Amy Brashear - The Incredible True Story of the Making of the Eve of Destruction

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.

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 Hughesing [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. 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.