"You’re leaving the day after tomorrow," my dad said. He started for the door, then paused to look back at me. "It’s for your own good."
My own good? There was no way I was going to buy into that tired, old line. I folded my arms and turned my back to my father. He was no Atticus Finch!
After he left the room, I sat down on my bed to examine the brochure. The camp was named Bonehead Bootcamp. A picture of a large iron gate swung open as I unfolded the glossy paper. Inside were color photos of a flowering landscape with majestic oaks and green, rolling hills. It didn’t seem to gel with what I had heard about those places. They usually bragged about how effectively they reformed troubled teens through a program of discipline and physical activity. This looked more like a picnic ground than a camp for teenage misfits. The back page showed teenagers smiling broadly, like they had just returned from a Caribbean cruise.
It all seemed too phony to me. I didn’t know what to believe. I was only sure of one thing: I did not want to go there. But what could I do? Nothing, except hope that my parents would come to their senses and change their minds; to realize they were the boneheaded ones.
I could almost hear the slamming of the gate as I closed the brochure. A chill numbed my whole body. I got up to close the window. Then I heard a clanging noise outside. The sheep across the road had all left—except one with a small bell hanging around its neck. Its head was resting on the fence while its jaw rotated around a blade of grass. It was no different from the thousands of other sheep I saw around Shankstonville, and I wouldn’t have given it a second glance—if it hadn’t been staring at me.
At me! Plenty of other objects were around to focus its attention on. A truck drove by within inches of the fence. The sheep didn’t even flinch.
Maybe it was the stress of the day, or just the stale air breezing through my open window, but something weird was happening to me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the little sheep with the bell was trying to tell me something—perhaps a warning: that once the fences go up, you’re no better than an animal!
Chapter 2
The Rumor Spreads
The halls of Shankstonville High School were jammed with students, plodding along like cattle in a stockyard. Like most mornings, they shoved backpacks into lockers, checked local football scores, and gabbed around the water fountains before being corralled into class. Normally, the school kids went out of their way to avoid me. But on this particular morning, all eyes were aimed in my direction. When I returned their stares, they quickly turned away. They must have thought I was hung over, or something. My lack of sleep from my face-off with Dad the night before probably left me looking a little dopey.
My tiredness made that awful hillbilly music playing over the P.A. system more irritating than usual. Thankfully, it was interrupted for an announcement by our school principal. An assembly was scheduled that afternoon in the school gymnasium and he was encouraging everyone to attend. The school would soon be electing a new student body president, and the two competing candidates would be making their final appeal for votes. That was an event I definitely did not want to miss—especially since I was one of the candidates!
I elbowed my way over to my locker and rested my head against it. The cold steel felt good on my forehead. My eyelids were getting too heavy to keep my eyes open any longer. Just then, I was rudely awakened by my vibrating cell phone.
A text message had arrived from my best friend, Emily. It read "Are the rumors true?" The phone vibrated again . . . then again . . . then continuously. Word of my banishment to Bonehead Bootcamp had already leaked out. But who would stoop to exposing something so personal, that was no one else’s business? Then I read the next message. It began "Your sister says . . ."
My sister! She must have had her ear to the wall while Dad lectured me, then stayed up half the night spreading the details.
And why not? She had all the latest apps for dragging my name through the mud:
E-mail,
Squeal-mail.
Face-blab,
Wiki-gab.
Tattle-tube,
Tweet-a-dude.
iSnitch,
uTwitch,
and who knows what else at her fingertips? (Yet another fine example of better living through technology!)
It was only a matter of time before everyone in school knew my situation. I wasn’t so worried about the gossip that was sure to haunt me the rest of the day. If people got their jollies by talking behind my back, let ‘em! I was more afraid that my chances of being elected were turning from "hope springs eternal" to "don’t make me laugh."
"Over here, Amy!" It was Emily, calling out to me over the hick music that was playing again.
My friendship with Emily began when she made plans to attend City College after graduation. She wanted to learn all she could about urban life, and I was happy to enlighten her with my tales as a city dweller. When I announced my run for the student presidency, Emily was the first—and only—volunteer to support my campaign. I think she might have run for the office herself if she only had more self-confidence. In every class I shared with her, she sat way in the back of the room and never raised her hand during discussions.
I plowed through the field of students over to Emily. "What’s up?" I asked. She reached deep into her tote bag full of campaign buttons. After blindly searching the bag, like someone combing the bottom of a murky fish pond, she pulled out her cell phone. Then she flipped it open and handed it to me.
I began to read the texts she had been receiving all morning about me. My bloodthirsty sister had started a chain reaction of gossip that got more distorted with each new message. Some claimed I had been thrown out of the house by my parents. Others were proof positive I had been committed to a mental institution.
Emily stared blankly at me, about to burst into tears at any moment. I handed the phone back to her and wrapped my fingers around her hand. "I know what you’re thinking," I said, "but it’s not as bad as you think."
Emily’s lower lip quivered against her wiry, chrome braces. "Oh, no?" she said. "Look!" She pointed to a large, paper banner that she had fastened to the wall. It had read "Vote for Amy!" Now, with the aid of some black spray paint, it read "Don’t Vote for a Bonehead!"
Emily faced the floor and shook her head. "Why would anyone do something so cruel?"
I placed my hand on her shoulder. "Politics as usual," I said.
From my front row desk, I deleted my texts while waiting for my first-period English class to start. The girl seated two rows over was closely watching me. I shifted my eyes in her direction without turning my head. The girl’s eyes were peeking over the top of that morning’s student newspaper. She aimed the front page at me like it was a machine gun. It displayed the latest poll results of who the student body favored in the upcoming election. A colorful pie chart showed my share of voter support at a dismal 10%!
The girl gave me a snooty grin, then turned her attention to the mirror in her makeup compact. She skillfully applied eyeshadow above her baby blue eyes; blush to her cherub cheeks; lip gloss to her delicate mouth. Then she brushed her long, auburn hair that framed her radiant face. She was the undisputed, prettiest girl in school. If only she had an inner beauty to match; a yellow sticker on her back pack read "Amy Stinks!" Her name was Lydia Hobbs, and she was my fierce opponent in the race for student body president.
I didn’t fault Lydia for being such a snob. I really blamed her parents, even though I had never met them. In fact, no one in town had ever seen them in public. Some said her father was a United States Ambassador, and her mother had once been a Hollywood studio executive. How many other secrets lay behind the walls of their multimillion-dollar compound, I couldn’t say. I only knew that the ongoing mystery guaranteed Lydia’s popularity at school.
Directly behind Lydia sat her boyfriend—and Shankstonville High’s premier jock—Andy. All the google-eyed farm girls thought he was a total hunk. To me, he was just a big ape in overalls. To the sc
hool football team, however, he was an absolute savior. His winning, on-the-field performance kept the school trophy case well-stocked. The local school board conveniently overlooked his pitiful grade point average to keep him on the team. After all, who cares about learning when you’ve got the Rock of Gibraltar for a linebacker?
Andy had his eyes on me, too, and begged for my attention by loudly pencil-drumming on his desk. When I finally looked over, he leaned in toward Lydia. "Ah guess da ‘lection’s in da bag now, ain’t it, darlin’?" he whispered, just loudly enough for me to hear him.
What a moron! Andy knew I would be speaking at the assembly and was trying to rattle me. I acted like his lame attempt to scare me was having no effect—but it was. Tolerating a dufus like Andy was one thing, but I would sooner bury my head in a cow pasture than face a gymnasium full of them.
The class settled down as a short, round gentleman came through the door. He was our English teacher, Mr. Pierce, with a laptop computer crammed under one arm. "Goooood morning, class," he said, in a lilting voice. He plopped the computer down on his desk, straightened his plaid bow tie, and raised a textbook up over his head. "Please turn to chapter four of your Classic Greek Mythology book."
With a piece of chalk from his desk drawer, Mr. Pierce reached high up on the blackboard and wrote "Theseus and The Minotaur" in big letters. "Anybody familiar with this one?" he asked the class.
"It’s an awesome video game," spouted one of the students.
"I’m sure it is," said the unimpressed teacher. "No, I’m talking about the mythological Minotaur—the flesh-eating beast—and Theseus, the boy who slays it."
The textbook illustration showed how the Minotaur looked: basically, a pumped-up man in a loincloth with the head of a ferocious bull.
"Here’s the gist," said Mr. Pierce. "To prevent a war with the Isle of Crete, the king of Athens agrees to send seven children over to the island, where they will become a tasty lunch for the half-bull Minotaur. Theseus, the king’s son, wants a shot at slaying the beast and asks if he can tag along. Dad says okay. So, Theseus ships out, unaware that it’s not going to be quite so easy. You see, the Minotaur lives at the center of a giant maze that’s so big, once you go in, you can never find your way back out.
"Anyone know what happens next?"
"Ask Andy," answered Lydia. "He’s half-bull."
"True," I added. "But there’s some question about the other half."
Mild chuckles rose from the class. I looked over at Andy and wrinkled my nose. He was not amused.
The teacher continued. "Well, it turns out that Theseus is a pretty clever dude. He figures out a way to slay the beast and get out of the maze all before lunchtime. In the end, Theseus kills the Minotaur, saves the children, and they all live happily ever after—except the Minotaur, of course.
"Any questions?"
I raised my hand. "I don’t get the point of the maze," I said. "Why not just keep the thing in a cage?"
"It’s symbolic," said Mr. Pierce. "The maze represents the obstacles we all face in life."
"Then what does the Minotaur represent?"
"The savagery of man. Please note, however, that it’s man’s ingenuity, not his barbarism, that ultimately saves the day."
"Really? Then explain this: by killing the Minotaur, didn’t Theseus kind of mess up the deal? I mean, so Crete and Athens had a bloody war after that, right?"
Mr. Pierce stared at me a few seconds then turned to the class. "Anyone else have a question?"
The lunch bell rang, and I was once again the target of student gossip. As I entered the cafeteria, whispers began flying at me from all directions. Walking through the lunch line was like running the gauntlet at the National Enquirer.
Though I tried not to draw attention to myself, a plate accidentally fell from my tray and crashed on the floor. I could feel the stares at my back as I picked up the pieces. I desperately needed to find a friendly face. A comforting word from anyone would do wonders for my self-esteem.
Then I spotted my good friend, Hubert. He and I were an odd pair: he, the brainiac nerd and I, the rebellious outsider. We had both come to Shankstonville from similar backgrounds and shared the same distaste for the local culture. And although we connected immediately, our friendship remained on an intellectual level, free from any romantic complications.
Hubert was just what I needed to lift my spirits. I crossed the cafeteria to his usual table and found him with his nose buried in a book on String Theory. I plopped my food tray on the table, just missing his peanut butter sandwich, and sat down next to him. "How goes it?" I said.
For some reason, Hubert pretended to ignore me. I leaned in close to the side of his face. "Hey! It’s Amy. Remember me?"
"Is it true?" Hubert finally replied, his eyes still glued to his book.
A jolt of disappointment shot through me. Of all the kids at school, Hubert was the last one I would have expected to believe idle rumors—even true ones.
"Don’t believe everything you hear," I said.
Hubert nudged his horn-rimmed glasses up to the bridge of his nose and looked at me through thick lenses. "Is it true?" he asked a second time.
"You mean the boot camp thing? Well . . . to be honest . . . Yes."
Hubert hung his head as if he had finished last in a science fair competition.
"It’s not a big deal," I said. "I had an argument with my folks and they overreacted, that’s all. Why is everyone so freaked out over this?"
"I’m not freaked out," said Hubert. "It’s just that those places don’t always deliver the desired result. You might go in as Amy and come out as Medusa." He looked at me with deep concern in his eyes. "I’m worried about you."
Then he placed his hand gently over mine, and in that moment, my fears melted away. My sadness disappeared and calmness poured over me like a cool breeze in August. It was such a simple act, and yet it touched my heart in a way I did not expect.
Feeling a little embarrassed, I slowly pulled my hand away. "You don’t have to be so concerned," I said. "It’s not like I’m going in for shock therapy, or something."
"I know that," said Hubert, "but they don’t. This is a small town and its people are even smaller. These country folk will crucify you for being drunk in church on Sunday, then laugh it off on Monday. They may not be so forgiving of you when you get back."
Hubert could have saved his breath. Nothing he said worried me at all. He had forgotten that I was the type who spit in the eye of adversity. There was no obstacle I couldn’t overcome. I would return from boot camp, win the election, and emerge victorious.
Yeah, right! Who was I kidding? No amount of sweet talk and apple pie was going to change people’s opinion of me. I just wished, for once, they could understand how I felt.
Hubert started to get up from the table when I noticed him shift his weight onto a walking cane. A cast was wrapped around his right ankle. "How’d you get that?" I asked.
"Being stupid," he said. "I tripped in the stairwell yesterday after last period and fell down a whole flight of stairs."
I grabbed hold of his arm. "A nerd, a geek, and now a gimp," I joked.
He playfully pinched my cheek, then hobbled off with his book under his arm, leaving behind his untouched peanut butter sandwich.
Assembly.
A portable stage had been set up in the school gymnasium on the far side of the basketball court. A freshly-lacquered podium, courtesy of third-period woodshop, stood center stage in front of a row of folding chairs. Our school principal was seated directly beneath the basketball hoop next to a life-size cutout of the school mascot, Sammy Shark. (Why our team was named "The Shankstonville Sharks" when the nearest ocean was a thousand miles away was beyond me.)
The platform creaked as I crossed the stage to take my seat by the principal. Lydia sat on the other side of him, silently gazing out across the gym as the rest of the student body filed in. The bleachers on the side walls were filling up fast, the floor seating alread
y at capacity. More of that nauseating music played over the sound system, making it hard for me to study the notes I held in my lap.
The minute hand on the scoreboard clock snapped to the top of the hour. The principal signaled to the sound man to stop the music, then stepped up to the podium. He tapped on the microphone. "Y’all please take your seats so we can get started," he said to the murmuring crowd. "Soon you will be voting for a new student body president. Today, you will have an opportunity to hear each of the candidates speak." No one in the audience was paying him any attention.
A coin toss had determined that I would go first. After a brief introduction, I stepped up to the mike and tilted it down. A burst of feedback quieted the audience. I scanned the gym, praying no one could hear my notes rustling in my shaking hands.
"Good afternoon," I said, in a rattled voice. "Many of you are probably wondering, what will the next student body president do for me? Well, if I’m elected, I would introduce important changes to help make your high school years richer and more enjoyable."
The students stared back at me in silence, like they were spaced-out from a drug overdose—not unexpected, just earlier in my speech than I had hoped.
"For example: what’s up with the student newspaper? Instead of providing news and objective analysis, it sensationalizes and distorts the facts. I would propose restructuring its format from a tabloid rag into a model of journalistic excellence."
An ocean of frozen stares.
"We all know that teenage obesity is a major problem. How about healthier food choices in the cafeteria? In addition to greasy burgers, fried chicken, and pizza, I would lobby for more nutritional alternatives like tofu salads, bean sprout sandwiches, and fruit smoothies."
The crowd was now getting restless.
"And what about the music that plays over the P.A. system? A different musical style could be offered for each day of the week, like:
The Age of Amy Page 2