by Amy Brashear
In my defense, Mom said that if I happened to come across any Hollywood type, she wanted me to introduce myself. Apparently so they’d remember me. Or maybe just to be polite? Sadly for her, I was too chicken to get too close. On the plus side, they weren’t talking about Terrence anymore—or the problem of actually having (God forbid) two black teenagers in the same movie who weren’t criminals.
“I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy with clearance that can get us through the gate,” Mr. Edman was whispering. “I mean, I know you have to worry about liability. You’re the exec producer. But it’s safe. As long as we don’t touch anything, we’ll be fine. Trust me.”
The man nodded. “Fine. We’ll amend the contract so that you’re liable.”
“No . . . I mean, yes, but the point is—” Mr. Edman broke off and glared at me. “Are you lost, young lady?”
I shook my head and darted away, searching for Max. Lucky for me, Mayor Hershott chose that moment to take the stage and address the crowd. He tapped the mic at the front of the stage, and the screech of feedback prompted everyone to turn.
“Welcome to Griffin Flat,” Mayor Hershott proclaimed. He paused dramatically, telegraphing a joke. “It’s an honor that our little town will be off the map real soon.”
The crowd cheered.
The Griffin Flat High School Band was setting up behind him. In their red-and-gold uniforms and their instruments polished to shine, they played the school song, which really was “The Victors”—the University of Michigan fight song, with different lyrics, of course.
The crowd cheered, and the band jumped around as if the football team had scored the winning touchdown in state (which would never happen). Astrid Ogilvie walked past. I tried to say hi but I chickened out. She’d been kind of rude the other night, and I didn’t really want to feel small again.
“Hey. Laura, right?” Freddy said, poking me on the arm.
“Yeah, it’s Laura, hey,” I said, trying not to get overexcited.
I smiled. He smiled. Then he asked where Terrence was, and I pointed him out in the crowd. He was with Rodney next to the dessert table.
“And our stars—Astrid Ogilvie, Freddy White, and Owen Douglas,” Mayor Hershott said as the crowd erupted in cheers and the band blew its horns and pounded its drums.
The stars waved to the crowd.
It was surreal. We hadn’t had movie stars in our small town. This was new, and though it was exciting it was kind of nerve-racking. We were afraid to do the wrong thing, say the wrong thing; we were on edge. No one wanted the people from California to think we were dumb southern rednecks.
“Thanks for the hospitality,” Owen said.
“Yes, thank y’all so much,” Astrid said, taking the microphone from Owen. “It’s an honor to be here, y’all.” The fake southern accent that she was using was downright demeaning. The way she said y’all made my skin crawl.
“I love you, Astrid,” said a boy in the crowd. I knew that boy—Max.
“I love you too,” she said, blowing a kiss.
I was going to have to schedule a doctor’s appointment because I sprained my eyeballs from rolling them too hard.
Max pointed at me and laughed. He was bent over, grabbing his stomach, and people were staring, but he thought he pulled a fast one. His comedy was questionable.
Freddy said that he was happy to be here and thanked everyone for being so welcoming to a boy from California. Freddy was the only one who mingled with the crowd, unlike Owen, who stayed off to the side of the stage, and Astrid, who spoke in a condescending manner. But most of the townspeople were oblivious; they saw how pretty she was and how big her boobs were. Peony Roth wasn’t here. And according to the gossip on the street, she liked the stuff that started with a lowercase C. People were fed up with her shenanigans. People at Economy Pictures were fed up with her shenanigans. Her contract was null and void. She was sent off to do some “charity work,” according to the press. In reality, she was at her fifth stint at the Betty. Who was going to take over the part of Helen Allen?
Bruce Coleman, producing partner with Anthony Dillard (BC-AD Productions), came to the microphone and hit it a couple of times before speaking. “Thank you,” he said slowly. “Thank you for having this party to welcome us to Griffin Flat, or should I say, Pikesville?” He laughed at his own joke, which wasn’t even funny. “Ha. Well, I am glad that your town won. It is a nice town. I’ve met so many friendly people. I hope that we make you proud. We’re going to make history here. Just you wait. Just you wait.”
Mayor Hershott was handed the microphone, and we got back to the night’s festivities. I wanted dinner.
Chapter Fourteen
I thought something had happened when Mom called in a panic. Like Granny had died or worse. “Get down here now,” Mom said. That’s all she said. No explanation. No why. Just “get down here.”
So I did.
I rode my bike, sat it up against the brick building, and walked inside. Mom was dealing with a guest who was adamant about something, so I didn’t get why I had to come down here right then. When Mom had a moment free, she told me—scratch that—she asked me, “Guess who’s staying here?” I hated guessing. But I played along. The governor? An actor? The president? No was the answer to all of those.
“Who, then?” I asked.
“The author.”
Now, you’re probably thinking, Why get so excited about the author?
That guy, Boudreaux Beauchamp, was sort of, could be described as, a recluse. Howard Hughesing41 it. But he was here, staying in our little town, in Mom’s hotel.
“He wants to meet you,” a tiny man carrying a clipboard and a red pen said behind me. “I’m Mr. Beauchamp’s assistant.”
“Get out of town,” I said.
“I wish.”
“Wait—why does he want to meet me?” I asked.
“Your mother has been pestering Mr. Beauchamp all day.”
How embarrassing.
“He’d like to do so now,” the assistant said.
I looked bad. I had ridden the hayride a couple of times with Max and fallen off once getting off. (It took real skill to fall going upstairs, and trip over completely nothing—I had that skill.) I smelled. I’d gone home and was just about to hop in the shower when Mom called and told me to get my butt down here. So I did. Smelly. Hair a rat’s nest. And dirt under my fingernails. I was pretty.
Boudreaux Beauchamp sat in the corner, away from the commotion. The crew had just arrived back from setting up the lighting on the downtown square. Tomorrow was going to be a night shoot. Who knew what they were filming. You know how Hollywood liked to rewrite literature.
“Mr. Beauchamp,” the assistant said, then yelled since Mr. Beauchamp was an eighty-year-old man who was hard of hearing.
“I heard you the first time,” he said (so apparently, he wasn’t hard of hearing), closing his notebook and laying his fancy fountain pen beside it.
“Sit,” the assistant whispered, and I did. Afraid of him and Mr. Beauchamp.
Mr. Beauchamp sat in front of me, his legs crossed, one hand on his knee, the other laid flat on the tabletop. Every so often, he lifted his hand and clicked the tabletop with his long fingernails as if he were playing the piano, and I watched as he tapped his index finger three times before he picked up his complimentary cup of coffee—black—and took a long sip.
“I’m trying to read you, Laura Ratliff,” he said, watching me.
I pulled my sleeves down over my wrists. “What do I say?” I asked.
“You’re hard to read.”
“Do you think that’s a good thing?”
“What do you think?” he asked.
Honestly, I didn’t like how he answered my question with a question.
“I don’t know,” I said slowly.
He picked up his pen and tapped
it on his notebook. “So, Laura, what’s your story?”
“Are you writing a new book?” I asked, smiling.
“Maybe.”
Beauchamp hadn’t published a new book in years. He was becoming like J. D. Salinger42 or Harper Lee.43 Withdrawn from public life—a recluse—cutting off all contact with people. Until one day he appeared in the pages of Vanity Fair.44 He was sitting under a lamp. A shadow from his hat sort of made a mushroom-like cloud shadow on the wall. He was the nukeman, or so many had dubbed him. He was the author that killed millions and left millions wanting more. He left the end of Eve of Destruction pretty vague. It was one of those endings that you throw the book across the room and curse the author for leaving such an unsatisfying conclusion. In the Vanity Fair article, Beauchamp admitted to the world he had been writing, and Hollywood would be filming, one of the most beloved novellas. Finally.
It is time in this nuclear climate to finish this story for a new generation to become disillusioned with the world.45
I scooted closer to the table and asked, “Are we finally going to find out what happened to—”
He raised his hand for me to stop.
“I’m not going to answer your questions about what I’m writing,” he said.
I guess I pouted because he grabbed my hand and squeezed.
“There, there,” he said, patronizing me. “But I will tell you the title, and you can form your own conclusions. Forecast for Extinction,” he said, leaning back on his chair. “Pretty good, don’t you think?”
There were so many ways the story could go, but he wouldn’t tell me. In fact, he went back to taking notes.
“Brunette, sixteen, pretty blue eyes—pretty green eyes,” he said, peering over his reading glasses and staring at me. “You’d be a perfect character.”
“A mutant, you mean, because the bomb went off and everyone died when the bomb went off. Remember? You wrote it,” I said.
“I do. I remember every godawful word.”
“Don’t say that. It’s one of my favorites.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why did you stay out of the public eye for so long?”
“Nothing else to say.”
“Nothing else to say? Says the guy who’s writing a sequel to Eve of Destruction.”
He smiled, taking another drink of his complimentary coffee, and snapped his fingers for his assistant to come. “You know, Laura, your mom mentioned that you want to be a writer.”
“She did?” That was news to me.
He nodded.
“Well, to be honest, I like to write comics as a hobby. My friend Max and I are creating one.”
“Is it about nuclear war? Because there’s a market,” he says, smirking.
“It’s about superheroes.”
“You have your niche. Do you want my advice?”
“Sure,” I said, leaning forward.
“Don’t—chuck it.”
That was helpful.
“Honestly, what’s the point?” He snapped his fingers again for his assistant, who dug in his pocket for a flask and poured.
“If you want some good stuff, I can hook you up,” I said, leaning back on my chair.
“You’re a child,” he said.
I took offense to the word child.
“Okay, I’ll take the good stuff. And I assume in return you want details,” he said.
“I was just being nice, but—”
“Everybody wants something from someone,” he said. “I’ll answer your question.”
“I would like to know what happens after—”
“After?” he asked.
“After.”
“I don’t know, but don’t worry,” he said.
“Don’t worry about what?” I asked.
“Don’t worry, we won’t survive,” he said.
“We?” I asked.
“I mean they. I mean they. Hell, I mean we too. It’s only a matter of time before we do this. It is in our nature to destroy ourselves.”
“What are you even talking about?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, humanity will one day enter a nuclear war. I hope humanity survives.”
He was on a tirade now.
“But there’s no way the human race will survive. Too many believe in the magic man in the sky while having power over nuclear weapons. We’re Homo sapiens—the only species smart enough to create its own extinction and the only species stupid enough to do it. One big bang and we all fall down. We’re going to have a ringside seat to Armageddon. Victory to the country that recovers first after a nuclear war.”
I felt sick to my stomach.
“Oh—about the book,” he said, smiling. “It seems fitting to begin with ‘The End.’”
I grabbed his cup of complimentary “coffee” and chugged.
* * *
41 Howard Hughes was an eccentric man, a recluse who wanted to be alone. He locked himself in a room for four months eating nothing but chocolate bars, drinking milk, and peeing in empty bottles. Oh, and he was obsessed with green peas.
42 American author who is famous for writing The Catcher in the Rye, published in 1951.
43 American author who is famous for writing To Kill a Mockingbird, published in 1960.
44 A magazine that was resurrected in February 1983.
45 Excerpt from Hamilton Stewart’s article, “Boudreaux Beauchamp, Obscure Author,” Vanity Fair, January 1984.
Chapter Fifteen
I came running down the hall and nearly tripped over Max at my locker. He was sitting on the floor with books strewn all around him in front of lockers that had been spray-painted white.
“Who did this?” I asked, standing in front of him.
“Seniors, I think,” he said.
The FEMA pamphlet did say all interior walls should be painted antiflash white, and the walls in this hall are basically lockers. So I guessed they were doing us a favor. You know, saving lives and all.
“They’re in the principal’s office,” he added.
“Getting a lecture or an award for a job well done?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
I touched one of the lockers with my pinkie to make sure it was dry before sitting down on the floor beside him. I didn’t want a bunch of wet white paint on my purple shirt.
“So why are you not in homeroom?” I asked.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he said.
“I overslept.”
“Likely story,” he said, picking at his braces.
Max’s nerd transformation was now complete. Full-on metal mouth.
“Don’t even ask.” Max spoke while drooling. “I’ve got the headgear too.”
“Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I said, thankful that my parents weren’t too concerned about the well-being of my teeth. Max, on the other hand, had parentitis. “Do they hurt?” I asked.
He nodded and tossed one notebook aside and then started on another.
“Homework?” I asked.
“Yup,” he said, flipping the pages of his western civ book.
He always waited until the last minute to do his homework. He was, like, crazy smart but kind of had a hard time focusing.
“I miss the days when homework was just coloring,” he said, scratching out a sentence.
“Me too.”
“And I wish that Mr. Meyer didn’t require us to write out the questions too. I mean, come on. I hate that man.”
“I had him last year. I got Mom to make sure that I didn’t have him this year.”
“I should have done that. We have new partners in science today,” he said.
“For you,” I said with a laugh.
“I’ve been thinking about pulling the shower string,” h
e said, nodding.
“Do it. It’s liberating.”
“Mr. Truitt would smell a conspiracy. Two of his smartest students breaking the rules.”
“Oh, I love a good conspiracy,” I said.
“Me too,” he said, leaning in close. I could smell his foul Cheetos breath. “Did you know there have been twenty-six nuclear tests this year?”
“Is that a lot?” I asked.
“There’ve been two this month alone. France and the USSR did tests. This year the USSR have done sixteen; we, the United State, have done six, France has done three; and Great Britain has done one. At least, that’s all that I could find. We’ve probably done more than six. But sixteen for the USSR, shit—this is scary as hell. If it does happen, I would want to be vaporized right away. Fuck getting cooked and being in agonizing pain.”
“How do you know this?” I asked.
“Classified.”
I side-eyed him. And then he spilled. “Hacking,” he said.
WarGames certainly did a number on him.
“I think all these sirens are getting us ready for the big one,” he said.
“I hope not,” I said.
“Come on. The big bang to end all big bangs. Isn’t your dad preparing for World War Three?”
He had me there. And he had me somewhere else: my dad lived in a world of classified information. Just like 1984. What a book to have an anniversary. I hoped I was as smart as George Orwell when I grew up. It would be nice to know the nightmares that occurred to me now would manifest themselves thirty-six years later.
They probably would. The whole state of Arkansas was almost a cover-up. Four years ago, it was almost erased from existence after a nuclear missile silo accident. It meaning Arkansas. Thankfully, nothing happened, and we Arkansans were saved, meant to live another day to tell the ordeal, which hardly anyone would believe. Arkansas almost nuked themselves. Max would like to say how could we tell the difference? Ha. Ha. Very funny. But seriously. American flags would have to be replaced; instead of fifty stars, there would only be a need for forty-nine.