The Thumper Amendment Read online

  The Age of Amy: The Thumper Amendment

  By Bruce Edwards

  To Bambi

  CONTENTS

  Title

  1. Bully

  2. Grudge

  3. The Rules

  4. Today The Future

  5. The Border

  6. Cover Girl

  7. Greed Gulch

  8. Croutons

  9. Theme Farm

  10. Prefab Presidents

  11. The Date

  12. Fritterz!

  13. Secrets

  14. The Great Debate

  15. The Vote

  About the Author

  Credits

  Book #1

  Cover

  Chapter 1

  Bully

  "Somebody help me!” I cried, knowing that my plea would go unheard over the clamor of school children at recess. Two large boys held my arms tightly behind my back, laughing as I struggled to get free. A third boy circled me, like a wolf taunting its helpless prey, his cold stare never leaving my face. Elementary school was supposed to be a wondrous place to learn and grow, to discover reading, writing, and finger painting. But for naïve school girls like me, we sometimes get more education than we signed up for.

  The pacing boy stopped and faced me, then held a large, rubber ball up to my nose. “Looking for this?” he said. An out-of-bounds pass in a friendly game of four square caused me to chase the ball behind the cafeteria. How was I to know that I had wandered into enemy territory?

  I took a futile swing at the boy’s shins with my foot.

  “A real hellcat, we got here,” said the leader of the band of juvenile delinquents. Then he tossed the ball over a chain-link fence, where it was immediately flattened by city traffic.

  A sharp pain shot up my spine, as the boys behind me pulled my arms back even harder. My shoulders felt like they would pop out of their sockets at any moment. “You’re hurting me!” I shouted.

  The boy in front of me grabbed the back of my hair and pulled it down. My head lurched backward. I could smell the potato chips on his breath as he leaned into my face.

  “What are those train tracks doing on your teeth?” he said, staring at my braces. I didn’t want to grow up with crooked teeth, so I agreed to have those ugly things put on. Now I was starting to wonder if I would live to see them taken off.

  Then the boy’s eyes shifted to the charm I wore on a gold chain around my neck. Gold letters spelled out my name: AMY. It had been given to me by my grandfather, who taught me never to back away from confrontation. He also taught me a few self-defense moves that, had I not been restrained, would have my captors reeling in pain.

  Clenching his fist around my charm, the cold-hearted boy yanked it clean off my neck, then tossed it over the fence, where it suffered the same fate as the rubber ball.

  The school bell signaled the end of recess.

  As the playground emptied, the boys that had held me captive released me, and ran off to resume their roles as elementary school students. Their leader remained behind.

  I stood there, as the sound of children at play faded into silence. What had I done to deserve such abuse? I rubbed my neck where my cherished medallion had been, and wept.

  “Tell anyone about this, little girl, and I’ll box your ears!” was the last thing that bully said, before he joined the others.

  He was a 6th-grader.

  I was in the 3rd.

  The day had started out so well, too.

  I awoke to the savory smells of pancakes and eggs. Toasty and warm under my covers, I scarcely felt the cold air breezing through my bedroom window. I had stupidly left it open all night, but the promise of a scrumptious breakfast quickly thawed the chill of that crisp, autumn morning. Not even the noisy traffic whizzing past our third-story, city apartment could sour my giddiness.

  “You’ll be late for school, Amy,” shouted my dad from the kitchen.

  “Be right there!” I shouted back.

  Braving the frigid, bathroom floor tiles, I rose onto my tip-toes to brush my teeth. Navigating around my new braces was still a bit tricky. A hairbrush across my head and a face-full of brisk tap water, and I was ready to take on the world!

  I bounded to the kitchen table, high-hurtled into my seat, and proceeded to drown my morning meal in maple syrup.

  My mom entered the room with my wool coat that had hung in the hall closet all summer long—a summer that had left behind fond memories of grand adventures in childhood.

  Summer.

  Those lazy days from June to September were the best. Warm evenings would find me out on the fire escape, staring up into the twilight, with the best girlfriends anyone could ask for. There we confided our innermost secrets with profound seriousness, then giggled at how silly boys stole kisses from us, then complained of contracting cooties.

  My family was pretty close, and we rarely got into any domestic disputes. But so much idle time at home can often put a strain on family relationships. Inevitably came the feuds with my big sister, usually over something utterly unimportant, like who was sexier: Johnny Depp or Brad Pitt?

  Some of these silly battles got so intense that they would escalate into an all-out war of words. Finding myself hoarse from screaming insults at my sister was not uncommon.

  That’s when my grandfather would step in. “Come here, Amy!” he would command, his deep voice rumbling through the small apartment.

  With a look of disappointment, Granddad would then calmly sit me down. “Remember that cartoon,” he would say, “that movie about the deer and the rabbit named Thumper, who said: ‘If you can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say nothin’ at all?’”

  “Yes, Granddad,” I would say, with a sigh from having heard the speech a hundred times before.

  “Remember that always,” he would end his sermon. A kiss on the forehead, and I was off to apologize to my sister—another rule that was rigidly enforced in our house. I recall those little therapy sessions with great affection. My grandfather’s wisdom was always noted, even though Thumper’s advice was usually forgotten.

  One nice thing about grandparents is that, whether you’re as saintly as an angel, or wicked as a witch, they love you just the same. The other is that you can always go to them when your parents are inaccessible. That was my granddad. He was a trip: kind and unselfish, yet stubborn and unshakable at times. He could be a real pain when he wanted to, but to me, he was always tenderhearted and supportive. He stood by every endeavor I pursued no matter how misguided. Even on his death bed, I felt the reassuring grip of his hand, that would slowly slip from mine, as he silently ascended into another world—and out of my life forever.

  Granddad’s passing left me heartsick and lonesome. Never again would I be forced to listen to his lectures on morality—that I now craved. The emptiness I felt was excruciating. Then my mom showed me something that would ease my suffering: a charm necklace he had made for me with my name in shiny letters. An engraved inscription on the back reaffirmed Thumper’s simple instructions for how to get along with people: “If you can’t say something nice . . .”

  It was the first day of the new school year.

  The subway station was packed. From far down a long tunnel, an approaching train announced its arrival with a great whoosh of air—like the winds of change.

  My mom zipped up my coat, stopping short of my beloved necklace. Wearing a charm like that was a bit out of style, even back then, but I had long decided to balk current fashion trends, and wear it as a reminder of my grandfather’s thoughtfulness.

  As we prepared to board our train, I held on to my mother’s hand—but not too tightly. Heaven forbid she thought I was afraid of something I had done a hundred times before. The doors slid ope
n, and we joined the masses inside. There wasn’t much to see during the short trip to school, standing waist-high to belt buckles and business suit vests.

  The clanging of the school bell reverberated off the row houses down the street, as we exited the subway station. I had been brimming with anticipation all morning. Then I suddenly realized that I wasn’t ready to face my fellow students—and for good reason: it was my first time out in public with my braces!

  My mom gently took my hand away from my mouth. “Don’t worry, honey,” she said. “After they get their first look, they’ll forget all about them.” I forced a smile, revealing my chrome-plated mouthpiece for all the world to see.

  A gentle shove through the school’s front gate, and I was off into the academic jungle called the 3rd grade—braces and all.

  Having attended the same public school since kindergarten, I knew my way around pretty well. I reported to Room 12 as instructed, and opened the door to a classroom full of excited children. A sense of familiarity began to sink in. I saw Laura Kaufman, who had once gone with me to summer camp. Ginny Grasser lived in our same apartment building. “Hey, Mare!” I called out to Mary Phillips, who had sat next to me in the 2nd grade.

  I was feeling much more relaxed now, and ready to introduce myself to our new teacher. She stood at the blackboard with her back to me, writing a welcoming message to the class.

  “Good morning, Ms. Anderson,” I said.

  As she turned around, I handed her a bookmark that I made, with her name on it. (My grandfather always stressed the value of making a good first impression.)

  “I know you,” said the teacher. “You’re Amy Dawson. You won first place in last year’s school poetry contest.” It was true, of course. Writing was one of my passions that Granddad encouraged me to stick with, even though I wasn’t very good at it.

  “Thank you for remembering,” I said. Then I smiled, forgetting about the ironwork on my teeth.

  “Oh, I see you have braces,” said Ms. Anderson.

  I quickly hid them behind both hands, and mumbled, “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

  “Of course you were,” she said, “and I could have simply pretended that I didn’t see them. But now that that’s behind us, it’ll never come up again. See? That wasn’t so bad.”

  Not bad at all. My teacher was cool, I was surrounded by friends, and my fear of braces-on-teeth ridicule was practically gone. All in all, it was a pretty fair start to another nine months of schooling.

  Recess.

  There’s nothing like the freedom you feel, when bolting out of a classroom onto a playground. Now it’s time for tether ball, dodge ball, or just running around, exhausting all that repressed energy you’ve built up from sitting quietly in class. Most students have their own rituals. The shy ones hang out by the handball court and wait for someone to engage them. The athletic types form teams for basketball, while the overweight ones shoot hoops alone. A playground is an excellent gathering place for classmates to share stories, and is oftentimes where lifelong friendships begin. The downside is that there are always a few troublemakers around to ruin a wonderful time of innocent recreation.

  It was our school administrator’s policy to segregate the upper-class students from the lower, but on this occasion, that rule would fail. A stray rubber ball would lead me into a regrettable encounter with those nasty boys. My faith in people would be shaken, and my ego crushed, like my precious charm that mean boy had thrown into the street.

  After that dreadful experience, I was quiet for the rest of the day. I stayed away from my usual playground games. My teacher detected my sullenness, but didn’t pry. No one had seen the incident, and I wasn’t about to recount the worst day of my life to anyone, not even my closest friends.

  Somehow, I made it to the final bell. The school day was over at last. I went outside to wait for my mom to escort me home. Standing at the curb, I noticed a crowd of students gathered in front of a brick wall, laughing. Then one of them turned and pointed at me. “There she is!”

  On the wall was a large chalk drawing of the head of a smiling girl with braces on her huge teeth. The braces looked like train tracks, and were wrapped all around her head. A train was even drawn onto the tracks. The name Amy was written in huge letters, with an arrow pointing to the chalk girl.

  I had never been so embarrassed in my life. My parents had tried their best to shelter me from seeing the cruel side of human nature, but they had wrapped me in a security blanket of falsehoods. The world was not all ice cream and tiddlywinks; it was tinged with heartbreak and humiliation.

  Ms. Anderson came out to see what all the commotion was. She saw the chalk drawing, then noticed me with my head slumped down in disgrace.

  I felt my teacher’s gentle fingertips on my chin as she tilted my head up. “Don’t be discouraged, Amy,” she said. “Everyone experiences this kind of thing growing up sooner or later. I know you feel bad now, but one day you’ll look back on this and wonder what all the fuss was about.”

  Easy for her to say! I liked Ms. Anderson, but sometimes adults have more to learn than children. If the same thing had happened to one of them, there would be police, TV news, and lawsuits. I resented being told to just “get over it.”

  I wouldn’t see that creepy boy the next day, nor for the rest of the school year. The janitor wiped away his insidious drawing, but not completely. A faint bit of chalk still remained near the base of the wall. Not only was the artist a rotten bully, he was brazen enough to sign his name to his artwork:

  PETER.

  Welcome to the world of meanness!

  Chapter 2

  Grudge

  "Smile, Amy!” said the photographer. With my perfectly straightened teeth, I was happy to oblige him. My “train tracks” were a thing of the past. Seven years had come and gone since that bully used them to humiliate me, and even though I only had to wear them for a year, I was glad to be rid of them.

  The photographer was from our local newspaper, The Shankstonville Dispatch, and he was taking my picture for the Cool Teen page. Shankstonville was the town I lived in; a cornbelt community located deep in the America Midwest.

  “Now, a picture with you and your certificate,” said the cameraman, shading his lens from the midmorning summer sun. I held up a framed document, which named me as the new Chairman of the S.Y.P.A: The Shankstonville Young Politicians Association. It was an organization comprised of politically active teens, and I was the youngest ever to hold that prestigious position.

  My interest in politics began shortly after moving to Shankstonville with my family. I first ran for Student Body President at my high school, then volunteered in support of local ballot measures I believed in, even though I was too young to vote for them. While other kids played after-school sports, I handed out pamphlets in parking lots, or gathered petition signatures at the local supermarket.

  Standing up for lost causes was a particular passion of mine. Once, I even chained myself to the gate of an old movie theater. Our city counsel had voted to tear it down, but being an avid fan of classic film, I couldn’t bear to see all that history turned to rubble.

  But it was my stunning exposé, Mistreatment of Farm Animals By The Food Industry, that really got me noticed. Writing was now second nature to me, and my words helped pass several animal-rights laws in our state. I’m kinda proud of that.

  “One more,” said the photographer, “this time showing the streak in your hair.” I turned sideways and draped my long auburn hair over my shoulder. I had dyed a narrow blue streak down the back of it in protest for being uprooted from the city to the Midwest. My forcible relocation had brought out the disagreeable teen in me. The backwoods culture of Shankstonville just didn’t measure up to the stimulating city life I had come to love. Yet, there I was, a hipster in a haystack, and nothing I did was going to change that.

  Although I was deservedly pissed, I didn’t believe in radical makeovers in displaying teenage angst. Having my skin pierced and tatt
ooed just wasn’t my style. My highlighted hair was a kind of subtle compromise. Besides, what other recourse did I have? When you’re only 16, legally your hands are tied.

  With my new standing as the head “young politician” in town, I decided it was time to address an issue that was receiving national attention, and a problem I knew something about: school bullying. The way I saw it, kids being mean to each other was merely an extension of a larger problem. Meanness among adults had become so common on TV, in the news, and in politics that it was now considered acceptable behavior. If grownups could be openly mean to each other, why wasn’t it okay for kids to do the same thing?

  I was as qualified as anyone to shed light on this subject, and it was the perfect time to do it: It was a presidential election year when people are at their meanest!

  Every four years, Americans must endure an onslaught of beastliness:

  TV attack ads,

  character assassinations,

  smear tactics,

  mud slinging,

  dirty tricks,

  out-right lies.

  Candidates criticize and insult each other in televised debates, and when the show is over, you’ve learned absolutely nothing about them—except how bloated their egos are.

  Campaign contribution laws give candidates with wealthy friends an unfair advantage. Without adequate funds, the little guy (and quite possibly the best guy for the job) hasn’t a prayer of winning.

  Voting-rights laws are disregarded by powerful political parties to influence election outcomes. Electees are seldom chosen by a vote of all the people.