by Amy Brashear
We, as make-believe historians, like to rewrite history.
Maybe we are Oceania and Mr. Meyer is Big Brother himself.
We were averaging three sirens a week, which wasn’t normal at all. Since the start of the school year (school started two months ago), we’d had thirty-four of what our parents would call duck-and-cover drills. It was easy to say that the administration was overreacting, but was it? The editor of the Shiner News assigned me an article for the school paper on why there were so many sirens in early October. I dug and dug. I had some findings but nothing concrete. No one gave their name. I even went to my dad and asked, but he couldn’t tell me anything, and most definitely wouldn’t go on record, and wouldn’t be anonymous either. No one would be my Deep Throat.46 When I turned my story in to the editor, who turned it into our advisor (we don’t have a free press at GFHS), it was redacted so much that the only thing left was my name, and that was misspelled. The editor still hadn’t fixed my byline, even though I told her half a dozen times that my name is Laura, not Lauren.
“I’m telling you, Laura, the BOOM is coming,” Max said, using his hands to show an explosion.
People were wrong; just because you have lemons does not mean you have to make lemonade—the same argument goes for a nuclear bomb.
“I’m afraid we won’t live past tomorrow,” I said.
We were in agreement.
He’d been hard hit in his family too. The sickness of a questionable tomorrow. You know—my granny believed in the Rapture. Like Jesus descending from heaven to take all the believers back with him. Saving them from all the trials, tribulation, and damnation. Don’t get the mark. And pray like it’s your last prayer ever. She lives for today by making sure she has a tomorrow in heaven. She does that by, of course, sending hundreds of dollars, money she doesn’t have, to Reverend Lowry. But Max’s family’s version of a questionable tomorrow was different. His mom was racking up the credit card debt. Max told me they were in dire financial troubles, but it wouldn’t matter. There was not going to be a tomorrow. A nuke was going to take care of that.
“Well, I’ve got western civ, English, lunch, and then chemistry. On the upside, I’m one chemical spill away from superpowers,” he said, grabbing his lab sheet to finish before the bell rang. “What do we call the science of classifying living things?” he asked.
“Racism?”
“Good one. I’m going to write that down. Maybe Mr. Truitt has a sense of humor today.”
“Do you ever wonder if we’re living in a world where the tin-foil hats are right?” I asked.
“Every single day of my life.”
* * *
46 The name of the secret informant who gave information to Washington Post reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein that led to Watergate and the eventual resignation of President Richard Nixon.
NOTICE
Instruction to Patrons on Premises in
Case of Nuclear Bomb Attack . . .
WARNING: THE END IS NEAR . . .
Windows are not safe zones, so stay clear.
Electronic devices will not work, so no need to carry your Walkman around.
Air quality may be low, so refrain from taking as many large breaths as possible.
Radiation is everywhere, so find radiation-free zones like your local library or fire station.
Environments may change because of events, so summer may come early this year.
Food will be affected by radiation, so find alternatives to food.
Umbrellas, though unproven, may be used as fallout protection.
Clothing should be removed because of radiation absorption. No need to feel embarrassed if your skin is falling off.
Kitchen appliances lined with lead may be effective in shielding from the blast. However, it is unproven and untested.
Energy should not be wasted on activities not pertinent to survival. Please refrain from coitus so to avoid mutated offspring.
Do not stand during the blast. Items of taller height are most effected by the explosion. Bending over and placing your head firmly between your legs is a good strategy due to stability and overall awareness.
Thank You. And Please Enjoy Your Stay At The Flat Inn.
Chapter Sixteen
I was reading 1984 comfortably on the couch when the phone rang. It was Mom.
“We’ll get back to our normal life soon, but for now I need you both to step up,” Mom said, as if we were new to this family. Also, she’d neglected to say “hello.” But I got it. Both Mom and Dennis worked. I had done my own laundry for years now. When Terrence was at his mom’s, I was usually at home alone or until Dennis got off work.
“Get dinner at the diner. Don’t wait for us. It’s going to be another late one.”
I hung up the phone right when Terrence came in through the garage.
“We’re supposed to get dinner at the diner,” I said.
“Let me change and we’ll go.”
I turned on the TV and slumped in the wingback pink chair. The same chair Mom would make me sit in during time-outs. I grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. Kids Incorporated47 was on. The TV Guide said, Episode 26 Civic Day Parade: Kids Inc. want to make a float for the Civic Day Parade, but everyone wanted to do a tribute to something different. Renee proves that they have to work together in order to make the float spectacular. Cheesy. Stacy’s my favorite. I was probably not the target audience for Kids Incorporated, but it was fun and I liked it. Just like how I liked MTV. Mom and Dennis didn’t care if Terrence and I watched MTV. Max couldn’t. He lived in a pretty strict home. So whenever I was over at his house and we had MTV on, we’d have to have one ear listening for his parents’ vehicle pulling into the driveway. Once we were caught, and he was grounded for a month, and I was labeled as a “bad influence.” I wasn’t allowed over there for two months. Not until the affair was found out by the entire town and my parents’ divorce came through did Max’s mom relent and say I needed a positive influence in my life—whatever that meant.
Terrence was still in the shower. He took longer than I did. He used all the hot water, so when he was at his mom’s house, it felt like a vacation. I didn’t do sports. In the ninth grade, I went out for the girls’ basketball team. I didn’t make it. In fact, Coach Thomas told me it would be in my best interest to never try out for a sport ever again.
“Ready?” Terrence asked, rounding the corner from his room.
“Yeah, for almost an hour.”
“Hey, it takes time to get this good-looking,” he said, picking his hair.
The diner was busy for a Monday night. Most people were talking about the shooting of scenes that had gone on in town. How exciting it was. How crazy it was. How they couldn’t wait for it to be over. How everything would be back to normal. Those were the ones sitting at the counter because their usual corner booth was taken.
“I can’t wait for this movie nonsense to be done with,” Brenda Leigh said. I thought she was just angry that they didn’t ask her for her help with hair and makeup.
We didn’t usually get tourists, so the displeasure of many was felt. Griffin Flat was small and it would remain small—no matter how many people wanted to see it grow.
“Mom,” Terrence said, waiting for me to decide between the cheeseburger and fries or French dip and fries.
Ms. Wilcox was wearing her yellow blazer. She was a realtor. She was good at her job. Ironically, she helped Mom and Dad buy the house we had been living in before. The one Granny lived in now. She was nice. She never said anything mean about me—at least, not to my face. But she was still angry. Terrence said he couldn’t talk about his dad ever at his mom’s house. It made her mad. Not sad mad. Just mad. Mad that he put her through that. She was the woman scorned. The bitter woman. She owned it, though. I think she was just upset that it made her upset. And embarrassed. And I got that. Bec
ause I had been embarrassed when it’d happened. You think your parents are happy and in love, and then they turn out to not be. It kind of crushes your psyche.
“You two looking forward to tomorrow?” she asked us.
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“It’s really nice of you to take your . . . stepbrother with you. You’re just one happy family, aren’t you? The perfect little stepsister,” she said.
“Mom,” Terrence said.
She smiled at her son. “I suppose I should ask how your dad is?”
“He’s good. Busy. With the FEMA pamphlet and all,” he said.
“Yeah, I bet he is. I hear Jay Nelson is making a killing selling insurance to everyone, even the old. Scum of the earth, he is. Selling insurance for the apocalypse.” She looked around the diner. “We can’t really gossip in here; we’re within the city limits.”
I laughed. So did Terrence. She did not.
“How’s your mom, Laura?” she asked.
“My mom?” I asked. She had never asked about her before.
“The woman that stole my husband,” she clarified.
“Mom—” Terrence said.
“Hester Prynne,” she said.
“Mom—”
“Good for him for finding an older woman that can keep up with him. I’m too young and too in shape for him anyway,” she said.
“Mom—”
“So have you seen your dad lately, Laura?” she asked.
“No, I haven’t,” I said.
“That’s a shame. It really is. Your mom and your dad didn’t really think—”
“Mom—” Terrence said.
She sighed. “Your mom and my ex-husband are coming up on their one-year anniversary soon, aren’t they?”
I nodded.
“I can’t believe they made it almost a year. Breaking up a marriage and then expecting it to be real love. Cheating is cheating, and there is no happiness in that. There hasn’t been a marriage that worked when it’s based on adultery,” she said.
“Johnny Cash and June Carter,” I said.
She chuckled but then gave me the death glare.
“Well, wasn’t your parents’ wedding, wasn’t that a spectacle?” she said.
The spectacle, or wedding, as most refer to it as. What the local newspaper called a beautiful affair, what the gossip nellies called a white homewrecker (from a respectable family) marrying a colored man (It’s 1984, for goodness’ sake! You’d think we’d be past this), was a crime against nature (and good Lord, but many spoke that in whispered tones). It was a spectacle, that’s what it was. Everyone was there—well, not Granny—but everyone in town was. My mom wore white (Who was she fooling?), and I wore a pink dress since I was the maid of honor. Terrence was his dad’s best man. We were the Brady Bunch (we were both Jan). Our integration into our new normal went as well as could be expected, though at times it felt like segregation, but my mom tried her best to make everything separate but equal.
“Have fun tomorrow, my children, and I do mean that,” Terrence’s mom said, squeezing both our hands.
We ordered the food, ate the food, and headed home.
Terrence apologized for his mom, but I said it didn’t really matter. I understood why she was upset. I was too.
* * *
47 A TV program that premiered in 1983 and was set around a musical group.
nu·cle·ar war (ˈnü-klē-ər , ˈnyü- , nonstandard -kyə-lər) (ˈwȯr )
noun
a war in which nuclear weapons are used.
nu·cle·ar fam·i·ly (ˈnü-klē-ər , ˈnyü- , nonstandard -kyə-lər)
(ˈfam-lē , ˈfa-mə- )
noun
a couple and their dependent children, regarded as a basic social unit.
Chapter Seventeen
Terrence was still getting ready. He had changed his clothes at least twice. I won’t say how many times I’d changed mine. But now I sat eating my scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and whole wheat toast, though my stomach was aching from fear. It felt like the first day of school. New outfit? Check. Big breakfast? Check. Standing in front of the grandfather clock for a Polaroid? Check. (Terrence still had to take his.)
We both had excused absences today.
The phone rang. I assumed it was a Hollywood person. (I actually assumed it was a Hollywood person who’d decided, on second thought, that Eve of Destruction didn’t need any Griffin Flat locals for their movie—the town was enough.) Dennis answered.
“Yes, I’ll accept the charges . . .” He frowned, staring at my mom, then thrust the phone toward her. “Danny.”
I stiffened. Dad? Why was he calling collect?
Mom wiped her mouth on her napkin and placed it on her chair. She took off her earring to position the transmitting and receiving ends correctly against her cheek and mouth, because apparently there was a proper way to speak on the telephone—as if God were watching. “Hello?” She sighed heavily. “No, this is a fine time . . . I can’t hear you—speak up.” She threw a hand up and turned to Dennis and shook her head. “There’s too much static on the line. Call back!” She marched back to Dennis and slammed the phone down on the hook.
Dennis and I stared at her.
“I couldn’t hear a thing he was saying,” Mom said.
Terrence bounded down the stairs and into the kitchen. He took a look around. “What’s going on?”
Dennis shrugged and turned up the TV. Robert De Niro was being interviewed on The Today Show by Jane Pauley and Bryant Gumbel. I tried to focus on the screen, but it went blank, exploding with a BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.
I winced at the sudden spike in volume.
Dennis leapt forward to turn it down.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP
Words appeared on the screen, printed in the sort of grim font reserved for statewide standardized testing.
emergency broadcast system.
“This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System,” a man’s voice announced. I knew his voice; everyone did. But for the first time I noticed that he sounded strangely cheerful, as if he’d been brainwashed by a cult. “The broadcasters in your area, in voluntary cooperation with federal, state, and local authorities, have developed this system to keep you informed in the event of an emergency. If this had been an actual emergency, the attention signal you just heard would have been followed by official information, news, or instructions. This station serves the Central Arkansas area. This concludes the test of the Emergency Broadcast System.”
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. Robert De Niro reappeared. Everyone relaxed.
“Do you think the two are related?” I asked, using my fork to point to the TV and the phone in the kitchen.
“What two?” Mom asked irritably.
I shrugged, my eyes on Terrence. “The reason Dad called and the reason there was a warning about an ‘actual emergency.’ Seems to be happening a lot. Weird, right?”
Nobody answered. Probably all for the best. After all, as Max put it, I needed to become an actress.
Chapter Eighteen
Terrence drove us to the set at the fairgrounds. There were so many no parking signs that we finally had to ask a police officer where to go. “This general area,” he said, pointing in a circle. We parked and walked the long way to a double-wide that had been converted into a front office. We checked in, had to show ID, and turned in our signed forms.
“Congratulations,” said the lady at the desk. “You will have a lot of fun.”
I recognized her; she was a volunteer from the local law office my parents used in their divorce. I forgot her name. Apparently she didn’t have to wear a name tag. Which made sense: she was in charge of the “confidentiality agreements.” The people in charge of the movie really wanted to make sure that we didn’t talk about the movie outside the movie. We
had to agree to this in about six hundred different ways.
She handed us two stickers to put on our shirts.
Hello
my name Is
Hello
my name Is
A tiny redheaded man stood at the door, wearing a sweater-vest and skinny jeans. He carried a clipboard and looked at his watch a lot. “That’s Tyson,” said the lady at the desk. “He’ll be your eyes and ears. He’s a head production assistant.”
He looked at us and nodded.
“Okay, you’ll meet with the script supervisor and then costume. And then meet with the director.” She was so excited about her part-time job.
“Laura and Terrence,” Tyson said, looking at his clipboard and flipping over a to-do list. We said yes, and he crossed off our names. “Follow me.”
We exited through the back door and down a flight of wooden steps to the county fairgrounds. What usually held fair equipment, rides, and games now held trailers and golf carts and mopeds. And lots of people with walkie-talkies and clipboards and carts being wheeled and boxes being moved. Clothes being carried and people walking around in robes and smoking cigarettes. We were no longer in Griffin Flat.
Terrence and I followed Tyson to a golf cart. He got in the driver’s seat, and I sat beside him. Terrence sat in the back. Tyson took his sunglasses from his shirt and put them on. It was overcast, but I guess he wanted to look the part of a Hollywood player.
We, as in Terrence and I, held on for dear life as the gas pedal was firmly pushed to the floor and we took off down the dirt road. Past where the ring toss and guess-your-weight games would be, also where the guess-your-weight game operator was punched in the face after a woman was offended by his guess.
