Something Real (21 page)

He wraps his arms around me, and I can’t believe it’s almost starting to feel normal, but it is. My head automatically falls against his chest, and my hands press against his shoulder blades as he rests his chin on top of my head.

“I think you might be the coolest person I know,” he says. I snort, and he tightens his grip on me. “Seriously. Every time you spoke in class I was like,
yes
. Plus, I’ve been watching you from afar in a totally noncreepy way, and I can say with certainty that you have never seemed like you don’t know what you’re about. You’re, I don’t know, you’re this composite of awesomeness.”

“Good band name,” I say against his chest.

“Yeah. The Composite of Awesomeness. Let’s do it. Can you play an instrument?”

“No.”

“Sing?”

“Definitely not,” I say.

“Then let’s be one of those bands that are really shitty but because we say we’re artists people will be afraid to criticize us.”

I laugh. “Okay. Maybe we’ll throw a little Nietzsche in there to intimidate the haters.”

“Excellent.”

“Hungry! Dying of starvation! There is a famine in the Sheldon kitchen!” yells Matt.

“You better not be on his bed!” adds Benny.

I pull away. “Coming!”

Patrick grabs my hand again as we start toward the kitchen. It’s warm and solid, something I want to hold on to for as long as I can. “Six more months, and the world is your proverbial oyster,” he says.

I want to believe him. I really do. But, somehow, I feel like I’ll be carrying the weight of my family around for the rest of my life.

www.metareel.com/bakersdozen/meet

MEET THE BAKER’S DOZEN!

Bonnie™ Elizabeth Baker

Age:
17

Favorite Color:
Pink

Favorite Movie:
Anything with Jude Law

Favorite TV Show:
Big, Bad Baby Mamas
(www.metareel.com/baby)—MetaReel’s new show!

Favorite Quote:
“Dance like everyone’s watching and you don’t care.” (Denise Henshaw, cast member of MetaReel’s
High School Drop-Out
)

Favorite Food:
Beauty Bar™ from Health Nutz™

Fun Fact:
Bonnie™ is the only one of her brothers and sisters to be born on national TV! Watch the episode
here
.

What she wants to be when she grows up:
A fashion designer (and a RealMom™)

What she’s most excited about:
The Bonnie Lass™ halter dress in “Turquoise Dream” and getting to graduate this summer!

Favorite
Baker’s Dozen
Episode:
Season 11, Episode 17: The one where she got to learn how to ride a horse at Horsin’ Around™ in Malibu, CA. Watch this and all of her fave episodes
here
.

Her Scrapbook: Click
here
to see photos of Bonnie™ since she was a baby! And don’t forget to check out the family
blog
to keep up with all of the Baker’s Dozen.

SEASON 17, EPISODE 14

(The One with the Skittles)

The next day at school, Tessa and Mer are waiting by my locker. When they see me, they both wave, and some of the despair huddled in my chest disappears when I see the hopeful smiles they give me. I haven’t talked to either of them since yesterday morning, when Tessa could barely say two words to me. I came to school today assuming I didn’t have friends anymore and had planned to be that sad girl who has to eat lunch by herself in her car. I hug my books tighter against me and push through the crowd. I’m almost to them when the first taunting of the day happens.

“Hey, Bonnie™!” says this little twerp I’ve never seen.

“Fuck off,” say Tessa and Mer at the same time.

The three of us look at one another, the kid forgotten, and burst out laughing. Tessa throws her arms around me, and Mer hugs both of us, and we become this blob of blubbery forgiveness in the middle of the packed hallway. I want to cry or laugh or maybe do both at the same time, but instead I just breathe them in, the men’s cologne that Tessa wears and Mer’s watermelon-scented lip gloss.

“I’m sorry for being such a bitch,” Tessa says into my hair. “I just didn’t know what to think. We’re the crappiest friends ever.”

“We suck at life,” Mer agrees.

I shake my head. “I lied to you guys. I didn’t want to, but I did. Seriously, I understand. You were hurt—it’s okay.”

Tessa pulls away and takes a long look at me. “No, it’s not.”

And from the look on her face, I can tell she’s not just talking about her behavior. She’s talking about my life. I can picture her sitting at her desk, researching my childhood as if it’s one of her AP History projects. Instead of making me angry, the thought adds to my relief.

“I’m glad you know,” I say. And she nods like she understands I mean the show
and
the pills.

“Well, I feel like a frickin’ idiot for not recognizing you,” Mer says. “My mom used to watch your show all the time. Like, how did I not put your face and last name together?”

I have a flash of Mer’s mom watching me throw a tantrum or seeing my parents get into one of their epic fights, and I try not to judge her. She didn’t know she was watching one of her daughter’s future best friends. To her, we were just another TV show.

“I’m glad you didn’t recognize me,” I said. “If you had, I totally would have gone back to homeschooling. When I first got here, I thought there was no way it would work—becoming Chloe, hiding my family. But four years off the air is like four hundred in reality TV years, you know?”

“I never watched the show, but I’m still surprised I didn’t recognize you from all the magazine covers.” Tessa gently pulls a lock of my hair. “You look better as a brunette, by the way.”

I agree. “Yeah, they say blondes have more fun, but that’s so not true.”

The bell rings for first period, and the students around us surge toward the classrooms. I grab my books out of my locker, and the three of us walk down the hall.

“Hey, where were you yesterday?” Mer asks, just before she peels off for chem.

“Playing hooky,” I say.

I see Patrick up ahead with his friend Max. He catches my eye, and his grin holds all kinds of delicious promises.

“Okay … what’s
that
about?” Tessa asks.

My face goes through about ten different shades of red before it settles on desert rose.

“I’ll tell you at lunch.”

I walk into first period, too high on having my friends back to care about the way the air seems to suck out of the room as soon as I enter it. Let them stare and whisper and update their Facebooks and Twitters.

Right now, they can’t touch me.

*   *   *

Diane Finchburg is pretty nice. I want to hate her, but it’s sort of hard to be against someone with an unlimited supply of Skittles. A half hour into our session, I’m still sitting in her sunny office, munching on my second Fun Pack, staring out the window behind the cluttered desk with the DIANE FINCHBURG, SCHOOL COUNSELOR nameplate on it. My punishment from Mom for ditching school yesterday is to start seeing the Skittle Lady so that I can, in her words, “learn healthier ways to cope with the show.” When I’d pointed out that Benny had been ditching just as much, Mom gave me a look that basically said,
Benny’s not a nutcase like you.
So I didn’t really pursue that line of questioning because there were two producers and a camera in the room at the time.

Now I’m here, talking to a stranger about my problems. It’s a little less awful than I thought it would be. She’s wearing this cute sparkly headband I saw on the J.Crew website—it clashes with her rubber duckie socks, but I like that about her. Instead of being all clinical behind the desk, she’s in the chair next to mine. The fact that she’s not wearing any shoes somehow makes me forget we’re even at school.

“So how do you think the taping will go on Thursday?” she asks in her chamomile tea voice.

I shrug. “I mean, bad, probably. It’s live. Anything can happen.”

“It must be hard to concentrate in class with all this going on at home.”

“A little, I guess. But it’s okay.”

I wonder if my responses are frustrating because I’m not the spaz Mom probably made me out to be.

“Chloe, I want you to know that anything we say here stays in this room. I’m not gonna pick up the phone and call your mom. There are no cameras, no MetaReel. It’s just me and you, okay?”

“Okay.”

Still. I’m not going to be telling her my deepest, darkest secrets anytime soon.

“Mr. Schwartz says you’re really bright. One of his best students. Have you thought about helping out with student government? He’s in charge of that, you know. I could talk to him.”

“I don’t do clubs or anything like that. It’s…”

I trail off because I don’t want to answer, and I don’t owe her one. It feels like every random person I come into contact with wants me to bare my soul. I know Skittle Lady’s trying to be nice, but at the end of the day, she’s just another Lacey Production Assistant without a cameraman by her side.

“Are you afraid people won’t accept you for who you are? That they’ll only see you as Bonnie™?”

I roll a purple Skittle around in my mouth. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

Clubs are for people who belong. I don’t. It’s almost as simple as that. Almost.

She makes a steeple with her fingertips. “What about your dad? What does he have to say about all this?”

“Kirk?”

“No. Your biological father.”

“He’s not on the show anymore.”

If one of us died, we’d probably say it like that.
Oh, so-and-so’s not on the show anymore. Didn’t you see episode twenty, the One with the Funeral?

“Your mother mentioned you might want to talk about him.”

“Why?
She
never does. Unless it’s in a book half the country’s going to read.”

Ms. Finchburg nods like she understands, which, let me tell you, she most certainly does not.

“How does that make you feel?” she asks.

Psych 101 rears its ugly head.

“It makes me feel like she’s glad he’s gone.”

“Are
you
glad he’s gone?”

How many times have I asked myself that question? The answer changes every day. Yes. No. I don’t know. I hate him. I hate her. I hate me.

“I’m glad they’re not screaming at each other all the time.” I point to a picture on her wall. “That’s really cool.” Patrick would like it, I think. It’s a black-and-white photograph of a bunch of guys eating lunch on this tiny beam high above New York City. It makes my hands sweat, just looking at it.

Diane Finchburg glances at the print for a second. “Thanks.” Pause, then, “So have you spoken to your father recently?”

She’s good about not letting me change the subject, I’ll give her that.

“Okay. Ms. Finchburg—”

“Diane.”

“
Diane
. I really appreciate that you’re, like, trying to aid delinquent youth and everything, but I’m just not comfortable talking to you about my dad. He’s not around, he hasn’t been for a long time. That’s really all you need to know.”

“Okay, sure.” She shifts in her chair, crosses her legs. “Why don’t we talk a bit about the panic attacks. Your mom said you used to get them a lot. Had any lately?”

I shrug.

“I used to get them in college,” she says. “I have a little trick that gets rid of one before it starts—wanna hear it?”

“I guess.”

She tells me that as soon as I get that heart attack feeling in my chest, I should close my eyes and take a deep breath while counting to ten.

“When you get to ten,” she says, “exhale and imagine all that panic leaving you.”

“Simple as that?” I say. My old shrink made me read self-help books and suggested I get in touch with my spirit guide. I’m not holding out much hope for deep breathing.

She smiles. “It’s all up to you. I’m guessing by now you know that there isn’t really much about life that’s simple.”

I snort. “You could say that.”

The bell rings, and I get up.

“Have a good lunch, Chloe,” she says.