The Incredible True Story of the Making of the Eve of Destruction

by Amy Brashear

  “What about Max?”

  “Um, maybe.”

  Max at a movie lot? Oh dear, he would probably go on a tangent about something and get us kicked off the set. He was really smart but had a problem focusing. We had been friends since kindergarten. Max Randall and Laura Ratliff. Let’s just say we were destined to be by each other’s side alphabetically until graduation. But he was my friend, and even though he was super smart, he didn’t make me feel super dumb. He was on the maybe list.

  “Or what about—no. No . . . I’m not going to push it, but why don’t you just think about—no, no . . . I’m not going to be that mom. Laura, how about—”

  She was trying to say Terrence. My stepbrother. The boy who I shared a bond with now. Both our lives had changed. If I did pick Terrence to go with me, I would make Mom happy, and also Dennis, and of course Terrence, if he was into that kind of thing. I would have so many brownie points with my mother. I could have gotten away with anything with her. And if I could have gotten away with that suspension, I would have said yes. Instead I said I’d think about it. How did I know that was the ticket? She smiled. Patted my knee and said “thank you” in a whisper.

  She grabbed her smokes and her lighter, the reason why she came this way in the first place. “So about that suspension,” she said.

  “It’s all good,” I said, just thinking about the easy work it was going to be compared with the incompetence of GFHS athletes. (Not all were dumb. I probably should make that clear. Rob Turner went to Vandy, the Harvard of the South, just last year.)

  “It’ll be on your permanent record.”

  “It won’t.”

  “It might. And colleges don’t take too kindly to rebels.”

  Oh, the college talk. Planning for the future when we were on the eve of destruction. (There I go again. I’ll probably do it a couple more times. Don’t hold it against me, my fine reader.)

  “Don’t worry about it, Mom.”

  “I’m your mom. I’m supposed to worry.”

  I rolled my eyes and she did too.

  “Well, Dennis should be home, so if you want to leave, you can,” she said, going outside to smoke.

  Home. That was a four-letter word. I hadn’t had a “home” since my mom’s illicit affair spread like a forest fire.

  * * *

  13 A list of “top Soviet nuclear targets” all over the United States of America.

  14 A pressurized water reactor nuclear power plant on Lake Dardanelle in Russellville, Arkansas. There is only one power plant in Arkansas, and we also have a silo. That means we’re a military target—a primary target—as in one that gets picked even in a “limited” nuclear war.

  Chapter Four

  Dennis was simultaneously cooking dinner and fixing the broken disposal. Dad never fixed things before. Grandpa would come over and try to fix things, but usually he couldn’t. If Dennis had one good quality, it would be that he was a good handyman. He owned Jennings’s Hardware down on Sixth Street, next to Rudy’s Diner and across the street from Gus’s Garage. We liked our businesses in Griffin Flat to be named by someone. Names were important. Now back to Dennis and his exceptional talent of burning a chicken noodle casserole. “Your mom called and said she’s going to be late, so we should start without her when Terrence gets home.”

  Home. That was a funny word. Next to family. That was an equally funny word. I was not bitter—not bitter at all. Dennis tried, and I guess I did too, but it wasn’t exactly an ideal situation. It was ours, though. Part of the problem was how it all went down. And the gossiping. Oh dear God, the gossiping. I was at Brenda Leigh’s Beauty Parlor getting a perm when Terrence’s mom came bursting through the door, calling my mom a tramp, a whore, a bitch, a downright home-wrecker—and then proceeded to tell the entire salon the story in dramatic detail. She had seen Dennis’s truck (it had a logo on the side for goodness’ sake) at the Flat Inn. She’d marched right through the front doors and into the lobby. Scared Paula to death. She demanded to see her husband. Demanded the room number and a key. Poor Paula probably almost peed her pants. She said over and over again, “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I cannot do that without a supervisor’s approval.” Mrs. Dianne Wilcox-Jennings, now Ms. Dianne Wilcox. She reverted back to her maiden name after she caught her husband tugging on his belt rounding the corner with my mom, who was clipping an earring on her right ear, an earring that Dad gave her for their anniversary.

  “Oh, hell, no,” Ms. Wilcox had said, waving her finger in his face.

  “I was just fixing an issue in one of the rooms,” Dennis had said.

  But Ms. Wilcox wasn’t buying any of what he was selling. Her attention had moved to my mom.

  “Edna, this lady wants a key to a room. She says her husband is staying here—oh.” Paula had stopped talking and backed all the way into the back room and laughed.

  Ms. Wilcox knew who I was. She bent down and grabbed my hands and said, “I don’t blame you, child. Your mother made her bed, and she’s going to have to lie in it.”

  “With your husband,” Charlene said, sitting under a hair dryer. (Charlene, a twin who was kind of the queen of gossip land. Her twin, Darlene, was next in line for the throne.)

  Ms. Wilcox glared. “Well, I just thought y’all should know what kind of hussy this town has.”

  Ms. Wilcox left, and no one could stop talking about what happened. Brenda Leigh was in so much shock my hair ended up extra frizzy since she was distracted and added too much ammonium thioglycolate.

  I went home to discover my dad and mom fighting. Apparently, Brenda Leigh’s wasn’t the first stop for Ms. Wilcox. Dad moved out that night and a week later to the base. My parents were officially divorced two months later. A month after that, I walked down the aisle as maid of honor at Dennis and Mom’s wedding. Terrence was the best man. Once they were pronounced man and wife, we were officially a dysfunctional family.

  “Terrence’s in front of the TV,” Dennis stated. It wasn’t very clear that he wanted me to go join Terrence until he said, “Go on.”

  Terrence and I didn’t exactly have a lot in common. We were not in the same social circle. He’s black and I’m white. (I’m stating this as fact in case Hollywood wants to make a movie later on.) The only thing we did have in common was our parents, and I guessed that was better than nothing.

  “Hey,” I said, sitting beside him on the living room floor.

  TV looked better from down here.

  “Hey, what’s up?” he said, looking up and then down trying to do geometry, read a chapter of 1984,15 and watching MTV16 all at the same time. “Oh, yeah, congrats on winning the contest. You totally kicked ass.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Who you taking? Dana? Max?” He said Dana the same way Mom did at the hotel.

  “I don’t know yet. It’s a pretty big decision.”

  “Very.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was sarcastic or not. I chose to believe or not.

  He went back to his studying and watching MTV, but every so often he’d look up and ask another question about what I thought it would be like and if I would have to miss school, or say that if I was invited to any raging parties, he wanted to go and protect me. And something about Astrid Ogilvie’s number. He was clearly delusional.

  For the next thirty minutes I helped him analyze a chapter in 1984. It was poignant. We were living in the age of Big Brother.

  “You know you’re going to take Dana,” he said.

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “You know she’ll make your life miserable if you don’t.”

  “She’ll make it about herself, like she won the contest, and I kind of want it to be my own thing.”

  “I get you. I get you.”

  Mom came in, threw her coat on the coatrack and her purse on top of that, took a seat on the pink chair (the only i
tem of furniture we brought from our house), and closed her eyes as the “Thriller”17 music video played in the background on TV.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Dennis yelled from the kitchen.

  “Feed me,” Mom said.

  Dennis and Mom were gross. So lovey-dovey. Terrence and I rolled our eyes and gagged.

  Dennis placed the chicken noodle casserole on two pot holders in the middle of the table. Terrence and I had eaten it for lunch, but at least Dennis’s meal actually tastes like chicken. Mom passed around plates. Terrence grabbed me a Tab from the fridge and a Coke for himself. I took four forks from the silverware tray.

  We said a quick prayer thanking God for the food and hoping no one died anytime soon with the impending threat of world war. You know, the usual.

  The conversation lagged a bit until Dennis asked about our day. Mom started complaining about the idiotic guests who stayed in the many rooms at the Flat Inn. “Honestly, some people shouldn’t be allowed to travel.”

  Dennis was next. “It’s very busy. The film crew has been at the store every hour on the hour buying supplies. Sales are most definitely up. They should film a movie here every year. It’s definitely good for business.”

  Terrence didn’t talk much. Like me, he wasn’t quite used to this new family dynamic. When we first moved in, he spent every moment in his room. He only came out for food but usually brought it back to his room. We rarely made eye contact. We were, like, living in a dream world. Our parents had done this to us, my dad, his mom. I just hoped it was worth it. The secrets. The extramarital affair. The sex. I hope it was worth it in the end. (I can’t believe I wrote sex. Pray for me, dear reader. Please.)

  I didn’t tell what my day was like. Mom did that. She was the one who brought up the shower. And everyone laughed. “It was probably a scene out of Carrie,18 right?” she asked.

  “Well, yeah, water instead of blood,” I said.

  “And you got suspended?” Dennis asked.

  “For one day. I wouldn’t even call that a suspension.”

  Terrence scooped mashed potatoes onto his plate. “Rodney was pissed,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because you were his partner, and now he has to do the work.”

  I laughed. “I’m going to enjoy doing worksheets for the rest of the semester. I regret nothing.”

  Mom choked back a laugh.

  “Does this suspension mean I’m grounded?” I asked.

  “No. I can’t watch you.” Mom handed me a piece of buttered bread, and I set it on my plate. “So have you decided on who you’re going to take?”

  “No—”

  “It’s a big decision.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or serious.”

  “Dead serious.”

  “If I don’t take Dana, she’ll kill me.”

  “With friends like Dana, you certainly don’t need enemies,” Dennis said.

  “You know that’s right,” Terrence said, chugging his Coke.

  “Or Max,” Mom said.

  “He’d be correcting everyone on the set. That would be annoying,” I said.

  “Do you have any other friends?” Dennis asked.

  Mom whacked him on the arm. “Dear, she has friends.”

  “I have friends. I have friends,” I said.

  “Of course you do, Laura. I didn’t mean it how it came out,” Dennis said, apologizing.

  The truth was, I didn’t have a lot of friends. I had a lot of adversaries—but those certainly didn’t count as friends.

  “Well, take someone who won’t overshadow you. Who will let you have your day in the spotlight.”

  “And that certainly wouldn’t be Dana,” Mom said, clearly giving her opinion on Dana.

  And I got it. Dana was annoying.

  Terrence scooped himself a third helping of casserole while trying not to laugh. No one ever gave him hell for his friends. Dim-witted as they might have been.

  “What about Terrence?” Dennis asked.

  “Dad, don’t,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Everyone wants you to pick them. Just like in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory,19 everyone is going to want your Golden Ticket. It might as well be Terrence.”

  “Yeah, honey, don’t pressure her,” Mom said, patting his hand.

  “No pressuring, just thought this would be an awesome bonding time for them.”

  “Laura, you don’t have to,” Terrence said, getting up to grab another Coke for himself. “Want another Tab?”

  I nodded as sirens blared in the distance. Wooooooweeeeewooooo. The crew was testing the sirens for the fifth night in a row.

  * * *

  15 It was published in 1949 by George Orwell. He’s an English writer. We’re reading it in English class. We have to write our opinions on it every day. I’m having a hard time with it. Before what happened with my parents, I don’t think I cared if Big Brother was watching, but now—with the tiny town of Griffin Flat commenting on my family situation, I guess I’m more on the side of Winston Smith. Dana’s all, “I don’t get what the big deal is. Who wouldn’t want to be watched all the time? What do people have to hide?” But me? I think I don’t want people watching me, making me think a certain way. The rewriting history part? Well, that doesn’t sound half bad, given what’s happened to the Ratliff/Jennings family.

  16 MTV stands for Music Television, which shows music videos. It launched in 1981. Trivia: “Video Killed the Radio Star” by the Buggles was the first music video ever shown.

  17 Michael Jackson, Thriller, Epic, 1982. Zombies literally come to life.

  18 A horror novel written by Stephen King. It was published in 1974. Seriously, it’s about high school and the struggles we girls go through and the revenge scenarios some of us imagine. Pretty smart for a guy who was writing about girls.

  19 It’s a movie that came out in 1971 and starred Gene Wilder. It’s also a book but has a slightly different title, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. That’s by Roald Dahl and was published in 1964.

  Chapter Five

  Terrence’s grandmother, whom I called Grandma Jennings (she wanted me to call her that), left a tin of homemade fudge on the back steps. Dennis took a handful, melted them, and poured it all over some homemade vanilla ice cream (homemade—it said so right on the label). I grabbed a bowl and a spoon and headed to the enclosed porch to eat in peace, but Terrence was already out there, reading the liner notes to Purple Rain.20 He collected tapes like I collected comic books. (Those selection sheets from Columbia House21 were always filled out. Eight tapes for a penny. I called it a scam. He said it wasn’t. But he was also known as Terry with a Y and Terri with an I on those forms. So who was scamming whom?) I sat down with Alpha Flight, volume one, issue sixteen. It wasn’t out until Friday, but Dewayne Smith, owner of the local bookstore, liked to hook me up early with my favorites, which included X-Men, the Flash, and Firestorm. Especially Firestorm.

  “Who do you think would win in a fight, Batman or Superman?” Terrence asked me, picking up another tape from his overflowing tape deck.

  “Superman—wait—Batman—wait—Christopher Reeve or Adam West—or are we going by comic and—”

  “Wow. You are a geek.”

  “Geeks will inherit the earth,” I said with a mouth full of fudge ice cream.

  “Yeah, they will,” he said, placing Run-DMC’s22 self-titled album in the tape player and then pressing play. (They’re a lot more aggressive with their rhymes than the Sugarhill Gang23 or Kurtis Blow24 or Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five.25)

  “Hard Times”26 started, and he nodded and tapped his foot to the beat. “I finally got it,” he said, handing me a cassette tape.

  “No way,” I said. “It was your white whale.”

  “I know. It
came on the radio, and—boom—it was mine,” he said, taking the cassette tape back and replacing the Run-DMC in the boom box. Somehow he’d pressed the record button just at the right time, praying to the radio gods that the DJ didn’t talk just as the song started. It was a lot of work to record a song off the radio.

  He turned the volume to full blast and looked at me and smiled.

  Not many would admit that Joni Mitchell was one of your favorites. But Terrence wasn’t like most people. His musical faves were eclectic. They ranged from Johnny Cash to Billy Joel.

  I wasn’t exactly a connoisseur when it came to music. Whatever MTV deemed to be in the top twenty, I listened to—and Madonna. But when Terrence was at his mom’s, I’d been known to come in here and listen to his music. He had cassettes full of different musical stylings. CCR, The Band, Queen, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, even a little John Denver, seriously . . .

  When I was done, I tried to put everything back in the order Terrence left them. Though he hadn’t explicitly come out and said it, I didn’t think he wanted me touching his things.

  I’d never had a brother and he’d never had a sister—we were only children in our broken homes—so boundaries had been set, though never really explained.

  Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi” ended, and he sorted through his collection of mass chaos on the floor in between picking up and putting down cassette tape after cassette tape.

  He stopped, took the cassette out of the case, slid it into the boom box slot, and pressed play.

  The sound of a bass filled the room.

  Terrence didn’t say anything as “Rapper’s Delight” by the Sugarhill Gang filled the room.

  My left foot tapped against the floor, keeping the beat, and my head nodded, and I started talking real fast and in rhymes. I liked hip-hop. No one knew that. I tried to keep up with the song, but mouthing the lyrics was hard. Especially when they rhymed.