“I don’t know, Bens. I’m—” I don’t finish the sentence, but I’m scared he knows what I almost let slip: I’m losing it. Again. I open the door and step out of the car.
“Chlo—” I can hear the concern in his voice, the unspoken plea: Please don’t take the pills again.
“I’m fine, Benny.”
Even if he’s right, even if I am freaking out, I resent that everyone jumps to the conclusion that I’m going to raid Mom’s medicine cabinet the second life gets overwhelming. Can’t I be allowed to have bad days, really bad days, without them assuming I’m suicidal? And people wonder why I don’t like to talk about my feelings.
I slam the car door and head to class, hoping equations and historical dates will be enough to distract me for a few hours.
* * *
“Bonnie™?”
A little girl, maybe ten or eleven, comes up to me as we exit the nail salon. She clutches a piece of paper and a pen in her hands. “Can I have your autograph?”
Her voice cracks on the last word, and her face is fire-truck red—the same color, I’d bet, as mine. For a second, I just look at her, confused. The Vultures press close, and the snap of their cameras makes it hard to focus on anything.
“Oh, that is so sweet,” says Mom. She gives me a look and nods toward the paper.
“Um, sure,” I mumble. I take the pen and awkwardly sign my name. My signature looks scratchy, quite possibly the lamest autograph ever. I feel like a total poseur.
The little girl grins. “Thanks!”
She skips away, waving the paper at a middle-aged woman waiting beside a minivan. They smile at me, and I try to smile back, the cameras catching it all.
“Why’d she want your autograph?” Lexie™ asks.
I shrug and duck into our big black van with the tinted windows. This used to happen all the time, when we did meet-and-greet events, but it’s so different now, being older and aware of what’s going on.
Mom ignores Lex as she puts the key in the ignition. “It’s a good reminder, isn’t it?”
I cock my head to the side. “What do you mean?”
“That you’re a role model.” She gives me a meaningful glance in the rearview mirror. “Don’t forget that.”
I look back at the little girl as she jumps into her own van. Why, out of all of us, had she chosen to ask me? I take a few shallow breaths to ward off another panic attack. My chest feels like it’s in a vise.
At home, I go straight to my room and call Tessa on my prepaid Patrick phone. I know she’s probably still in the newspaper room working on Friday’s issue, but I need real girl time, not Reel-sanctioned girl time.
“Hello?” I can hear the boisterous noise of the newspaper staff in the background and for a second I just want to scream, I’m so freaking jealous.
“It’s me.”
“Chloe?”
I’d forgotten she wouldn’t recognize this number. “This is my non–MetaReel-bugged cell.”
“Hey! I forgot about the sugar daddy phone. I’m gonna program it in like that: Chloe’s Sugar Daddy Phone.”
I laugh. “Patrick might prefer Mopey Emo Dude over Sugar Daddy.”
“Too bad,” she says. “He is now Sugar Daddy. So what’s up?”
“Can it be Friday already?”
A rom-com night at Mer’s was in the works, if I could successfully dodge the Vultures. Otherwise, they’d be camped in front of her house, too, and I wasn’t okay with that.
“I know,” Tess says. “It feels like the longest week ever, and it’s only Monday. I’m still all sluggish from Thanksgiving. My mom made an obscene amount of Korean food, and my parents just got a Wii so they made me and my sister spend, like, the whole weekend virtual bowling—which is so weird, by the way. And then we—” She stops abruptly. “Sorry. That was just my insensitivity gene acting up.”
She had watched the show, but we hadn’t had much of a chance to talk about any of it yet because she’d spent lunch working on the newspaper.
“No! Don’t apologize for being normal. Besides, my weekend wasn’t all bad.” Even I can hear the bliss in my voice.
“I sense a Sheldon story on the horizon.”
I tell her about the weekend, and she oohs and aahs and does all the things that Benny would do if he were a little gayer.
“How was the salon?” Tessa asks, after we’re through psychoanalyzing my date. “Did you get claw-the-rapist nails?”
I laugh. “No. But someone asked for my autograph.”
“That is just ten kinds of strange.”
“Right?”
“But you have to admit, it felt a little cool.”
“No,” I say, a little more loudly than I’d intended. “So not cool.” I’m suddenly moving around my room with angry strides, pacing across the thick carpet until the soles of my feet start to burn. “It was this little girl, and I just wanted to be like—I’m nobody, okay? So just leave me alone. It’s so weird. It reminded me of before the show ended and we’d be at these book signings and kids would randomly come up to the table and say all of our names, in birth order, as fast as they could. And I’d sit there with a smile on my face, dying of embarrassment for them, for us. Just … wanting to run as far away from it all as I could.”
There’s that word again—run. When Tessa doesn’t answer, I cringe. “I sound really snobby, huh?”
“No.” There’s a little hitch in her voice that tells me there’s something more.
“But…”
“I don’t know.” She’s struggling to find the right words, and I feel annoyed that she won’t just agree with me. Why is everybody making me out to be this horrible overreacting wench?
“Forget it,” I say. I should never have told her any of this. How could she possibly understand?
“Chlo, wait. I fully agree about how much being on this show sucks. But that’s cool that a little girl saw something of herself in you, right?”
She sounds just like my mom. And, hello, who would want to see some of herself in Bonkers Bonnie™?
“Tessa, I can’t be anyone’s role model. You saw the show. It’s a joke.” I’m a joke. “And I don’t want that kind of pressure. I just want to be freaking normal—I can’t live up to millions of girls watching me for pointers on how to get through adolescence.”
I hear a locker slam—she must be finished with the newspaper for the day. “All I’m saying is, I just finished writing an editorial about how screwed it is that the Taft athletics department continues to get tons of funding from the school district even though they’re shutting down ninety-nine percent of the arts department. And nobody is going to read it or care. But you have this soapbox that’s yours for the taking. I mean, the New York Times wrote an op-ed about you yesterday, and Newsweek is quoting you verbatim. If I were you—”
“But you’re not me. You have no idea what it’s like, Tessa!” I’m shouting, and I know I shouldn’t be, but I can’t help it. I’ve always made it a rule not to know who’s writing about me. And now I know more than I want to—and that my best friend is reading it. “You can have my soapbox. I would trade places with you in a second.”
For a minute, all I can hear is the wind blowing on her end of the phone and my own labored breathing. Had I always known I was jealous of Tessa? Because right now I’m practically choking on it.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say.
“It’s okay. I get it. I crossed a line.”
I shake my head, then remember she can’t see that. “You didn’t. I’m just still dealing with this weekend and … Don’t worry about it. I better go, anyway. I don’t know how many minutes this phone has.”
Tessa’s voice is subdued, the total opposite of what it had been when this conversation started. “Sure, sure. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I hang up and stare at the phone for a minute. Part of me wants to call Patrick, but I’m afraid I’ll snap at him, too. And Benny is still on the guy outing with Kirk that all the boys had to go on—som
ething involving a batting cage and pizza. I feel restless, and the last thing I want to do is Schwartz’s assignment: a paper on the pros and cons of public surveillance cameras and whether or not they infringe on privacy rights. Obviously, I have a lot to say on the subject, but it’s just too close to home.
I see a pair of tennis shoes in the corner of my room, and I decide to do what I always do: run from my problems. Except this time, I’m actually going to go somewhere.
When I step outside our gate, I can’t help but grin. No Vultures. They must have started following the guys around town once they got their fill of us at the nail salon. I do a few half-assed stretches, then start jogging along the highway, toward my orchard. I could never run that far, of course—I’m already short of breath and the trucks and big rigs that speed by make me nervous. I want to turn around, but just the thought of it makes my legs go faster. Snow-capped mountains loom in the distance, and somewhere not too far off, I hear a faint train whistle. It’s a lonesome sound, full of regret. Uncertainty. If I were to describe myself in one sound, it’d be that train whistle.
My muscles burn and my head pounds, but I push my body into the wind, my eyes stinging from the dust the gales kick up. After a while, some of the tightness in my chest loosens its grip, as if the wind itself has siphoned some of the tension off me. I’m tired and hungry and sweating, but I’m smiling. It feels good to do something on my own. I turn onto a smooth dirt road that seems to go for miles. My body finds a rhythm, and I don’t think anymore, I just am. I’m not Bonnie™ or Chloe. I’m the essence of her, the nontrademarked person the camera can never capture and my parents have no right to sign over. There is a sovereign nation encased in this skin that MetaReel can never own.
Finally I stop and lean my hands on my knees, breathing hard. My body is soaked with sweat, and my legs have turned to jelly. After a few seconds, I turn back toward my house.
I’m done running.
Baker’s Dozen: Season 13, Episode 9
INT—BAKER HOME—MORNING: The BAKER-MILLER living room. [BETH BAKER-MILLER sits on a couch, in front of a mantelpiece with thirteen framed photos.]
BETH: It seems like this is … the best thing. For the kids. And for us.
[CUT to ANDREW, sitting in the kitchen, at the family dinner table. He absently plays with his watch strap.]
ANDREW: I never meant to hurt anyone. It was a mistake. [His eyes take on a faraway look.] But Beth’s wrong—I love my kids, and this has nothing to do with them.
[CUT to BETH, still in the living room.]
BETH: I mean, how irresponsible can he get? He brings another woman into our home, and he expects that with thirteen children running around, no one’s going to notice? [Tears well, and she begins dabbing at them furiously with a tissue.] We had … we had this dream to … have a huge family and give these kids a safe, loving home. And he’s just throwing it all away!
[CUT to ANDREW, at the kitchen table.]
ANDREW: I don’t know, man. I guess she just changed, you know? And I did too. Fifty percent, you know? The divorce rate. I mean, it’s just not fair to the kids. Beth and I, when we fight … it’s ugly.
[CUT to image of ANDREW and BETH screaming at each other in the backyard.]
ANDREW: What do you want me to do, Beth? [Beep sounds as ANDREW curses] you.
[ANDREW stalks off and BETH stares after him.]
BETH: He’s out of control. Absolutely crazy.
[Camera pans to BONNIE™ and BENTON™, wide-eyed, watching their parents. DESHAUN™ starts crying, and BONNIE™ picks him up, comforting him.]
BETH VO: I can tell this is affecting the kids. Especially the older ones. It’s not healthy to see your parents in screaming matches all day long.
[CUT to ANDREW, once again sitting at the dining room table.]
ANDREW: So I’m leaving.
SEASON 17, EPISODE 19
(The One with Enchiladas)
“Chloe?”
I look up from the Q and A my English teacher, Miss Daniels, has us doing for Shirley Jackson’s creepy short story, “The Lottery.” Everyone else has a partner, but there’s an odd number, so I’m working alone.
“Yeah?”
She beckons for me to come to her desk and hands me the pink slip of paper a student aide just left with her. I read the note once, twice, three times, just to be sure. It seems weird to see the words your father in a stranger’s looping script. I wrap my fingers around the thin paper and squeeze.
“Make sure you write down the homework before you head out,” she says.
Miss Daniels smiles at me, but all I can do is nod, feeling numb and strangely hopeful. The crumpled note in my fist says my dad is here to take me to lunch, but there must be a mistake. Maybe it’s Kirk—a babysitter fell through? That happens sometimes, me having to leave class because Mom and Kirk are overwhelmed. I throw my stuff into my backpack, my ears burning as the class watches me fumble with my coat, my books. It gets noticeably quieter—less talking, more watching. It feels like my whole life is streaming. Like, no matter where I am or who I’m with, I have an audience. Even when I’m alone, I can’t turn Bonnie™ off. I push open the door and walk slowly down the hall. My thoughts scatter like confetti, swirling around, all colorful and fleeting.
As I near the office, I catch sight of him; it’s most definitely my dad. My dad dad. He doesn’t see me—probably too busy flirting with the students or charming our matronly secretary. On instinct, I duck into the closest hallway and lean against the wall, closing my eyes while the stale air flows in and out of my lungs. I pull out my phone and text Benny. I didn’t see him in the office with Dad, so he must be on his way. I really don’t want to go in there alone.
I just got the note. I’m in the hallway. Where are you?
Class. What note?
Dad’s here.
WTF?
I guess we’re going to lunch?
Why didn’t I get a note?
I don’t know.
You need backup?
I hesitate, but only for a second. Benny’s class is right near the office. He would have gotten a note before me if he were getting one at all. I don’t know why my dad didn’t ask him to come, but I don’t want to complicate matters any further. I’m sure Benny’s hurt—how could he not be?
Not right now. Thanks.
K. Gotta go—tchr.
I wipe my palms against my jeans and hover in the hallway. I don’t see any cameras, but I don’t trust him. After all this time, he’s suddenly interested in having a relationship with me? I’m sure this has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that we’re back on TV again. Right. And what about the rest of my siblings—why is he singling me out? Maybe it’s as simple as I’m the only one of us kids my mother actually had. I was the miracle baby. Or because I’m the one who almost died. Still. It doesn’t seem very fair. It’s not hard for me to imagine the look on Lex’s face if she finds out.
I square my shoulders and look at the door marked OFFICE. Just go, Chloe. I count each step to calm my nerves. After four years and one ghastly on-camera reunion, there are seventy-three steps between my father and me.
Distance between people can be marked in many ways.
As if sensing me, Dad turns around and his face breaks into an uncertain smile. I don’t return it, but I pull open the door.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
I grip the straps of my backpack and manage a grimace. “Hi.”
The secretary watches us with poorly disguised fascination. We stand there for a few more seconds and then Dad turns to her and flashes his Andrew Baker smile. It’s the one on the DVD covers of our show.
“Great to meet you, Mrs. Rose. I’ll make sure to get Bonnie™ back by—”
“Chloe,” I cut in.
“What?”
I just roll my eyes and start walking out of the office—Mrs. Rose already has enough gossip to last her awhile.
“Thanks again,” I hear him say to her.
A minute l
ater he’s beside me.
“So, it’s Chloe now?” he asks, his voice even. I can’t tell if this bothers him or is merely interesting.
I keep my eyes straight ahead and walk quickly, hoping that no one in the classrooms will recognize us. The lunch bell is going to ring any second.
“Benny goes here, you know.”
Dad nods, his long strides matching my short, quick ones. “I do. But I wanted a little alone time with you. That okay?”
The universe is testing my new resolve to stop running away from my problems. But there’s a difference, isn’t there, between running away and self-defense?
We’re almost to the main entrance. “Are you parked out front?”
“Yes.”
Of course he is. How could he resist letting the Vultures get a few nice shots of him taking Bonnie™ out to lunch?
“Does Mom know you’re here?”
“She does.” He points to a BMW a few feet away. “That’s me.”
“Nice car,” I say, my voice dry.
Dad grins. “This one’s a rental, but we’ve got one just like it at home. We love this thing.”
“We?”
He coughs uncomfortably. “Hop in.”
Is he still with her? The girl who is practically my age?
“Is MetaReel coming to lunch with us, too?”
“No. But we should hurry before they figure out where we are.”
I open the door and duck inside. The new car smell makes me nauseous, and as soon as he starts the engine, I immediately roll down the window. I slip on my don’t-talk-to-me glasses from Hand Me Downs as we pull out of the parking lot.
“They out here every day?” he asks, gesturing to the Vultures.
“Of course.”
“So what’s good around here?” He’s injected some false cheer into his voice, and it’s as obvious as my mother’s recent Botox treatments.
“I’m not hungry.”
Why am I in this car? He doesn’t deserve to just walk into my life like this. I should get out.
“Honey, don’t you think you’ve punished me long enough?”
I bite my lip until I can taste blood in my mouth. Then I stop because I don’t want to go back to thinking that hurting myself makes the other pain go away. Fuck. I’m with him for, like, three seconds, and it’s like all those years of therapy and figuring it out are just gone. Like that.