Something Real (28 page)

“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—something 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 later 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.