When I answer, my voice is hollow and small. “Good night.”
I’m not ready to try talking to my mom again, so I just slip upstairs to my bedroom and pretend I’m asleep when she comes upstairs to check on me.
In the middle of the night I get out of bed to grab a glass of water, pissed that I hadn’t thought to bring one up before I went to sleep. Now I’m the star of MetaReel.com, since we’re streaming 24/7. When I walk into the kitchen, everything is bathed in a dim glow. The red lights on the stationary cameras are blinking, and I hurry over to the cupboard, grab a glass, and fill it with the filtered water in the fridge. Then I remember that I’m not wearing a bra under my thin shirt. Fantastic.
I’m groggy, I guess, and not paying attention, because as I walk out of the kitchen toward the stairs, I trip on that same stupid-ass camera cord that sent me onto my knees on day one of filming. My glass flies out of my hand and goes thunk against the carpeted stairs. It doesn’t break, but the stairs are soaked, and I look like a total idiot.
“That’s it,” I mutter.
I snatch the glass out of its puddle of water and go back to the kitchen. Then I yank open the knife drawer and take out the meat cleaver. God, I’m as crazy as Annie in Misery. I march up to the cord, get down on my knees, and start hacking at it. It’s not just one cord, but a whole stack of them taped together with thick black gaffer’s tape. Even better. A few minutes later, the cords are severed, and all the cameras in the kitchen have gone totally dark. I guess I could have electrocuted myself, but whatever. I walk up to one of the working cameras in the living room and wave.
Then I put away the meat cleaver, refill my glass of water, and go back to bed.
I sleep like a baby.
* * *
The next morning, this is what wakes me up:
“BONNIE™ ELIZABETH BAKER, GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW.”
I give the morning a grim smile. Busted.
SEASON 17, EPISODE 21
(The One with the Tabloid)
It’s Wednesday, and we’re hanging out in Schwartz’s room with twenty minutes left of lunch. My mother’s freak-out over the cord this morning has made me surly and Benny’s not helping matters. For some reason, he’s decided to get on my case about applying to some colleges during Christmas break, which starts next week.
“But you have to apply somewhere,” he says.
“No, actually, I don’t.” I use my end-of-discussion voice, but Benny has been ignoring that for years.
“Sheldon. Please tell your girlfriend she has to go to college,” Benny says.
I shoot my brother an annoyed glare. “Yes, because we’ve somehow time traveled, and now it’s 1835 and I have to do what my boyfriend tells me to.” I put my hand on Patrick’s knee. “No offense.”
He puts his hand on top of mine. “None taken.”
Benny snorts. “He just wants to get some—that’s why he’s staying on your good side.”
“Benton™ Andrew Baker—”
“If getting some were my ultimate goal,” Patrick interrupts, “wouldn’t it stand to reason that I would actually beg Chloe to apply to a school in New York, rather than potentially stay here?”
I can’t imagine not being with Patrick, now that we’re finally together. I don’t know what I want to do, but in all my vague imaginings, he’s always been with me. I don’t like all this talk of New York.
“All right, Sheldon, you have a point. Actually, a great one. Chloe, what about New—”
I stand up and grab the remains of my lunch to throw away. “I have to go to the bathroom before class. You”—I point to Benny—“are on my shit list.”
My eyes meet Patrick’s, and he winks.
By the time I return, class is about to start. Patrick and I don’t bring up the college discussion again, but I wonder how much it’s been in the back of both our minds. He’d acted weird about the Columbia stuff Benny saw on his desk, and he’s probably noticed how whenever people start talking about college, I tend to find my cell or book really interesting. When the bell rings and we walk out of the room, his fingers intertwine with mine.
“You’re sad,” he says. His eyes travel over my face, and he frowns.
I open my mouth to disagree, but what’s the point? We’ve been dating a little over a month, and he can already read me like an open book. I rest my head against his shoulder as he walks me to my next class.
“Is it about the college stuff?” When I don’t answer, he squeezes my hand. “I haven’t made any decisions yet—about school.”
I smile up at him. “You don’t have to try to make me feel better.”
He kisses my nose, and I turn into a puddle of melted girl. “I know.” We stop in front of my class, and I let go of his hand as the warning bell rings. “Bye,” I say.
He gives me a lopsided grin before heading off down the hall. It’s silly, but it tugs at my heart every time we have to go our separate ways. I watch his back for a second, the way he walks with casual assurance, like he knows his place in the world. Me? I have no idea. I duck into my next class, but as soon as I sit down, my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Mer.
Meet me in the bathroom ASAP.
I saw her three seconds ago in class—what could possibly be that important? I shove the phone back in my pocket and ask Señora Mendoza for el baño pass, then hurry up the hallway. When I get to the girls’ bathroom, I shove open the pale blue metal door, but it’s empty.
“Mer?”
“Handicap stall,” she says.
I have visions of pregnancy tests or hemorrhaging, but when I get inside, she’s leaning against the tile wall, a rolled-up magazine in her hand.
“What? Are you sick … or…?”
She shakes her head and hands me the magazine. It’s Stargazer, a trashy tabloid the Vultures love. I’m on the cover.
“I’m sorry,” Mer says. “I didn’t want you to find out another way.”
The bold yellow headline says TEEN IN CRISIS: AN INSIDE PEEK INTO THE LIFE OF METAREEL’S MOST VOLATILE STAR. The picture is a glossy promo shot from the Baker’s Dozen website. I’m smiling, but not with my teeth, and my eyes look lost, caged. The girl in the picture seems, I have to admit, a little volatile.
The bathroom door creaks open. “Chloe? Mer?”
“Handicap,” Mer says.
Tessa walks in, a bathroom pass in one hand and her cell phone in the other. She looks at me, looks at the magazine. Then she wraps her arms around me. The magazine gets crushed as Mer enfolds both of us in her arms. I don’t cry. I just shake and shake.
“Where’d you get it?” I whisper.
“A girl in chem was reading it, and I just grabbed it out of her hand and ran in here. It must have come out today.”
Tessa smooths my hair. “You didn’t know?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think I can read it right now.”
If I do, I’ll be breaking my number one rule. I’d promised myself, no matter how bad things got, that I wouldn’t read what people wrote about me. But now it’s in my hands and the words are so close. My fingers itch to pull back the cover, but I know from experience that this is a really bad idea.
“Okay, but…” Mer bites her lip. “There’s something you should know, like, right now.”
I grip the thin pages of filth in my hand and nod.
“They have a picture of Patrick in there. With his name and everything. They got a picture of you guys kissing in the parking lot, and there’s, like, this whole sidebar about your relationship.”
I sit on the bathroom floor and tear through the pages until I find the article about me. Sure enough, there’s Patrick and me, just this past Monday. My lips are inches from his, and we’re smiling. Underneath our picture is a tiny article that Tessa and I read.
* * *
HOW SHE’S COPING
Bonnie™ Baker is all grown up. Sources close to the reality TV star say that if it weren’t for longtime beau, fellow student Patrick Sheldon, she wouldn
’t be able to handle the stress of doing the show and trying to live a normal life. “He’s already told her he loves her. They’re making plans for after graduation,” says a close friend of the couple. But will their relationship withstand the scrutiny of a nation? “Sheldon cares about her, but he doesn’t want anything to do with the show. I just don’t think they’ll last,” says a classmate. After the disappointing reunion with her father on Thanksgiving, it seems that Bonnie™ could benefit from a shoulder to cry on.
* * *
“Who’s talking to them? Who are these ‘sources’?” I ask. I look up at Tessa and Mer, but other than the pity in their eyes, they look as confused and angry as I do.
“We’ll find out. There has to be a way to get them expelled or…” Mer looks at me, but I just shake my head.
You can’t fight the Internet or everyone with a camera and a willingness to lie. My eyes skim over the pictures, landing on one of me outside of school. A yellow arrow points to my stomach. Next to the arrow it says,
Bump Alert! Is Bonnie™ pregnant? If so, how will Beth and the kids react?
“None of this is true!” I throw the magazine across the stall, and it makes a loud slap as it hits the tile wall. “I’m a fucking virgin! What is wrong with these people?”
I put my head in my hands, muttering over and over, “Ican’tdothisIcan’tdothis.”
Just then, the bathroom door slams open. “Chloe?”
It’s Patrick.
“I texted him just before she got here,” Mer says to Tessa. “Handicap stall,” she calls.
There’s no time to be angry that Mer told him to come. He’s here, and I don’t have the right words to tell him that his life is about to change forever. The door swings open, and Patrick doesn’t stop or say a word. He just scoops me up off the floor and holds me against him.
“What happened?”
He’s asking them, not me. Oh God, why is this happening? Why me, why now, whywhywhy? I hear the rustle of paper as someone puts the tabloid in Patrick’s hand. His body goes rigid, so I know he’s reading it, but he just holds me tighter.
“We’ll let you guys…” Tessa’s voice trails off.
We’ve spent half the period in here. I can’t imagine going back to class, even to get my stuff.
“Chloe?” Patrick’s lips are close to my ear, and he speaks to me like I’m a skittish wild animal. “Let’s get out of here, okay? We’ll go to my place. Please.”
I shake my head, numb. “Class—”
“We can get Ms. Finchburg, if you want,” offers Tessa.
I know she means well, but the thought of talking to the school shrink about whether or not I’m pregnant is so not happening.
I pull away from Patrick—it’s me who should be comforting him. “I’ll just … can you grab my stuff out of Spanish after the bell rings and bring it back here?” I ask Tessa.
She nods, and Mer pulls her out of the bathroom. When the door shuts behind them, it’s just Patrick and me. I can’t look at him without totally breaking down, so my eyes focus on the graffiti on the back of the stall door. Someone has written IT’S OKAY with a smiley face. I wonder who it was and why they did that. How many girls have hidden away in this stall, feeling like their life was over?
Patrick comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. I lean into him for a moment, savoring this last bit of happiness.
Then I pull away.
“You should go back to class. You’ll get in trouble,” I say.
Patrick leans against the wall and crosses his arms, watching me. I still can’t look him in the eye.
“Don’t worry about me,” he says.
“I do worry. I should worry.” My voice goes suddenly hard—it stacks bricks, each word building a wall between us. “I’m not going to ruin your life, Patrick. And this will.” I hold up the magazine. “You’ll be a joke at Columbia—because you dated crazy-ass Bonnie™ Baker.”
The muscles in his face grow taut, but he doesn’t say anything. He just keeps looking at me, like he’s waiting for something.
“This is all my fault.” My voice breaks and I clear my throat. “It was so selfish of me to even think this could work. People will be asking your parents questions, and … I won’t do this to you. We can’t be together—I should have followed my instincts at the park and stayed away. God, I’m so selfish! I’ll have our publicist leak it to the papers that we broke up. It’ll nip this in the—”
“No.”
I make the mistake of looking up. His eyes say so much more than that one word; I think of park swings and Indiana Jones and eating with his family. I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Patrick. But I can’t run from this.”
“You’re running from me.” His voice echoes against the tiles, as if a thousand anguished Patricks are surrounding me.
“Patrick, I tried to kill myself!” He flinches, and now I know for sure he really never Googled me. He didn’t know. “That’s why our show stopped. Because I’m seriously fucked up, and I took those pills and…”
As soon as I say the words, I know they’re true. All this time, I’ve told myself it was a cry for help, a way to get my parents to see me. But in this moment of truth, that’s not what I said. I tried to kill myself. I tried to kill myself.
“Chloe—”
I back away from his outstretched hand. “Patrick, you don’t understand. This article is nothing—nothing—compared to what they’ll start printing next.”
I take a breath and will my voice to carry me through breaking my own heart. I hold his eyes, surprised by my resolve.
“All my life, I’ve had to deal with this. But I was always isolated—the Vultures could only hurt me. They didn’t have anyone else they could drag through the mud. But now they know about you. MetaReel knows about you. Chuck’s probably already called your house, asking your parents to sign a release form. They’ll want to make us a story line, and they’ll edit the show so that we won’t even be able to recognize ourselves. They’ll make us hate each other. They did that to my parents. I’m not going to give them that. I won’t.”
He closes his eyes for a second, then looks at me, his voice pleading. “Don’t I get a say in whether or not we get to be together?”
I wish I had the guts to tell him I was pretty sure I loved him. But I can’t say that now because it would be trite. It would sound like, It’s Not You, It’s Me.
“I’m sorry.” My voice finally collapses on itself. I have to get out of here.
He doesn’t try to stop me when I leave. I sprint down the hallway and run to my car. I don’t have my keys, so I just sink down next to it and let myself sob. There is black writing on my hand, where the sweat on my palm had pressed against the tabloid. It says all grown up.
SEASON 17, EPISODE 22
(The One with the Wrapping Paper)
The triplets are eating Christmas cookies at the kitchen table. The Wild Things are trying to kill one another in the living room. Everything’s normal, but nothing is the same.
My mom is waving around the magazine like it’s evidence in a whodunit. May I present Exhibit A—photographic proof of the first and only boyfriend Bonnie™ Baker will ever have.
“Who is this boy, Bonnie™?”
I don’t even glance at the trash in her hand. I missed the turnoff for Caring long ago. Now I’m just numb.
“His name is Patrick. He’s in my government class. It’s nothing.”
Nothing. I guess that is what we are now. I’ll just be some girl he dated—a weird brush with pseudofame. I’ll be an anecdote or, worse, a fun fact he can tell people during his freshman orientation next fall.
“This doesn’t look like ‘nothing.’ You’re kissing in the middle of your school parking lot!”
My face reddens as Old Guys Rule Dude leans against the wall, keeping the camera trained on me. Lacey Production Assistant is in the dining room, messaging our publicist.
“Can we talk about this later?” I give a meaningful glance a
t the camera, and Mom throws up her hands.
“Go do your homework.” I dash toward the stairs. “But we’re not through discussing this!” she yells after me.
I cross my room and lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Automatically, my hand reaches to my pocket, forgetting that I had turned off the phone Patrick gave me and buried it in the trunk of my car. It’s too tempting to call him. Would he even want me back, now that he knows I’m a total nutcase?
I tried to kill myself.
Why am I suddenly able to see the truth? How many times have I maintained that it was an unconscious cry for help—no matter how loud you shout, it’s hard to be heard over a dozen other voices. I thought I’d taken those pills because I knew Mom and Dad would finally listen to me. Dad would come back, they wouldn’t fight anymore, and maybe we could stop the show.
It’s summer in New Hampshire, and I am thirteen years old. Barefoot, cool glasses of lemonade, running through sprinklers, and jumping in pools. It’s after dinner, and the sun is starting to set. The little kids are inside, getting baths, and Chuck tells me to go get Dad, that he is in the guesthouse.
Oh my God. Chuck told me to get Dad. Chuck knew—he knew all along what Dad was up to in the guesthouse. He orchestrated the end of my family. I’m only just now realizing this. I feel nauseous, and I curl into a tight ball.
I creep up to the guesthouse and peek inside, thinking I might try to surprise him, when I see that he isn’t alone; he’s with a pretty girl—way younger than Mom. I’ve never seen her before, but I later hear that she is his chiropractor’s receptionist. They are kissing, and his hand is unzipping her shorts. For a minute, I just stand there at the window, paralyzed. I don’t want to see, but I can’t move or close my eyes. I hear someone call my name—Benton™. “Bonnie™, what are you doing? We’re starting the movie!” I’m terrified the cameras will catch Dad, confused about what I’m seeing, and so, so angry. Dad’s head whips around, and we lock eyes for a fraction of a second. I drop my glass of lemonade and run to the house. I know things are bad between Mom and Dad—they fight all the time. The house is filled with their screams, and the silences that follow are even louder. One of the cameras has followed me outside, and they catch the aftermath on tape. It becomes one of the most viewed clips in MetaReel history. Me, running inside, crying. Dad exiting the guesthouse and trying to get the girl out. Mom, catching both of them. The fight, the tears, the sound of Mom’s hand slapping Dad’s cheek. Dad packing a bag and leaving. Paparazzi everywhere, Chuck yelling into his phone, the MetaReel cameras hovering.