“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 his 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?”