by Amy Brashear
Max went back to drawing but left me thinking about the plot to our comic, which we were calling Big Sister. He wouldn’t allow me to see his drawings. Only when they were perfect, but according to him, they never would be.
After each drawing, he’d crumple it up into a ball and drop it into the waste bucket he kept beside him. He would take the trash bag home when he left after each work session—or what Max’s mother would describe as a playdate. He was a budding tortured artist.
“One little peek?” I would ask.
And he would say no and then get defensive. I would only see what he’d drawn when it hit the comic bookshelves at Dewayne’s.
“So you want to change the main character from a boy to a girl superhero?” he asked.
“Or a villain?” I said.
“Or a villain.”
Our script was about done. (And by “done,” I mean we’d started over a few times. But our first line remained the same: And with a big, loud bang, everything was gone. Max and Laura’s untitled comic had fun promising the apocalypse.) Also, our plot was simple: A few teens got trapped in the cellar of Old Barnaby’s Farm in a small town called Seaside during a nuclear exchange between two opposing foes. (Max and I were afraid to say who the two opposing foes were; we didn’t want our sales to be compromised, and if we kissed and made up with the USSR, then we’d be screwed financially.) Some went mad, some tried to escape, some fell in love. But all got superpowers. When they emerged, they saw a changed world. It was overrun by an organization called Big Sister. Big Sister keeps order in the wasteland that it created. Chocolate was distributed for radiation sickness. We couldn’t decide if our characters were going to be superheroes or supervillains in the new world order.
“Godzilla was created because of nuclear radiation, and he’s a monster, and yet our superheroes are created nearly the same, and they’re not,” he said.
“It’s like they see nuclear fallout quite differently than we do,” I said.
“You think?”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“Me too.”
“You know, if we were born one year later, we would have had completely different sets of friends at school and be completely different people.”
“I think about that a lot.”
* * *
32 She-Hulk had her own comic books, but they were canceled in 1982. She became a minor character in other comics, including the Incredible Hulk. Two years ago, she was a member of the Avengers, and this year, she appeared in the April issue as a member of the Fantastic Four.
33 374-1 Blackwell, 347-2 Plummerville, 347-3 Hattieville, 374-4 Springfield, 374-5 Wooster, 374-6 Guy, 374-7 Damascus,* 374-8 Quitman, and 374-9 Pearson.
*On September 18–19, 1980, a Broken Arrow happened.
34 A 1983 major motion picture starring Matthew Broderick. David Lightman hacks War Operation Plan Response with the help of Jennifer, played by Ally Sheedy, and we as planet Earth almost went to DEFCON 1 and World War III.
Chapter Eight
According to Tom Brokaw, the Doomsday Clock was set at three minutes to midnight. 11:57. They might as well have moved the hands to midnight because that was what it was like at church that Sunday morning.
Mom skipped church. She still had a mile-long list of stuff to do, and a big crew was showing up on Monday. Terrence was with his mom, so I went with Dennis to church. We were late and sat in the front pew in the sanctuary. After the service we went to the fellowship hall and waited for the potluck.
I watched as Dana approached, homing in like a missile homing in on its primary target—Moscow, or Leningrad, or . . . Laura.
“Dana Cobb, daughter of Nathaniel and Melanie Cobb, sister to David Cobb and Daniel Cobb, friend to everyone except you,” she said.
“Why are you talking in the third person?” I asked.
“No, Dana has once again decreed that the friendship with Laura Ratliff is over.”
“Dana—”
“How dare you speak her name!” she cried.
Now I was confused. Whose name?
“The end is near,” she said in the silence.
“You mean . . . the world?”
“No, our friendship.”
“Near, or over?” I asked. I was grumpy and hungry. I wanted clarity. I wanted to end the conversation.
Her eyes turned to slits. “Laura, I never want to speak to you again. I have written it down. I have commanded it.”
Fine. Is that it? I didn’t say the words out loud, but I came close.
She opened her Bible and flipped straight to Exodus. Commandment eleven. Added fresh in blue ink. (It had smeared.) Thou Shall Not Be A Friend, Acquaintance, Adversary, or Confidante. Laura Ratliff Will Be Dead To Me—As Judas Was To Jesus—Now And Forever, Amen.
I frowned. “Jesus forgave Judas.”
She rolled her eyes. “A misjudgment on his part.”
“Wow,” I said. Looking up, I tried to reclaim my place in the food line. Old people usually go first, leaving only the Jell-O that looks like mold, the green bean casserole, and the cold macaroni salad. No deviled eggs, no fried chicken, no homemade yeast rolls. But today the trays of decent foods still held out hope . . .
“Wow what?” she asked.
“Wow, I might actually get fried chicken this time, if I pay attention.”
She snapped the Bible shut. “You are not a nice person!” she hissed. “And I’m glad we’re not friends anymore.”
“My mom will be glad too,” I said as she walked away.
She froze, then spun in place. “I just have to know,” she snapped, folding her arms across her chest.
“Have to know what?” I groaned.
“How could you do that to me?” She pouted. “I thought you were going to choose me. I’m the one who wants to be a star!”
“Exactly.”
“But you chose Terrence.”
“Well, yeah. He’s . . . around. Also, because you would make it about yourself,” I said.
“How dare you make it about yourself,” she retorted. “It’s not the Christian thing to do.”
“But I’m the one who won the contest.”
She drew close. “I hope your character dies in a nuclear explosion.”
I shrugged. Whatever. The truth was that I didn’t know a thing about my character. I didn’t even know if I had one. At least one beyond Teenage Girl Extra. My eyes drifted toward the steaming tray of fried chicken. “Are you in line or not?” I asked.
“Laura—you, you . . .” she sputtered. “I’m leaving. Like I said before, we’re no longer friends. I’m warning you: don’t you dare say my name ever again.”
With that, she stormed out of the hall. She didn’t come back a third time. She’d said her peace, and I said mine.
Dennis and I stopped by the hotel on our way home with a plate of food. Somehow Dennis got decent food from the clutches of the senior citizens. When I told Mom what happened at church with Dana, she literally did a little dance behind the front desk.
“Thank the Lord, he’s finally answered my prayers,” she said as the phone rang. She left it ringing, breaking the number one rule at the Flat Inn. It was a miracle, and she had to praise God for his righteousness (or whatever she was saying), acting like she’d witnessed a real live miracle, not the end of a friendship. Was it a friendship? I wasn’t even sure. Our relationship? No, that sounds romantic. Our thing was over.
And before you even think it, or flip the pages to see if we made up—let me say it clearly—this isn’t going to be one of those stories where we become friends later, defying adversity and all. No, our thing was dead.
Chapter Nine
Mayor Curtis Hershott, a man who was long-winded when he talked, usually about his own endeavors, straightened his bow tie when he got annoyed, tapped hi
s fingers one at a time on the podium when he got bored, and was so proud of Griffin Flat that he had been elected mayor for five consecutive elections. (No one else wanted the job. He had run unopposed every four years.) Mayor Hershott was also the man (with help from Governor Clinton) who got Eve of Destruction to be filmed here in the first place. “This will finally give some recognition to our town. Don’t you all want to be put on the map?” he asked with so much excitement that we all agreed, even though it was a disaster from the start. Permits. Agreements. Complaints. The only one who wasn’t upset and regretting the decision was Mayor Hershott. He was still so excited about Hollywood coming. In fact, he had a walk-on role—and he had lines. (He probably had it written into the contract.)
This was like any other town hall meeting. There were three items on the agenda, and they had everything to do with Eve of Destruction.
1. Party
The “Welcome to Town” party, also known as the “suck up to the celebrities at the red barn in the middle of town” party. Welcome to Griffin Flat, or Pikesville for the next few weeks.
“Remember the three Fs—Fun, Food, Fellowship,” Mayor Hershott said.
“Fun, Food, Fornication,” Max said beside me in a whisper, mimicking the mayor’s voice.
I laughed.
“Laura,” Mayor Hershott said, leaning on his podium, “come.” He waved me forward.
I stood next to him at the podium, looking out at the townspeople.
“Laura and I”—he smiled—“will be on the set as we will both be in the film. We will represent Griffin Flat with class.” He messed with my side ponytail and had me sit back down.
2. Christmas decorations
“Please hold off putting up Christmas decorations until after the movie ends filming. The movie is set in June 1954, so it doesn’t make much sense to have Santa Claus on one’s lawn, does it?” Mayor Hershott asked.
3. Dirt
“The production team has asked Dutton’s Dirt Carriers to supply tons and tons and tons of dirt to be brought in and dumped on Sunset Drive. It will be dumped and blocked during filming.”
“Excuse me. I live on Sunset Drive—how am I supposed to get to work?” Mr. Jones asked.
“It is best you make other arrangements.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. I can’t make other arrangements. I can’t—”
“Would someone be willing to pick up Mr. Jones for work and drop him off after?” Mayor Hershott asked.
Someone in the back raised their hand, and we moved on.
“We’re going to make this the best film ever made in the state of Arkansas,” Mayor Hershott said as the food group set up sign-up sheets on clipboards and hung them on nails around the room.
Debbie Hendricks walked to the front of the room and started talking about food. A lot of people were still talking about the dirt on Sunset Drive and paid no attention to her.
This was it! Griffin Flat would be nuked. We’d beat out hundreds of other small towns across the United States for the once-in-a-lifetime experience of being in a fake nuclear war. (It probably hadn’t hurt that Governor Clinton had been on board from the start.) A clap of thunder boomed. People jumped, including me. Max did too. He hit me on the arm, as if I was the one responsible for him jumping, then laughed.
“It’s the bomb,” Kevin Barnes yelled.
“Don’t joke,” someone responded. “It could—”
“Mayor Hershott, what about the sirens? Should we be worried?” Brenda Leigh asked.
“Yeah, there’s been a lot of them lately,” Mr. Romero, local car salesman, and Rodney’s dad, said. “Is the country planning for an attack? Should we be prepared?”
“You should always be prepared,” Mayor Hershott said, which did not help ease the thoughts of the worried people in the room.
“The end is near, my fellow citizens, the end is near,” Max whispered.
“FEMA has agreed to participate. They’ve dropped off a pamphlet for each household. You can pick yours up after the meeting,” Mayor Hershott said.
Mr. Romero gasped. “A pamphlet?”
“A real nuclear blast could only improve Griffin Flat,” Max whispered in my ear, back in his normal voice.
“Please,” Mayor Hershott implored. “This is a wonderful opportunity for our town. We need to think about how we act during the filming of the movie. They’re from California; we’re going to show them southern hospitality—”
“Southern hospitality, but leave your white robes at home,” Max whispered again.
By now the crowd was murmuring so loudly that the mayor had to slam his fist on the lectern. “Hollywood knows what it’s doing!” the mayor cried.
Everyone fell silent.
But that was all. Mayor Hershott had nothing more to add. Meeting adjourned.
Chapter Ten
Monday afternoon I was sitting in chemistry doing worksheets. I was proud of my life choice of pulling the safety shower string. Mr. Truitt was pulling out his hair trying to make sure he didn’t get a talking-to by the athletic director. Max, the only other person in class with a decent passing grade, was paired up with Rodney. Like I’d been a few days ago. And like always, Max was doing all the work.
“Did you see the Hog game on Saturday? It was def,” Rodney said, trying to make small talk while watching Max do the experiment.
“Excuse me?” Max said. “I can’t hear you . . .”
Rodney sniffed. “Def. DEF.”
Max shook his head, biting his lip to keep from smiling. “I have a hearing problem.”
“What?”
I started laughing. I couldn’t help it. Max, you jerk. Mr. Truitt flinched at the outburst. He pointed at the door and sent me straight back to the principal’s office. Wonderful. I was being treated just like Victory—our main character’s name in Big Sister. Maybe that’s what Max had intended all along.
“Ms. Ratliff,” Principal Parker said, standing at his office door.
Oh crap. The Ms. Ratliff. That was as bad as the “Laura Beth” I got at home.
The chair in front of Principal Parker’s desk was still warm from the butt before. Kevin Barnes decided at lunch to not go out to the smokers’ corner. Instead, half the school watched as he lit one up right at the table over his tater tots. I could still smell the stale cigarette smoke and fried potatoes.
“Why are you here again?” Principal Parker asked. My permanent file on his desk.
“I laughed at a joke in Mr. Truitt’s class.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And Mr. Truitt didn’t think it was funny enough to laugh at.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But it was Max—”
“Stop right there.”
Max had a reputation.
Principal Parker took a deep breath. “I get it, I really do, but you have to show respect to the teachers. We’re not here to test your intelligence.”
I blinked at him. “Then what are you here to test for?” I asked.
“Honestly?” he muttered. “Start with my patience.”
I made it back to class just in time for the school sirens to go off. It was a drill—another drill.
We made our way into the hallway and sat in front of the lockers. Terrence sat beside me, and Rodney was on the other side. Max was across the hall making faces. Not exactly following the rules, but certainly testing Principal Parker’s patience, had he been there.
“Chuck, sit down now,” Coach Brooks shouted.
We all cringed, waiting for him to blow his whistle.
Coach Brooks was the assistant varsity football coach and civics teacher. He wore his whistle everywhere he went. I once saw him at an afternoon showing of E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial.35 He blew the whistle when two adults started having a conversation during the scene when Elliot thought that E.T. had died.
“Coach, I can’t,” Chuck groaned. He stood against the cold metal of his locker with Dana and Kathy. They supported him as if they were adoring cheerleaders without brains, which they were. But they also had a reason to support him: Chuck had a broken leg.
“Chuck, get your ass down now before a nuke takes you out,” Coach Brooks yelled.
In case of nuclear attack, I’d decided I wanted the pointy end of the bomb to fall right above my head—I’d be skeletonized.
Chuck shook his head. “Coach, listen, it hurts. I won’t be able to get back up.”
Dana’s and Kathy’s indignation on Chuck’s behalf was too much for them to bear. They ran down the hall. Coach Brooks wasn’t happy. He called out their names but once he saw Chuck sliding down the lockers and falling to the floor, he smiled and spat his whistle from his mouth. He knew that Dana and Kathy had made the right decision. Chuck lay flat on the floor, turned on his stomach. His head in the middle of the hallway. His leg touching the wall.
His face was creased in agony as he writhed on the cold linoleum. He wasn’t faking. I felt bad for him. “Cover your head now, Chuck,” Coach Brooks ordered, and Chuck obeyed, even though he was in DefCon 136 in pain.
“You’re all going to die—so kiss your asses goodbye,” Chuck said.
Is this appropriate? I wondered. I would have asked it out loud if another teacher had been present. Where was Principal Parker during these drills?
The sirens seemed to go on longer than usual. I felt queasy. Like something was looming on the horizon. And it wasn’t good. It could be Thanksgiving—in three days—with just Mom and Dennis. Terrence would be with his mom for the holiday. The sirens went on and on. These days those lilting doomsday whistles seemed to erupt more frequently—sour and out of sync and coming from every direction. I always pictured a chorus of limp-winged fallen angels, booted out of heaven for singing like crap. Stripped of their harps. Wailing for our attention while we marched toward the apocalypse. (But maybe that was because I was still bitter that Mom made me try out for chorus in ninth grade; when I didn’t pass the audition, it ruined extracurricular activities for me for good.) Still, the world continued not to end. Our butts continued to remain firmly glued to the dirty hallway floor.