“Oh, my, what would the bloggers say if they saw me now?”
I give him my best look of disapproval. “You have to quit smoking, you do know that?”
“What, and take away an opportunity for Beth to show off her parenting skills?”
“But she’s just a regular mom,” I say, doing my best Beth Baker-Miller impersonation.
“Yes, and we can read all about it.” He holds up his phone. “Preorder for only $24.99.”
I look at the web page he’s pulled up. “No.” There’s my mom’s famous shaggy bob, her red hair vibrant against a plain white background. “Recipe for a Happy, Healthy Family.” I look up. “She wrote a cookbook?”
“Au contraire. This, my dear sister, is a tell-all. Convenient that it’s coming out just a few weeks before the show starts up again, isn’t it?”
He grabs his phone before it slips out of my hands.
* * *
Lexie™ picks us up, a ride I know comes with about five thousand strings attached.
“This is the last time I play chauffeur to your two drunk asses,” she says by way of hello.
Benny struggles into the backseat, singing through the Beach Boys’ greatest hits. “I wish they all could be California girrrrrls,” he croons.
Lexie™ rolls her eyes.
If my sister were a character in a Victorian drama, she would be the snobbish rich girl with a penchant for talking shit about everyone behind her fan. For the record, this is the only time she has ever picked up our, quote, two drunk asses. But who’s counting?
“You know, Bonnie™, you don’t want to come off as a total dropout,” Lex says. “What were you thinking, getting all up in the camera like that? Super psycho, if you ask me.”
She checks her side mirror as she pulls out, but it’s more because she misses her reflection than any attempt at driver safety.
“I didn’t ask you,” I say, changing the radio from pop to oldies. “But you’ve always been the expert on making love to the camera, so maybe I should have.”
“I was twelve. That’s a healthy age to explore your body,” Lex snaps. She puts the station back to Power 105.1—Today’s Hottest Music!
I arch one eyebrow, a skill I perfected during season ten. “Is that what we call masturbation these days?”
Benny howls with laughter. “Ohmygod, I totally forgot about that!” He adopts the tone of a voiceover actor: “Will Lexie™ be able to resist humping the living room couch? Or will her raging hormones get the better of her? Find out next week on Baker’s—”
“Shut up, Benny. At least I wasn’t a nudist. Or did you forget that your boy parts had to be blurred out for all of season seven?”
“I heart my body,” he says, making a heart with his fingers à la Taylor Swift.
Lexie™ ignores him, slowing down as we near our house.
“Keep driving.” I put my hand on the wheel, but she pushes me off.
“Don’t do that again, Bonnie™.” There’s a threat hiding in the silky folds of her voice, and I wish she would just freaking get over season thirteen.
“You know, I thought you’d be a little nicer to me now that the show’s back on,” I say. “Isn’t this, like, the happiest day of your life?”
I hope I’m not a mean drunk. Am I? In so many ways I am my father’s daughter. I switch the station back to oldies, just because.
Lex’s eyes shift to me for a second and then she just shakes her head. “Forgive me if I’m not super quick getting over being on house arrest since we were thirteen. It’s not like I was famous before or anything. And, you know, I totally love lying to my friends every day. And forget having a serious relationship. But whatever. No problem.”
Instantly I’m furious, like I’m breaking out in a sweat, but instead of sweat, it’s just pure, unadulterated rage oozing through my pores because, God, can she push my buttons, and I just want to freaking punch her face.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Lexie™,” I say, my voice sticky sweet. “I had no idea I was keeping you from having a serious boyfriend. You mean all this time you didn’t want to sleep with half the guys at your school?”
I know I’ve gone too far. Something like hurt flits across her face, but it’s gone before I can feel too bad. It’s not like she’s ever held back to spare my feelings.
“Well, one of us has to get laid,” she spits.
Maybe I deserve that for essentially calling my sister a whore, but it’s still a low blow.
“Can you bitches please shut up?” Benny groans from the backseat.
“Well, now that the show’s back on,” I say, ignoring Benny, “you can stop blaming me for every problem in your life.”
“Great. I’ll just pretend the past four years haven’t happened. Thanks, Bonnie™, I feel a lot better now.”
I hate her because she’s right. And because all of it’s my fault—and none of it is. It was never just about protecting me. It was about what Dad did and the media storm and what people were saying about all of us and a million things I really don’t want to, really can’t, think about right now.
“Mom and Dad were the ones who canceled the show—” I start, but Lex’s voice cuts through me.
“Because someone had to go all drama queen and eat half the medicine cabinet.”
Then, “Lexie™.” It’s just her name, but Benny’s stacked a serious threat behind it.
For a second, it’s just this heavy silence with the Mamas and the Papas’ “California Dreamin’” playing on the oldies station which, you have to admit, is pretty ironic.
When I can’t take it anymore, I adopt an I’m-going-to-be-the-bigger-person tone and say, “Lex, we can’t go back until we give Benny a chance to sober up. Maybe we can grab some food or, I don’t know, but I told you that on the phone—”
“My car. My rules. I didn’t agree to anything,” she says. “Besides, don’t you think filming will be that much better with a little booze in you?”
Benny throws up his hands and starts laughing maniacally. Maybe I’m overreacting, but I think it’s safe to say day one of filming is going to be a total disaster.
SEASON 17, EPISODE 3
(The One with the Retake)
As soon as Lex pulls up to the front door, it swings open, spilling a rectangle of light onto the driveway. My little brothers and sisters—all ten of them—press their faces against the front window and crowd in the doorway as Mom rushes down the stairs, arms outstretched. I guess I have to open my door now. The blood rushes to my head as I step out of the car—that extra swig of bourbon was probably a mistake.
“Bonnie™! Benton™! Are you guys okay? I’ve been worried sick.”
I take one look at her perfectly coiffed hair and fresh coat of lipstick and think, Uh-huh.
“We’re fine.”
My tone is borderline don’t-screw-with-me, but all it gets from Mom is a twitch of her lips. The word fine covers up a multitude of sins, doesn’t it?
A cameraman steps through the doorway and swoops down on us. I avoid him like he’s a boy I seriously regret making out with. I keep my eyes down, hair pulled forward. Then I duck past Mom to dodge the smothering hug she really wants America to see. I’m sure the doting mother angle would be great for book sales, but I’m not interested in being part of her PR machine again.
“No, you’re not okay, Bon-Bon. It’s been a long day for all of us.” Lex bestows her sweet-as-sugar smile on me. “C’mon, sis. Let’s get you upstairs.”
She puts her hand up to block my face from the camera and wraps her other arm around my shoulder in the sort of protective embrace you see in tabloid pictures of stars walking out of courthouses or rehab.
I shrug her off. “Lexie™, what was that you were saying about not wanting to be my chauffeur?”
Cue evil glare from my oh-so-concerned sister.
Benny stumbles on the stairs, but he’s able to grasp the railing just in time. Mom flutters around him, making maternal-sounding clucks and coos.
&nbs
p; “I’m al-all right. I just gotta … uh…’scuse me.” He pushes past the cameraman who’s suddenly in his face and grabs my hand, pulling me away from Lex and Mom.
As we make our way into the house, I stop in the hall, blinking. When I’d left this morning, there’d been a wall along the right side of the narrow hallway, sectioning off the kitchen. The wall is gone.
“Whoa.” Benny stares with equal surprise at the lack of wall.
I hear a duet of giggling behind me. Farrow™ (fifteen, from Ethiopia) and Riley™ (fourteen, from Cambodia) grin at our shock. Back when the show was filming, the two of them were labeled the “bookworms.” Quiet and withdrawn, they’ve been able to weather the storms by escaping into other worlds. Sometimes at night I still hear them whispering in their bedroom, reading aloud to each other.
“You should see your face right now, Bon,” Farrow™ says. Her eyes are sparkling, and I’m pretty sure she’s wearing makeup, which bothers me for some reason.
Riley™ socks Benny on the arm. “Crazy, huh?”
Benny just nods, still shell-shocked. A pointed look from me, and they scamper off toward the dining room, books in hand. There’s a window seat in there where I know they’ll hide out for most of the night.
My eyes sweep over the newness. There’s not a bit of dust or tools or anything. It smells like paint—enough to get my head throbbing a bit—but when I touch my pinkie to the wall, it’s already dry.
“This is just creepy,” I mutter. Benny grunts his assent.
I peek into the kitchen, which is suddenly super shiny, with new appliances and bowls overflowing with fruit. There are even happyhappy photos of all of us on the fridge. I wonder if it’s like this in the rest of the house. My bones turn to liquid when I think about the diaries hidden throughout my bedroom.
We keep walking, and when we reach the living room, I stop, dumbfounded. I can see my reflection in the bay window overlooking the backyard, and there’re about twenty kinds of shock on my face.
“What?” This is all I can say.
Because I don’t even recognize it. I mean, I literally could be in someone else’s house. In the few hours since I left for school this morning, they’ve totally redecorated. It looks like someone robbed a Pottery Barn, then stole a bunch of paint from Home Depot. Mom brushes past us and corners Kirk, handyman slash stepfather extraordinaire. He’s putting the final touches on a new entertainment center, doing something with power cords. Kids are running in and out of the room—someone must have given them soda or something because they’re at a ten on the hyper scale—so Mom doesn’t notice that I’m eavesdropping while pretending to check out the new photos on the mantel. Thirteen frames all lined up, holding those fancy portraits we recently got.
“Benton™ smells like a liquor cabinet,” Mom whispers. “Can you get him somewhere private and sober him up? This is not how I want to start the show. We can’t have—”
Mom shuts up as a burly guy sticks his camera into the archway that leads into the living room. His scuffed leather boots leave tracks on the cream rug, and he’s wearing one of those OLD GUYS RULE T-shirts. He gives me a curt nod as he focuses on Mom and Kirk, but is otherwise silent.
“I’ll handle it,” Kirk says to Mom. His eyes drift over to the kitchen doorway at the other end of the living room, and I can tell he’s looking at the cabinet above the sink where all the booze is. He purses his lips and looks in our direction.
I give him a wan smile and pull Benny back down the hall, toward our bedrooms upstairs.
“Oops,” Benny whispers in my ear.
I hit his arm, and he stifles a giggle. My brother is a terrible drunk, but he’s just as goofy when he’s sober. Really, you can’t take the kid anywhere. We go up three steps before we hear a “Wait!”
I turn around and—wonderful—it’s Lacey Production Assistant. “Hey!” she says. She’s like the Hollywood version of those girls who are always trying to get people to sign up for school clubs. Her toothy smile and eyes say, C’mon! It’ll be so much fun! She was probably born with a clipboard clutched in her arms.
She gestures with a walkie-talkie toward what used to be a wall. “Chuck really wants to keep you all downstairs right now. So, if you wouldn’t mind going into the kitchen—”
“Actually, I would mind—” I start, but Benny’s already pushing me away from the stairs.
“Dude, I need some water,” he says. “And I’m not going in there without you.”
Chuck grins as we come into the warm light, his hands spread out with benevolent Jesus-like welcome. I guess this is how it’s going to be, the head producer of MetaReel hanging around my house, acting like I’m the guest.
He’s surrounded by a mass of kids who are positively glowing from the excitement of having the cameras in the house again. Boxes of pizza cover the table—most of them empty—and I see some bags from the mall piled in a corner. As usual, Chuck’s playing Santa Claus. He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake.…
“Hello, hello. We saved a pie for you,” Chuck says. “Hungry?”
Benny and I shake our heads. I feel like I’ll never be hungry again. Lex maneuvers her willowy frame so the cameras will catch her every perfect angle.
“I already had a salad, but thanks, Chuck,” Lex purrs.
A couple of sound crew guys are leaning against the new granite counter, and they stare at her ass appreciatively. Lex gives them a little wink that makes me want to wring her neck. One of the guys grins, and his sound boom inches closer.
“Observe the phallic symbol as it stalks the rare sex kitten,” whispers Benny in his spot-on Australian accent.
I snort/laugh louder than I would have if I hadn’t been sipping on bourbon, and Lexie™ turns a snow queen glare on me. I smile like, Who, me?
My phone vibrates, and I pull it out. My mouth makes an O, and I show Benny the screen.
WTF Chlo? I’ve called you fifty times. I’m coming over.
“Oh, hell no,” Benny mutters.
“Be right back,” I say, racing past the cameras. I don’t see the thick black cord running along the floor between the kitchen and hallway, and I trip over it, my knee coming down painfully on the carpet.
“Whoa! You okay there?” asks a sound boom guy.
Face flaming, I mumble a “yeah” and then limp to the downstairs bathroom. It’s bad enough falling like a three-year-old in front of strangers, but that awfulness multiplies by about a billion when you know it just might make national headlines.
I breathe a huge sigh of relief when I finally close the bathroom door behind me. This is the safe zone—no cameras were ever inside unless Mom told them to film us doing makeovers or something horrible like that. I’m assuming the rule still stands. I rub my throbbing knee, then put down the toilet seat and call my best friend.
Tessa’s never seen my whole family together. Even though Kirk is a new addition to the Baker’s Dozen clan, we’re immediately recognizable en masse. My teachers and friends have never met my mom—they would absolutely know her from the cover of her bestseller There Are Never Too Many Cooks in the Kitchen: How Being Mom to a Baker’s Dozen Changed My Life. It’s crazy, but no one has figured out who we are. Change a few names, keep a low profile, homeschool everyone until junior year—we’ve kind of created our very own witness protection program.
I don’t have a good excuse for not coming over, but I tell Tessa there’s drama at home, and I’m sorry I didn’t call, and no, she really shouldn’t come by tonight. She’s never been inside my house, but she knows where I live from the occasional ride home. Tessa’s not a gullible person, but she’s always bought my excuses: my parents are really strict, they’re not home much and I can’t have guests if they’re not around, I have to babysit. I’m used to bending and stretching the truth until it morphs into something socially acceptable.
“But you’re still coming with us to the Tower District on Saturday, right? Before Mer’s party?”
Meredith is
the third in our trio, a vivacious drama girl whose theatrical antics somehow balance out Tessa’s no-nonsense academia and my wallflower status. We have plans to go to Hand Me Downs, our favorite vintage shop in the arty area of downtown, before Mer’s birthday extravaganza. It seems like forever ago that we’d had that conversation, but it was only yesterday.
“Yeah.” I hope I’m not making promises I can’t keep. Now that Chuck’s in charge, I’ll practically need a MetaReel release form to hang out with my friends.
Someone knocks on the door.
“Just a minute!” I yell. “I gotta go,” I say to Tess. “I’ll meet you guys there at one?”
“Okay … well, text me or something if you’re bored.”
“For sure.”
I splash some cold water on my face because I’m definitely feeling like I had a bit too much to drink in the orchard, and I need to be sharp tonight so I don’t humiliate myself any more than I already have. I groan into the towel as I dry my face off, then open the door. When I get out of the bathroom, Chuck is micromanaging everyone. He glances at the cell in my hand.
“Tomorrow we’re issuing you new phones.”
Translation: no more private calls.
My heart deflates until it’s like one of those flat, useless helium balloons that gradually sags until you have to pop it to put it out of its misery.
Chuck starts to walk away, but I step in front of him. “You’re not gonna bring cameras to my school, right?”
He leans back, just a little. His eyes narrow, reptilian, like he’s not used to being challenged. But all my desperation warrants is his little shrug. “You know how it is, Bonnie™. I never know what’s going to happen until it does.”
“Well, I just … can we not do that? Because it’s hard enough—”
“I promise I’ll give you a heads-up. Could be fun, you know.” His eyes hatch plots, but his smile is easy and reassuring. Well, it’s intended to be reassuring.
“But—”
He’s already walking away.
“Chloe.”
Kirk, the stepfather I now equate with villains from Marvel comics, is standing near our bookshelf, which is bursting with the self-help books he loves to quote. He’s into motivational stuff with words like power, future, and success in the titles.