Something Real

  Figures that’s what Lex would say to us. The chaos begins to look more organized as the minutes slip away. My stomach rolls, and I clutch at the table. What if I totally freak out on TV and give an epic demonstration of the Heisenberg Principle—breathe. I try to take a deep breath and count to ten like Diane Le Shrink suggested, but the smell of the food is just making me feel worse. Maybe it’s not nerves—I could have something highly contagious. But even if that were true, I doubt I’d be able to convince Chuck it’s a health risk to have me down here. I’m pretty sure he’d expose everyone to the bubonic plague if it got him the shots he wanted.

  “Doesn’t it feel weird knowing Matt’s watching this?” I ask.

  Now that it’s almost time, I’m wondering if I should have told Patrick to boycott the show. Will seeing my family freak him out?

  Benny nods and kind of blushes. “We have a little secret message worked out. So he’ll know I’m thinking of him or that I, like, need him to send me some good vibes.”

  “What is it?”

  “Cantaloupe. Every time I say that, it’s for him.”

  “Benny, when the hell are you going to have an opportunity to say cantaloupe during Thanksgiving dinner?”

  “No, it’s brilliant. See, if it were something more normal, he wouldn’t be sure. Like, if it was potato or fork—”

  Chuck: “And we’re live in five, four, three—”

  The first thirty minutes of the two-hour special fly by. Everyone is given Thanksgiving duties or kid-wrangling duties or kids-running-around-being-cute duties. The cameras follow me as I set the table, peel potatoes, and scold the triplets for getting underfoot. Violet™ gets her finger slammed in the bathroom door, and I have to kiss it and make it better. Riley™ and Gavin™ keep doing disgusting fart noises with their armpits while ignoring my I’m-going-to-kill-you looks. Because there’re so many cameras, I never know when I’m actually on TV. Chuck is upstairs, engineering the whole thing—he’s Big Brother in the flesh. I just keep picturing people I know watching—especially Patrick—and it makes me so self-conscious that I keep bumping into things and being generally klutzy.

  Now I’m back in the kitchen, buttering the mashed potatoes, and I concentrate on making them as fattening as possible, like it’s my calling from God. Benny’s carving a ham in the dining room (and I hear him say, “I’ve seen cantaloupes bigger than this thing!”), Mom’s doing something at the counter involving cinnamon and sugar, and Lexie™’s trill of a laugh scampers in from the living room. Apparently, her job is to be charming.

  “How’s high school, Bonnie™?”

  Lacey’s asking me this off-camera, as usual; America will hear her voice but never actually see her. I would love to trade places with America.

  “Good,” I say. Salt, salt, butter, pepper, a little more butter.

  How to be here and not here at the same time? I need a happy place my mind can go to.

  “Have you made friends?” she asks. She has to practically shout over the whir of the handheld mixer. I turn it up to high speed. Mom shoots me a frustrated look, which I ignore.

  Add milk. “Uh-huh.”

  “What did they do when they found out who you were?” she yells.

  The camera behind Lacey draws closer and this dress is so freaking tight and itchy, and I can feel sweat building on my upper lip, which is totally unattractive, and I know I shouldn’t be thinking about such shallow things, but does the camera really add ten pounds and, if so, how bad do I look on the flat-screen TV at Patrick’s house?

  “—who you were? Bonnie™?” Lacey says.

  I look up, startled. Crazy how you can check out like that on live TV. “What?”

  Mom comes over and unplugs the mixer. “I think those are good and whipped, Bonnie™.” She gives me a hard look with her back to the camera before returning to her end of the kitchen.

  Lacey looks down at her clipboard, an uncomfortable cough escaping from her glossy lips. “So, I have a question here from June Bailey from Springfield, Ohio. She’s seventeen like you and a huge fan. She says she feels like she grew up with you, and she’s glad the show’s back on. Her question is, What do you miss most about Baker’s Dozen?”

  For a minute, I just stand there, feeling torn. I don’t want to insult June Bailey from Springfield, Ohio, but I am the wrong person to ask this question. I don’t miss anything, except for the childhood that was denied me. I open my mouth to say that or some version of it that is politically correct, but something I haven’t wanted to admit for a long time comes out instead.

  “My dad,” I whisper.

  “Dinner!” Kirk calls.

  I didn’t realize he was right behind me. He gives me a tight smile as he hefts the turkey platter in both hands and walks into the dining room. I didn’t mention my dad to hurt his feelings—I hadn’t even wanted to say what I said. I turn away from the camera, jumping as the doorbell chimes. I have literally never heard it before, since we’ve lived in virtual isolation for the past four years.

  And I know. This is it. The big surprise Mom is certain I’m not going to like.

  She walks into the entryway, wiping a towel on her hands. “Did one of you guys invite someone?”

  For a minute, I have this horrible vision of Patrick being on the other side of the door. What could be worse than discovering that this sweep-you-off-your-feet boy had turned out to be a fame-hungry mortal after all? But when Mom opens the door and just stands there, her whole body rigid, I begin to understand the limitations of my imagination.

  “Hello, Beth.”

  “Daddy?” shouts Lexie™, running in from the living room.

  I can’t see him, but I don’t need to. I’d recognize his voice anywhere. The room gets spinny, and the camera in the kitchen nudges closer to me, a predator sniffing half-dead prey.

  “Hi, sweetie,” he says to Lex.

  Kirk brushes past me and stands in the doorway, blocking my view. I edge away, into the dining room, out of sight. A camera stays on me, ignoring my personal bubble, so I focus on the uncomfortable ballet flats Sandra made me wear. I’m trapped—the only way upstairs or out of the house is past him. Past my dad.

  “You must be Kirk,” Dad says. I hear the rustle of shopping bags, as if he were some normal guest who brought wine or a pie or something.

  Kirk grunts in assent. “What are you doing here?” I can tell from his voice that he’s crossing his arms, looking stern.

  What utter and complete bullshit. He knew Dad was coming—was the memorized script Chuck’s idea, or is Kirk just getting into his role as Replacement Father?

  “Honey,” Mom says, “it’s okay—”

  “No, it’s understandable,” Dad says. “I’m sorry for just dropping in … I wanted to see the kids on Thanksgiving. I was in the area, and you weren’t answering your phone. I took a chance.”

  I lean against the wallpaper in the dining room, closing my eyes to stop the spinning. I should have seen this coming, should have known that Chuck would cook up something guaranteed to get the ratings through the roof.

  “Hanging in there?” says a soft voice.

  I open my eyes and nod. Benny gives me a hug. We hide in the dining room, listening to the disembodied voices in the hallway.

  “Who’s he?” Jasmine™ asks.

  Ouch.

  “I’m your daddy, sweetheart.”

  “No you’re not. Kirk’s our daddy.”

  It’s so sad and deranged, my life. This little bubble of hysterical laughter starts making its way up my throat, and I have to clamp my hand against my mouth to keep it from escaping. The camera keeps its unflinching gaze on me, and I stare at the carpet. One, two, three, four—

  I can’t do the counting thing. My chest tightens. One, two, three—

  “Well.” Mom coughs. “Um. We’re just about to eat, so…”

  “Oh. Of course. I’ll come back another—”

  “No!” Lex practically shouts. “We have room at the table. He can stay, ca
n’t he, Mom?”

  I feel Benny’s arms stiffen around me, and he swears, just loud enough for me to hear. America holds its breath—will Andrew Baker be invited to join his family on Thanksgiving, or will he be left out in the cold to contemplate the disaster he made of their lives?

  “Of course,” Mom says.

  Thirty seconds later, my dad is in the dining room.

  We look at each other for a long time, the cameras crowding us, wanting those precious close-ups. He looks different. His hair has gotten grayer, and he has a slight paunch. His clothes scream bachelor—nothing about him seems fatherly. He’s trendy. His eyes begin to fill up with tears, but mine are surprisingly dry. I don’t know what I was expecting to feel when I saw him again. I thought it’d be something more than this cold, dull ache.

  “Look at you,” he whispers. “You’re all grown up.”

  Daddy, Daddy, look! I’m an angel! I’m in the backyard, staring at the sky and carving wings into the snow. He smiles. You’ve always been my little angel, he says. I reach out my arms, and he picks me up and twirls me around.

  When I find my voice, the only thing remaining of that memory is the winter in my tone. “That’s what happens when you don’t see someone for four years.”

  “Bonnie™,” Mom says.

  Dad blinks, like he’s wondering what I did with the Bonnie™ he remembered. He’s playing his part well—I wonder how much coaching Chuck had to do.

  “No, it’s okay, Beth. I deserved that,” he says to my mom. He turns back to me. “I understand why you feel that way, sweetheart. But I want another chance. I want to be a part of your life.”

  Benny’s voice slashes the air. “But you only wanted that chance if it could be on TV?”

  Dad sighs. “Ben, you have no idea how many times I’ve tried…” His voice breaks, and I ignore the sympathy that’s trying to push its way into my heart. Nothing he says could make up for leaving us. Nothing. “It’s the only way your mother would let me see you.”

  “What?” I don’t know if I say this out loud or not. I guess I can always watch this episode if I really want to know.

  Mom throws her towel on the table, nearly knocking over one of the lit candles. “That is absolutely not true! How dare—”

  “Oh, so I just imagined that restraining order? Or what about all the returned mail? How many times have you changed your phone number or—”

  The room erupts, sixteen voices talking all at once, smacking against one another, trying to be heard.

  Lex: “Mom, what’s he talking about? Did you—”

  Mom: “That’s not the whole story, and you know that, Andrew!”

  Kirk, getting up in Dad’s face: “What kind of man walks out on—”

  Benny: “Kirk, this isn’t really any of your business.”

  Lex: “Wait, are you saying—”

  The chorus of children: “Mommy, I’m hungry.” “Where’s Chuck?” “Why are they yelling?” “Who’s that man?” “He’s our dad.” “Huh?”

  Benny, staring desperately at a camera: “Cantaloupe!”

  Mom: “Goddammit, it’s Thanksgiving!”

  The triplets start crying, and the older kids sort of huddle around the table and watch the adults scream at one another. The cameras inch closer, and the booms circle around us like menacing birds. The sounds of my family falling apart press against my chest, and my breath leaves my body in short, agitated spurts. I look down and try to concentrate on not choking, but Ican’tIcan’tIcan’t—

  “I have to get this off,” I mumble, pulling at my tight dress.

  My skin is covered in sweat, and the nylons Sandra made me wear are cutting into my stomach. The room seems to get smaller and smaller as more people crowd into it, and I can’t think, it’s so loud. I push past my siblings, throw my hand up against a camera lens that blocks my path.

  “Get out of my way!” I scream. I stumble blindly past bodies, tearing at the high neck of my dress, gasping for air. I’m choking, gagging. I have to get upstairs before I throw up. Please let me get upstairs. Please, God, please.

  “Bonnie™? Bonnie™!”

  I ignore my mom and tear through the kitchen, trip over that fucking cord, God, I hate that cord, and up the stairs. I don’t stop until the door of the bathroom slams behind me and my knees fall painfully to the cold tile floor. I’ve never been so happy to see a toilet bowl in my life.

  * * *

  Ding!

  The tone shatters the silence of my bedroom, and I shudder awake, rolling into a fetal position. The red numbers on my alarm clock say 12:35. Two hours and thirty-five minutes after the live episode. I wonder how it ended. A food fight? Teary reconciliation? My body feels worn out, and disappointment nags at me. If I’m honest, part of me had been up here waiting—hoping—that he would knock on the door. I’m realizing that’s what I’ve wanted all along. But what he had to offer were postcards and the occasional phone call. I wanted more. I wanted a flesh-and-blood dad.

  It was my choice to stop speaking to him after I took the pills. I’ll come back, baby. I promise. Just please don’t hurt yourself again. That’s what he’d said, over and over, when I was in the ambulance and, later, in the hospital room, after they’d pumped my stomach. After they said, She’ll live, but it was a close call. But he didn’t. Come back. I waited, but he never did. Tonight was the first time I’d spoken to him since we moved out to California. I wonder if Mom really had kept him from us or if that was just another one of his lies. It doesn’t matter. He didn’t try hard enough. We weren’t worth the effort.

  I stare at the tray of food on my desk. Cold Thanksgiving dinner that I’d told Mom I didn’t want.

  Ding!

  I sit up, shivering in the thin bathrobe I’d thrown on before tumbling into bed.

  Ding!

  I move my finger along the mouse pad on my laptop, the bright light painful after the hours of miserable semiconsciousness.

  Sheldon1015: Hey … you awake?

  Sheldon1015: Your phone is off. I think you have enough evidence if you want to tell the police you have a stalker—I left way too many anxious boyfriend texts.

  Sheldon1015: Crap. MetaReel can’t read your texts can they? I don’t know how them tapping your phone actually works.

  Sheldon 1015: Chloe.

  Sheldon 1015: Chloe.

  Sheldon 1015: Chloe.

  Sheldon 1015: This is my cyber version of throwing pebbles at your window. Is it working?

  YoSoyChloe: Hey

  Sheldon1015: Hey! (I’m still working on the right term of endearment for you, so know that I’m saying more than “hey.”)

  Despite everything, I smile. Some warmth floods back into me, cracking the ice around my heart. My fingers hover over the keyboard. Patrick Sheldon makes me want to be clever even during a personal crisis.

  YoSoyChloe: Okay, _______ (insert term of endearment).

  Sheldon 1015: I want to call you. Can I? Because I think there have been clinical studies about it being really bad for your health if you don’t hear the voice of the person you can’t stop thinking about.

  YoSoyChloe: Bugged phone, remember?

  Sheldon 1015: You can pretend it’s a wrong number. We’ll pull one over on whoever listens in to your phone calls.

  YoSoyChloe: Honestly, I …

  YoSoyChloe: I’m sort of afraid I’ll start crying. And then I’ll just feel like an idiot, you know? God, you probably think I’m already a total spaz. I wish I’d told you not to watch.

  Sheldon1015: You’re not a spaz.

  Sheldon1015: Chloe … Argh! Everything I want to say is going to look dumb as hell in writing. How do you feel about sneaking out of the house?

  Great. Except that I’m practically on suicide watch.

  YoSoyChloe: Normally, I would love the opportunity to put my ninja skills to good use, but I’m actually exhausted. Rain check?

  Sheldon1015: I suppose I will put away my shining armor and save my (ninja) damsel in distress tomorr
ow. Are you up for a rescue around 5? 6? Movie/dinner/a shoulder to cry on?

  YoSoyChloe: I’m always up for rescuing, but … I don’t think my mom will let me out. You might be dealing with a Rapunzel situation. I’m not sure what the fallout from tonight will be.

  Sheldon1015: Throw in a dragon and swordfights and I’m sold.

  YoSoyChloe:

  Sheldon1015: Can I say one totally embarrassingly boyfriend thing? Er, type it, rather.

  YoSoyChloe: I like totally embarrassingly boyfriend things.

  Sheldon1015: I miss you.

  Sheldon1015: Honestly, I feel … I just really miss you. I’m verging on pathetic here—it’s been less than twenty-four hours since I’ve seen your face.

  YoSoyChloe: Except on TV.

  Sheldon1015: Right. That magnified the missing. And it made me want to hurt some people.

  YoSoyChloe: Ha. Yeah, that makes two of us.

  YoSoyChloe: Can I say one totally embarrassingly girlfriend thing?

  Sheldon1015: Please do.

  YoSoyChloe: I missed you so much last night that I chewed a whole pack of spearmint gum.

  Sheldon1015: Okay, you better go before I drive over there and climb up to your balcony.

  YoSoyChloe: Night.

  Sheldon1015: This sucks.

  YoSoyChloe: Yeah.

  Sheldon1015: I am way too tempted to start quoting Shakespeare to you in proper Mopey Emo Dude fashion. I need to step away from this computer before I lose all of my dignity. Shall I compare thee—no! Stepping away …

  Patrick signs off, but I don’t close my laptop. Instead, I grab a DVD I keep in the drawer beside my bed and slide it into the disk drive. My eyes tear up again as the Baker’s Dozen theme song plays.

  Baker’s Dozen: Season 10, Episode 9

  INT—BAKER HOME—EVENING: Mariachi music plays in the background. [ANDREW stands in front of the stove in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot. BONNIE™ stands beside him, holding a corn tortilla.]

  ANDREW: Okay, Bon-Bon, you ready to make some enchiladas?

  BONNIE™: [looks into the pot, doubtful] It’s still boiling.

  ANDREW: [reaches for the tortilla] We’ll do it together. Ready? One, two …