Something Real

  “Bonnie™, can we get you perched on the monkey bars?” asks some non-Eric entity with a camera.

  “Like, swinging?” I ask.

  Patrick’s skin, peeking out from under his flannel shirt.

  “No, maybe reaching out like you’re going to swing?”

  This is going to look so dumb.

  “I guess so,” I say.

  They made me wear a skirt, and I feel like a poor man’s Marilyn Monroe with all this freezing wind—also, I never wear skirts. They make me feel three years old. I climb up the net rope to get up to the bars, and all I can think about is the startled look on Patrick’s face last night as I ran away from him. I reach for the bars and smile through the kids whining, my mother’s snapping, and the millions of tiny adjustments the camera dudes are shouting out. There are a couple of bounce cards set up—white circles that have something to do with lighting. They’re catching the sun, and the light jumping off them is blinding and gives me an instant headache. Kirk just grins, his teeth super white and—I’m just noticing this—his skin much tanner.

  “Did Kirk get beauty treatments in LA?” I ask Lex.

  She’s posed on the edge of the platform beside the monkey bars, her legs crossed, sitting pretty. She flips her blond hair away from her face, then leans forward to look past me, her breasts heaving against her too-tight shirt.

  “Maybe,” she says. “Weird, huh?”

  “Understatement of the year.” I let go of one bar, cursing as I shake out the pins and needles in my arms.

  Lex rolls her eyes. “Okay, tell me you’re not having fun at all,” she says.

  “I’m not having fun at all.”

  “Whatever.” She flashes a grin in the general direction of everyone looking at us. “That Eric guy is super hot. I have dibs.”

  Typical.

  “Aren’t you remotely pissed about Mom’s book?” I ask.

  She adjusts her skirt, keeping her eyes on the cameras. “I looked through the copy Ben brought home. Doesn’t seem too heinous. I mean, the stuff about Dad was … but, whatever. It’s good publicity for the show. Mom said we could go to some of her book signings, too.”

  “You’re unbelievable,” I mutter.

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  We stay there for about an hour while various strangers keep coming around to move our bodies or shove light meters in our faces. My breath tastes like hair spray, and the wind is making my eyes water, so now I have this irritating makeup-in-my-eye thing happening.

  “Lexie™, Bonnie™, why don’t you put your arms around each other for a few of these?”

  Lex throws an arm over my shoulder, and I let go of one of the monkey bars. Smile!

  “Okay, everyone,” shouts a girl with long black hair and oversized geek-chic glasses. “Last one. Ready? CHEESE!”

  The little kids scream “cheese,” and I purposely close my eyes.

  “Okay, folks, lunch!”

  The kids cheer because there’d been a pizza rumor. My arms feel like jelly, and my hands are raw from the cold. I jump down from the apparatus, then throw my hair into a messy bun, forgetting that someone had spent an hour making it look all supermodelish. Eric snaps a shot, and I feel slutty because I kind of grinned at him in a slightly come-hither way even though less than ten hours ago, I was kissing Patrick.

  “Dude, I need a cigarette,” Benny says.

  I rub my arms to get the blood circulating again. “I need a massage.”

  He glances at my outfit. “We look like we just ran away from prep school.”

  It’s true. We’re wearing sweater vests. And plaid.

  “Screw sweater vests,” I say.

  He gives me a nod, his face serious. “Before we ceremoniously burn them, wanna come with me to the gas station? I finished my last cig this morning.”

  “I thought you were going to quit.”

  “Yes, because it’s easy to quit smoking on days like this.”

  “Okay, let’s go before anyone catches us.”

  We slink behind Kirk’s elaborate barbecue and into the front yard, which is pretty hard to do because it’s basically rigged up like a freaking CIA safe house. There are about a gazillion cameras mounted onto the walls, plus the high security fencing around our whole property.

  “Oh, good, I was afraid they’d be blocking me in,” he says, as we slip into our car.

  I click the gate opener, and the tall metal doors slowly creak open. Benny does a twenty-three-point turn, which takes about ten minutes because there are a ton of vehicles parked all over our front drive. I fiddle with my iPod, trying to find the right song to counteract my schizo morning. As Benny pulls out of the driveway, he slams on the brakes, hard.

  “What the hell?” I shout, throwing my hands against the dashboard.

  “Chlo. Look.”

  I glance across the street.

  “Shit,” I say. “Back, back,” I yell, holding up my hands to block my face.

  Benny reverses our Hyundai, nearly crashing into Chuck’s Benz. I throw my head into my lap as the gates close, hoping they weren’t able to get a clear picture of my face.

  Benny hits the steering wheel. “How did the goddamn paparazzi get our address?”

  I shake my head, staring at the closed gate. The Vultures were circling again.

  www.metareel.com/bakersdozen/comingsoon

  INT—BAKER HOME—AFTERNOON: The Baker’s Dozen theme music plays. [BETH BAKER-MILLER sits with KIRK at the Baker-Miller dining room table.]

  BETH BAKER-MILLER: How can I describe the past four years? [sighs] Hard. Terrifying. There were nights I would just lie awake, missing Andrew, feeling lost. Being a single mom to thirteen kids is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I love them more than anything in the world. They’re my everything.

  [Images of the BAKER FAMILY before the show’s cancellation]

  KIRK MILLER: [standing on the Baker-Miller front porch] Being the stepfather of thirteen kids is … [chuckles and shakes his head] Well, it’s a truly unique experience. Sometimes I sit back and watch Beth and think, How is she sane? She’s amazing.

  LEXIE™ BAKER: [sitting on her bed] When the show ended, it was like losing Dad all over again.

  [CUT to image of ANDREW BAKER with the children. CUT to BETH, sitting beside KIRK in the Baker-Miller dining room.]

  BETH BAKER-MILLER: [tearful, dabbing at her eyes] Worst memory? When we almost lost Bonnie™. There is nothing worse than having a doctor tell you your baby might not make it.

  [CUT to clip of BONNIE™ being put on a stretcher.]

  VO: LEXIE™: I know Bonnie’s ashamed of what happened in season thirteen. I think that’s why she’s afraid of the cameras now—she hasn’t gotten over it. I mean, how do you get over trying to kill yourself?

  [CUT to clip of BONNIE™ in the kitchen with her mother.]

  BONNIE™: Mom. Have you ever asked yourself why your thirteen-year-old daughter wanted to swallow a bunch of pills?

  [CUT to KIRK standing on the Baker-Miller front porch.]

  KIRK: Andrew left a big gaping hole in the heart of this family. I don’t pretend I can fill it. The wounds these kids feel are deep. They’ll never get over what he did to them.

  [CUT to BENTON™ in the Baker-Miller living room.]

  BENTON™: My name’s Benton™, and I’m an alcoholic.

  [VO plays over recent footage of the family.]

  VO: Tune in next week for a special two-hour live episode of Baker’s Dozen: Fresh Batch. [Theme music]

  SEASON 17, EPISODE 12

  (The One in the Janitor’s Closet)

  So, yeah, the secret is totally out. Once the Vultures found us, MetaReel immediately put our photos up on the website and began airing the promo for the first episode, which, apparently, is going to be live. Benny said that must have been what Mom and Chuck were talking about, but that still doesn’t make sense. Chuck said there would be “joy” on my siblings’ faces. The thought of a live episode is doing
nothing but making all of us jittery. It’s one thing to have cameras taping you. It’s quite another to know that at that moment there are millions of people watching.

  These are the texts I got about three hours after the Vultures snapped our photos:

  Tessa: You need to call me. Like NOW. My little sister just saw your picture on celeb.com.

  Mer: Um. I just looked on MetaReel’s website. WTF? You’re Bonnie??

  Darren (dude from my English class): Hey. This is Darren from English. We did that Kafka project together in Sept.? RU really Bonie Baker?

  Yeah, B-O-N-I-E.

  * * *

  Mom, on Sunday night, after the magazine people finally leave: “KIDS, DOWNSTAIRS!”

  “Oh, so now they want to talk about all this crap?” Benny grumbles.

  I resist the urge to pull my hair out. “This day is never going to end.”

  Our fifteen-hour picture marathon in the studio is finally over, but that doesn’t seem to be reason enough to cancel our weekly family meeting. It’s always a clumsy ballet of scheduling and chore assignments, peppered with complaints and arguments.

  “How many texts have you gotten so far?” Lex asks, falling into step with us. She’s glowing. I may have been born on camera, but Lex was born for it.

  “More than I wanted,” I say. And none from Patrick.

  “OMG, everyone from school is going to be fuh-reak-ing out,” she says.

  But her walk is bouncy because Lex can’t wait to lord her celeb status over the plebes at Sequoia Arts.

  “Fame! I’m gonna live forever. Baby, remember my name,” Benny sings.

  “Jazz hands,” I stage-whisper, waving my fingers around.

  Lex just raises her eyebrows. “And that little impromptu performance is why I go to an arts institution, and you go to a lame-ass public school.”

  I roll my eyes. “She says, her eyes glittering with malicious intent.” My heart skips at the word, and I have to force myself not to replay that part of my date with Patrick.

  “Grow up,” she growls, pushing Benny aside as he executes some surprisingly limber Rockettes kicks.

  “I’m surprised she doesn’t get a sunburn from the rays of her own awesomeness,” Benny says as Lex heads to the first floor.

  “It’s a problem that has stumped scientists for years.”

  When we get downstairs, everyone is seated at the dining room table. There are fresh flowers in the vase and lit candles. I guess I have to get used to my home being a set—all the world’s a stage and yaddayaddayadda.

  “Okay, guys,” Mom says, holding her cell phone and typing into it as she speaks. “The Meanies are back, and we have to stay away from them as much as possible.”

  “Meanies!” shrieks Jasmine™, aka the Triplet Whose Voice Can Break Glass.

  Daisy™ and Violet™ giggle, their little hands covering their faces.

  “Who are the Meanies?” prompts Chuck.

  He’s off camera, just behind Old Guys Rule Dude.

  “The Meanies,” Mom says, “are the paparazzi. They’ve set up camp outside our house, and now Kirk and I have to find a way to make sure the kids don’t get harassed. This is my number one priority right now.”

  I think if she hadn’t written that book, we might not be having this problem until the first episode airs, but I don’t say that because we’re barely on speaking terms right now. Plus, there’s the whole Chuck-threatening-me thing. I feel like he’s watching every word I say, waiting for an opportunity to screw my family over.

  Kirk clears his throat. “It’s important that we don’t acknowledge them.”

  How the hell does he know how to act?

  Mom nods. “Benton™, Bonnie™, and Lexie™, I’m sorry but you’re probably going to be seeing them a lot. They’re not allowed on campus at your schools, but they’ll set up shop across the street. Just don’t give them the time of day.”

  The rest of the kids are homeschooled, so they only need to worry about it when they go out with Mom or Kirk. I nod and play with my cuticles, pushing them down, pressing against my nails. I go to my happy place during times like this. I’m on a beach, the waves are licking my toes, I’m— Okay, my happy place is currently unavailable.

  “So let’s talk about tomorrow,” Mom says, opening up her massive day planner.

  I tune Mom out and lean back in my chair. Part of me wants to go online and see what people are already saying, just so I’ll be prepared. The other part of me wants to never open my laptop again. I picture Tessa, Mer, and Patrick Googling me, and I have to bite my lip to keep the tears back. Mom drones on forever, pointing to the big whiteboard calendar that’s on the kitchen wall. I hear the words book tour and Kaye Gibbons Show, and I mentally vomit.

  “Great, thanks, everyone,” Kirk says. “Meeting adjourned.”

  Lacey Production Assistant comes up to me right away. “Hey, Bonnie™?”

  When I look at her she backs away a little, like I’m a rabid beast. Maybe I’m glaring, I don’t know.

  “Um. We need you for a little one-on-one. Can you come down to the basement?”

  “It’s been a really long day.”

  “Just a quick chat,” she says in a voice that makes it clear she’s not asking. I look over toward Chuck and he nods.

  I shrug off the hand Lacey puts on my arm and start toward the stairs. When I get down there, the camera is facing a plush couch that has a table next to it with a pretty little lamp and a vase of fresh flowers. I sit down on the couch, cross-legged, and Lacey sits to the right of the camera, on a stool.

  “Hey, Bonnie™,” Puma Guy says. “Long day, huh?”

  I should really learn his name. I can see he’s trying to be nice. Maybe he even feels bad for me.

  “You know it,” I say.

  “Okay, ready?” he asks. The red light is blinking.

  “Yep, I guess.”

  “Okay, and five, four, three, two—”

  Puma Guy points to Lacey, and she glances down at her clipboard.

  “So, Bonnie™, tell me a little bit about how it feels to see the paparazzi again.”

  I know they will edit out her voice so it seems like I’m just chatting, sitting here and dying to tell America all my feelings. I shake my head.

  “If you want to know how it feels to have people point cameras in your face and not care at all that they’re freaking vultures and to have your friends texting you being like, who are you?, then I would have to say it feels like crap.”

  Lacey closes the big O she’s making with her mouth and kind of coughs.

  “Um. Okay. So … how do you think it’s going to be at school tomorrow?”

  I grip the little throw pillow on the couch and shrug. “Guess I’ll find out when I get there. My prediction is that it’s going to suck a lot. Speaking of … I have to get up in five hours, so I’m gonna go. ’Night.”

  I don’t wait for permission. I just get up and walk past the camera.

  * * *

  “I resent that the Vultures wouldn’t even let us go through the Starbucks drive-thru in peace,” I say, slamming the passenger-side door.

  Good thing we left the house a little early—the student parking lot is almost full, which means the bell for first period will be ringing soon. So much for being early enough to explain myself to Tessa and Mer.

  Benny sets his latte on the roof so he can throw on his coat. “Guess we’ll have to invest in an espresso machine,” he says.

  “God, we sound like spoiled assholes, don’t we?” I say.

  He raises his cup to me in a toast. “I like to think of us as inmates of a comfortable prison.”

  “Hey, hey. If it isn’t my favorite celebrity friends,” says Matt.

  He and Benny do the fist-bump, half-hug combo that guys do. This is how in-the-closet boyfriends greet each other in public. I wonder, will this change once people start paying more attention to Benny? Maybe they will finally have to be who they really are—or will Matt say he can’t handle it?


  “Hey, friend,” I say, accepting his bear hug.

  “Are you sure you want to be seen with us?” Benny asks. He says this seriously, like he’s finishing a conversation that started a week ago.

  “Yes.” Matt’s voice is firm, and I feel a tiny prick of jealousy when I see the way he looks at Benny. I wish someone would look at me like that.

  “I’m gonna…” I point in the general direction of the school.

  “Love you,” says Benny.

  “XOXO,” I singsong, mimicking Sandra’s voice.

  Benny rolls his eyes as I make my way to the front door. My face is already hot, and I keep my eyes down and hide behind my hair. If it weren’t so cloudy, I would be wearing the retro sunglasses I bought in the Tower District.

  “Chloe.”

  It’s Tessa. She’s standing near my locker, holding on to both straps of her backpack. No hug.

  “Hey.”

  I had sent both her and Mer a long e-mail, detailing all the reasons why I hadn’t told them the truth. It was apologetic, full of ellipses, and probably the e-mail equivalent of a kicked puppy’s whine. Pathetic. Neither of them had gotten back to me.

  Tessa just sort of looks at me, like I’m an alien. “I don’t know what to say.”

  I kick at the dirty linoleum. “Um. Did you get my e-mail…?”

  She nods. “Yeah. Yeah. It’s just so…” She kind of waves her hands around.

  In a way, I feel so much better, knowing that she knows. Even if it means we can’t be friends. Because I always knew I’d have to tell her someday, if we were ever going to have any kind of real friendship. But I just wish I had been in control of the when, where, and how.

  “I know this is shitty,” I say. “And I totally understand if—you know. I mean, whatever you want to do.”

  The bell rings, and she kind of shuffles backward.

  “Okay. Right. I’ll see you, uh, later, I guess.”