. Maybe it could show me where I was and how to get home. If there was the slightest chance it was connected to the real world, I had to risk leaving the safety of the elevator.

  I reached past the elevator man, grabbed the door lever, and yanked off its brass handle. "A little insurance," I said. I stuffed it into my back pocket. "We can’t have you running off without me, can we?"

  The moment I stepped out of the elevator, the chattering stopped. Every head in the classroom turned in my direction. Looking back at them was like seeing my reflection in thirty mirrors at once.

  Every eye followed me as I walked slowly over to the teacher’s desk. I hit the power button on the computer and the screen displayed its welcoming graphics. Suddenly, the screen went black. Across the desk from me stood one of the Amys with the computer’s power plug in her hand. "Those things are heartless and meaningless," she said. "Strictly for losers."

  "That may be," I said, "but I’m gonna use this one to find my way out of here."

  Another Amy approached the desk. "You could ask one of those hay-baling hicks for directions," she said, "except they couldn’t find their way out of a pumpkin patch in broad daylight."

  "Careful what you say about them," I responded. "You’re gonna need the ‘hick’ vote if you want to win the election."

  "Our dad could come get you," said a third Amy, "if only you could get his couch-potato ass out of the house."

  "Maybe if you were a little nicer to him . . ."

  I caught myself in mid-sentence. There I was, appalled by the language I was hearing, heedless of the fact that those same words had crossed my own lips.

  The whole class had now surrounded the desk. They glared at me with contempt, as if I had raided a slumber party that I wasn’t invited to.

  Then another Amy slammed the laptop closed. "What the hell kind of Amy are you?" she said, her human nose in my skunk face. "We don’t defend the family boneheads, and we never stand up for those backwoods hillbillies."

  "It’s ‘cause she’s half skunk!" said a voice from the back of the room.

  I backed away from the desk.

  "That’s right," said the in-my-face Amy, "but then, what’s the other half?"

  A barrage of insults followed:

  "Eew! I can smell her from here."

  "Open the windows, quick!"

  "Stand back! She’s raising her tail."

  I ran back to the elevator, reattached the brass handle, and quickly closed the doors.

  "Didn’t see anything you like, miss?" asked the operator.

  "You don’t exactly offer much selection."

  "We buy in bulk and pass the savings on to our customers. Perhaps you’d like a sample to take home with you."

  "No thanks. Got one already. Had it for sixteen years. What’s your return policy here?"

  "Thirty days from time of purchase with a receipt."

  "Too bad. I was thinking of trading myself in for a better model." A nice idea, except who would take a trade-in on a lemon like me? My attitude was shot, my personality needed an overhaul, and I was long overdue for mental tune-up.

  How depressing! I hung my head and shoved my hands into my pants pockets. Then I felt something in my right hand: the Parcheesi game piece from long ago.

  I pulled out the souvenir from my past and rolled it gently between my fingertips. "I’ve got it!" I said. "The good ol’ days!"

  "How’s that?" asked the man.

  "You know, the good times. I want to go back to when I was little. That’s the only time I was truly happy."

  The man pulled a small notepad from his coat pocket and riffled through the pages. "Sorry, miss. We’re out of stock on that item."

  Then he pushed the button to the ground floor. The elevator rocketed downward. My feet nearly lifted off the floor from its rapid descent.

  "What are you doing?" I shouted, over the roar of the pulley motor.

  "Sorry, miss," the man shouted back. "Store’s closing."

  "But I know what I want now."

  "Face the front of the elevator, please."

  The elevator slowed down, then screeched to a halt.

  Ding!

  "Main floor—Reality:

  Meanness, anger, doubt, despair,

  Bungling boneheads everywhere."

  The elevator operator, who had been so obliging up to now, levered the doors open. He looked straight ahead into the empty store. "Everybody out, please."

  "Take me back up!" I insisted.

  "Exit doors are to your right, miss."

  "I want to complain to the manager."

  "All grievances must be filed at the complaint desk."

  Complaint desk indeed! There was no such thing. Even if there was, what would I complain about; that the magical mystery elevator wasn’t also a time machine? Maybe it was just as well. I’d seen too much already.

  I stepped out of the elevator car and faced the young man in the purple uniform. "Sorry I didn’t buy anything," I said. "I’m more into saving than spending. But I’ll tell you this: I’d give my last dime to have people like me again."

  "Respect isn’t something that can be bought," said the man. "It has to be earned." He grabbed the door lever. "‘Investing in humility yields the greatest return.’ Ever heard that one?"

  "No. Who said it?"

  "I just made it up." He tipped his hat and smiled. "Thank you for shopping at Zillman’s." Then the doors banged shut.

  He was right, of course, even though his words of wisdom did little to lift my deflated ego. I felt even more alone now, standing in the stillness of the dreary discount emporium.

  Then I spotted a soft light peeking out of the darkness by the front entrance. The florescent tubes under the makeup counter were on. Moths fluttered above the pale-blue light. To my surprise, seated on the makeover stool was Lydia!

  I marched over to her and said, sharply, "Next time I say ‘follow me,’ do it!"

  Lydia, who wasn’t listening to a word I was saying, held up a small item in her hand. "Look," she said excitedly. "Marilyn Monroe’s favorite mascara."

  But her enthusiasm ended abruptly as we heard the squeaking of the revolving door. The silhouette of a menacing-looking figure with a pointy hat stood just inside the store. The light of the display case hadn’t only attracted moths, it was a Bat Signal for Sergeant Sheep.

  Chapter 9

  All Rise

  We ran toward the light at the end of the dark alley. Behind us, the sheep stood under the floodlight above Zillman’s back door. "Get your little tails back here!" he shouted, apparently unaware that our animal add-ons hadn’t come with tails—not even little ones.

  We stopped at the end of the alley to consider our next move. Across the street, statues of the city fathers stood proudly in the middle of a town square. The brightly lit plaza was bordered by municipal buildings: a city hall, a library, and a courthouse. Sidewalks meandered through a once green public park, now dry and lifeless. There was a crumbling bandstand, a cracked water fountain, and a broken-down carousel that no sane mother would let her children ride.

  We hoofed it over to the park and hid behind the bandstand. At one time, the locals probably flocked there on summer nights to boogie to their favorite dance bands. Now, the sagging stage creaked and moaned as if the trombone section was still up there practicing.

  "I think we should hide out until morning," said Lydia.

  "Okay," I said, "but not here. This place creeps me out."

  "You know someplace better?"

  The war memorial cannons guarding City Hall offered too little cover, and the condemned library building was too unsafe. A long flight of concrete steps led up to the courthouse, where marble columns supported a dark entryway. The top step was high enough above street level that the light in the square
didn’t reach it.

  "That courthouse is perfect," I said. "We can hide behind those columns and still keep tabs on the goings-on down here."

  "Well, c’mon, girl!" said Lydia.

  We wasted no time reaching the courthouse entrance. I stood with my back to one of the columns. Lydia did the same behind the next one over.

  Not a sound came from the square below, not even a cricket chirp. After a minute or so, Lydia peeked around her protective pillar. "No sign of the sheep," she whispered. "I think we lost him."

  If only it was that easy. How many times before had we evaded the sheep, only to have him crop up again later?

  I leaned out to look for myself, when—

  Click!

  One of the streetlights went out, then—

  Click!

  Another one went out. One by one, the lights were rapidly being switched off. In a matter of seconds, the entire square was in darkness—total darkness—and so were we!

  There was no moon out, and it felt like I was standing in a black fog. I kept waiting for my eyes to adjust to what little light there may have been, but they never did. I wrapped my arms around the cold, marble column in front of me. All of a sudden, I couldn’t feel it anymore, as if it had popped into another dimension! My arms flailed wildly for something to hold on to. I felt like a blindfolded birthday girl swinging for a piñata.

  "Lydia!" I cried. "Where are you?"

  "Over here!" she replied.

  I turned toward the sound of her voice, when out of nowhere, a brilliant spotlight beamed down on her from overhead. The shaft of light lit her up like a prison escapee—and to make certain she didn’t get away, she was locked in a jail cell! She rattled the bars of the metal door, but they wouldn’t budge.

  A second spotlight beamed down next to her. In the pool of light stood a ten-foot-tall judge’s bench. Then a third light illuminated an empty jury box. Somehow, we had been transported into a kind of nightmarish courtroom with no walls or ceiling, just a black void beyond the glare of the lights.

  From the emptiness, a deep voice commanded, "All rise! Court is now in session. The honorable Judge Sheep presiding."

  A wood-paneled door descended from above and came to rest beside the judge’s bench. The door opened and out stepped Sergeant Sheep, this time wearing a long, black robe and a curly, white wig. He held a stack of documents in his arms.

  A judge! Yet another roll to show off his acting chops—and once again, I was forced to be his audience. At lease I wasn’t a captive audience like Lydia.

  The judge stepped behind the tall desk, reappearing an instant later at the top. He put on a pair of reading glasses, looked over his papers, then banged a large wooden gavel on the desk.

  Clomp!

  "The People vs Lydia Hobbs."

  Lydia shook the bars of her jail cell. "Amy! Get me out of here!"

  Clomp!

  "Outbursts of any kind will not be tolerated!" yelled the judge. Then he lower his glasses, leaned over the side of the bench, and looked down at Lydia.

  "Miss Hobbs," said the judge, "you have been brought before this court for allegations of misconduct. You are accused of:

  Lying, spying, scamming, cheating,

  Accusing, abusing, shamming, mistreating.

  You’re lewd, rude, malicious, obscene,

  Hateful, ungrateful, vicious, and mean.

  A snake, a fake, a fool, and a phony,

  A sneak, a freak, and full of baloney.

  Dishonest, immodest, ambitious, disgusting,

  Depriving, conniving, suspicious, mistrusting.

  Pandering, slandering, naughty, unholy,

  Thieving, deceiving, snotty, and lowly.

  Disgraceful, distasteful, a coward indeed,

  You’ve heard the charges, how do you plead?"

  "What is this?" cried Lydia.

  "You must enter a plea," demanded the judge.

  Lydia slammed her fist against the cell bars. "I will not!"

  "Very well," sighed the judge. "Let the record show the accused has declined to enter a plea. The court, therefore, enters a plea on her behalf of guilty!"

  I stood there watching this mockery of justice without saying a word. I had great respect for the rule of law and no patience for unfairness. The sheep had conveniently skipped over the part about being "presumed innocent."

  Some judge! I would have demanded he step down if I wasn’t so determined not to get involved. Then I looked over at Lydia, helpless as a wounded canary in a birdcage. Despite my desire to stay out of the proceedings, I couldn’t stand by and watch her suffer any longer.

  I marched up to the judge’s bench. "What kind of a court do you call this?" I said. "You can’t have a trial here." I pointed to the empty jury box. "Where’s the jury?"

  My answer came with the sound of a hydraulic lift. An enormous video screen slowly rose up out of the jury box. It was even bigger than our living room TV back home. When the rising screen was in clear view, it stopped, with a mighty whoosh of compressed air.

  "Meet the Darrow 9000," said the judge. "It’s a super-duper supercomputer, programmed to uncover the truth. It knows all, sees all, never lies, and never makes a mistake."

  He pointed a remote control at the screen and pressed a key. The computer display turned blue as thousands of lines of code rapidly scrolled down it. "Takes a minute to boot up," said the judge apologetically.

  The computer chimed a happy little tune as a title popped up on its screen:

  The Darrow 9000

  Speedier Convictions Through Technology

  "Ready to proceed, thank you," said Darrow, in a mellow, computer-simulated voice.

  "I will now question the accused," said the judge.

  "Just a minute," I said. "What about a defense? Isn’t someone going to defend this poor girl?"

  The judge leaned forward. "Do you wish to act as counsel for the defendant?" he asked me.

  I knew nothing about being a trial lawyer outside of what I picked up watching reruns of Perry Mason. What little I knew about the law came from reading John Grisham novels. Still, I felt someone should speak in Lydia’s defense, even if the accusations against her were . . . well . . . indefensible.

  "I do, your honor," I said.

  The judge faced Lydia. "State your name, please," he said.

  "Lydia Hobbs."

  Darrow made a pinging sound. The word "TRUE" popped onto its screen.

  "True," said Darrow warmly.

  "How old are you?" the judge continued.

  "Eighteen."

  A loud buzzer suddenly blared out. Police sirens wailed and a dozen revolving red lights lit up the courtroom. Darrow’s computer screen flashed "LIAR, LIAR, LIAR," over and over.

  After a few seconds, the light and sound show stopped.

  "You okay, Lydia?" I asked.

  Clomp!

  "Counsel will refrain from addressing the defendant during questioning," said the judge.

  "You okay, Lydia?" asked Darrow.

  The judge waved his gavel at the computer. "And that goes for you, too!" he yelled.

  The judge turned back to Lydia. "Now, let’s try this again. How old are you?"

  Lydia hesitated. "Sixteen."

  Darrow pinged. "True."

  "Isn’t it true you reside in a rather large estate in Shankstonville?" the judge asked.

  "Pretty much," replied Lydia.

  "And who else lives there with you?"

  "My mother and father."

  A large "QUESTION MARK" popped on Darrow’s screen.

  The judge gloated at Lydia. "You care to be more specific?"

  Lydia eyed Darrow and gulped. "My mother and . . . step-father."

  Ping. "True."

  "And where is your real father?"

  Lydia lowered her head and muttered softly, "In prison."

  "Louder, please!"

  Lydia’s face tensed and she shook like a pressure cooker about to explode. "In prison!" she screamed. "A thousand mil
es away in a prison cell. Did you hear me that time?"

  So, that was Lydia’s big secret. She was a convict’s daughter. No wonder she wanted Hubert to keep silent about it. It’s not the kind of thing you want broadcast when running for office.

  Darrow displayed a police mugshot of Lydia’s biological father. He was well-groomed, clean-shaven, blue-eyed and handsome; not the criminal type at all. Mugshots usually show suspects as vicious and mean. This guy seemed sensitive and intelligent. I found it hard to believe he could have raised a nutjob like Lydia.

  Things just weren’t adding up and I wanted to know why. "I object!" I blurted out.

  "On what grounds?" asked the judge.

  I tried to imagine how Perry Mason would have handled this. "You’re badgering the witness," I said.

  "Overruled!" said the judge. "I see no badger in this courtroom, only a snake in a cage and a skunk who is ignorant of the law."

  "Whose law? Your law?"

  "The law of common decency." The judge lifted his stack of papers into the air. "These documents list the wicked deeds perpetrated by the accused. I offer them as evidence of her guilt."

  As the judge read the list aloud, Darrow supplied images supporting each allegation. The list was long indeed: betraying her closest friends, stealing from her parents, blackmailing teachers by threatening to spread lies about them.

  Darrow displayed photos, letters, e-mails, even video of Lydia pushing Hubert down the school stairwell. Don’t ask me how, but that machine seemed to have a visual record of everything.

  The judge interrupted himself. "Need I go on?" he asked.

  "We get the picture, your honor," I said.

  "You may cross-examine the defendant."

  With the judge’s airtight case, there was little I could do to refute the charges. There was one tactic, however, I was willing to try, even though there was a good chance it could backfire.

  "No questions, your honor," I said.