Something Real (34 page)

• Saw BONNIE BAKER IS A SLUT written on a bathroom stall.

• Spent lunch by myself behind the gym and decided I would rather be seen going to the school shrink than have Patrick sit behind me in gov.

But I just say, “Well, I haven’t tried to kill myself yet, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Ms. Finchburg-call-me-Diane nods. “Okay.”

I stare at her socks (skull and crossbones Santas). Should I ask Tessa and Mer about what happened in gov? Do I really want to know how Patrick was acting? Diane tosses a pack of Skittles at me, and I surprise myself by actually catching it.

“So. Do you want to talk to me about yesterday?”

“It was a really bad day.” I open my Fun Pack and eat the purples first.

“So, let’s get the crappy stuff over with,” she says. “
Are
you pregnant?”

My Skittles turn to ash in my mouth. “
No
.” God, this is ten kinds of embarrassing.

“Because, if you are, I’m here for you. I can help—”

My face is on fire. “Seriously. I’m nowhere near pregnant.” Unless you can get pregnant from having your boyfriend see you in your bra, this talk is totally unnecessary.

“Okay.” Clocks tick, and a door slams in the hallway.

“How did your mom react to the tabloid?”

I sigh. “She wanted to talk about it in front of the cameras. That’s what Chuck was pushing for, anyway.”

“Chuck?”

“The head producer. And I didn’t want to do that. So we didn’t talk about it.”

Diane nods. “It must be hard not to have much access to your mom.”

“I don’t know. It’s … just how things are. How they’ve always been. There are thirteen of us, you know?”

“Your mom called and said you were upset about this week’s episode.”

I don’t care. Not having Patrick in my life is all I can think about right now.

“Why don’t you usually watch the episodes?” she says.

“I don’t like seeing myself on camera.” But that’s not it—that sounds shallow, like I’m worried I’ll look fat or something. “It’s like somebody is walking over my grave. TV immortalizes you. The episodes are what my family would watch if I died.”

She asks me more questions, all vaguely trying to ascertain if I really, really truly am not pregnant. When the bell rings, she gives me a candy cane.

“Merry Christmas, Chloe.”

I feel bad I didn’t get her anything.

“You too.”

I walk out, and Patrick’s standing there. He has dark circles under his eyes, and when he sees me, he steps toward me with slow, tentative strides.

“Hey.”

I’m standing there like an idiot, clutching a candy cane in my hand and looking like death. Seriously, I haven’t seen the inside of a shower since yesterday morning. He opens his mouth, like he’s going to say something, but I hold up my hand as if the candy cane had the power to protect me from people who take my breath away.

“Patrick. I can’t.”

I blink my eyes to keep from falling apart in between sixth and seventh periods. I know that two steps forward would bring me instant relief. I know exactly how good it will feel when Patrick wraps his arms around me. Am I being brave? I feel like a coward. Maybe Lex is right—maybe it would be braver to admit I was wrong. But I don’t think I am. He’ll see that. By the time we get back from Christmas break, he’ll be over me.

The warning bell rings. Is he thinking what I’m thinking? Exactly twenty-four hours ago he was kissing me outside Spanish class. What little light there is in his eyes dims. He sighs, nods, says, “Okay,” and walks away.

Friday is pretty much the same, except that Patrick is absent. Somehow, this hurts even more. Especially because I know I won’t see him for at least two weeks. Christmas break starts at 2:40 P.M.

Lunch conversation, a transcript:

Tessa:
Chlo, talk to us.

Me:

Mer:
We support whatever you want to do, but Patrick is, like, not okay.

Tessa:
Even Schwartz noticed. During gov yesterday, he didn’t give Patrick any shit for not paying attention.

Mer:
And when Michael Ingraham was all, “Hey, where’s your baby mama?” Patrick stood up so fast, and if Schwartz hadn’t gotten in the middle, Patrick would have—

Tessa:
Mer
.

Mer:
What? She has a right to know.

Me:
Guys … just … (sighs and throws away uneaten lunch)

Tessa:
What can we do to help?

Me:
Nothing. Seriously. I’ll be okay.

Mer:
Liar.

Me:

Lexie™ Baker
@reallexie™baker

Don’t believe everything you read, people. #BonnieBakerIsn’tPregnant!!

Tonya LaChelle
@tonilala

Celeb.com says @realbonnie™baker is gay and this is all a cover up

Phat Boy
@phatboy

I’d do her

Lexie™ Baker
@reallexie™baker

You’re a disgusting human being. She’s a 17 year old girl. Get a life, creep! #BonnieBakerIsn’tPregnant!!

Phat Boy
@phatboy

I’d do you too

Denise Vale
@denisevale

@reallexie™baker is right. Leave @realbonnie™baker alone!

Anya Fairbanks
@anyafairbanks

Who is Patrick Sheldon and can I get his number?! #hottieoftheday

Casey Freman
@caseyfree

@realbonnie™baker had an abortion last week! Check out the article: www.celeb.com/bonniebakerabortion

Maria Vasquez
@mariavaz

Who cares about @realbonnie™baker? There are children dying in Africa. Open your eyes.

Baker’s Dozen
@bakersdozen

Bonnie™ Baker is not pregnant. Patrick Sheldon is just a friend. #BonnieBakerIsn’tPregnant!! Check out her family’s reactions on www.metareel.com/bakersdozen

Jenni Shaw
@jshaw

See @realbonnie™baker freak out in her school parking lot: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cfOa1a8hYP8 HILARIOUS

Sara Bithnell
@sarbith

WTF? Hasn’t this girl gone through enough sh*% already? Leave her alone!!!

SEASON 17, EPISODE 23

(The One with the Fort)

After school on Friday, I go into my room, lock the door, turn off the light, and lie on my bed. I don’t move for almost twenty-four hours. Various people (Mom, Sandra, Lex, Chuck, Benny, Farrow™) knock on the door, plead, cajole, threaten, etc. I give them monosyllabic responses that I’m sure the camera is picking up.
I’m not dead
, I say, when they ask how I am. On Saturday, I sit up just as the sun begins to set. My eyes are red and puffy, and I’m starving. I put Patrick’s notes, a picture of us, and stray packs of spearmint gum in a bag, which I bury in my closet. When I open the door, Benny is sitting against the wall across the hall. His face lights up when he sees me. Without a word, he jumps up and pulls me into his arms.

“What can I do?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I just need to shower and eat.”

I do both of those things, then endure an hour and a half with Sandra while we talk to the MetaReel publicist on speakerphone.

“So you’re not dating this boy?” the publicist asks, for about the tenth time.

“No,” I say.
I’m protecting him
, I think.
I’m keeping the crazy out of his life. He deserves better.

The publicist goes on and on, and finally I push back my chair and look at Sandra. “I can’t talk about this anymore.”

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Okay,
mija
. Get out of here.”

How many teenage girls have to do damage control with a publicist when they have a breakup? Me and, like, Miley Cyrus.

I need to keep busy and not think about him. I have to stop wondering how he’s feeling, what he’s doing, what his parents are saying, and oh my God, if he starts dating someone before we graduate—or
ever
—I seriously don’t know how I’ll be able to handle it.

It’s impossible to keep my mind off Patrick, and I have no one to help me. Lexie™ has a date—Benny too. He was super apologetic, but he couldn’t cancel on Matt because he’d spent last night sleeping outside my door. Mom and I are still not speaking to each other, and Kirk generally avoids me, which is fine because I really don’t think I can deal with any trite Kirkisms right now. I babysit the triplets while Mom packs for their book-signing thing—an attempt to boost last-minute Christmas sales in the South. This keeps me distracted until I think of the beautiful book I’d bought for Patrick on this architect he’s obsessed with, Frank Gehry, and how it’s now hidden in the back of my closet. I can’t return it because I’ve already written girlfriend things inside, but I don’t have the heart to throw it out.

I can’t believe we’re not together.

This thought hits me every few minutes, and it hurts like hell each time. I read bedtime stories to the triplets and let them cover me with kisses and hugs and then I’m alone again. I spend an hour reading
1984
and another one researching universities I know I’m not going to apply to. I have five months to figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. Or at least the next year. I sure as hell can’t stay at home. When I was little, I wanted to be a doctor, but I don’t think I want to be in school for the next decade. I like math, but I can’t see myself doing equations all day or—ugh—teaching.
Undeclared
. That’s just quantifiably lame. It’s like saying I’m majoring in I Don’t Know Who I Am.

I’m contemplating watching a movie, preferably one with lots of blood and guts, when I hear a car pull into the drive—Benny or Lex, back a bit on the early side. A few minutes later, there’s a soft knock on my door. When I open it, Benny puts a finger to his lips.

I hold up my hands and start to mouth
What?
but then he steps aside and I forget how to blink. Patrick stands in the doorway, a quiet smile on his face and a pile of blankets in his hands. The blood rushes to my head, and my ears start ringing, and I want to cry and laugh at the same time, and it’s too much, these feelings are too much, and then Benny pushes Patrick inside and he’s standing next to me. So close I could touch him. But I can’t—can I?

“Lock it,” Benny says, then shuts the door.

I am alone in my bedroom with Patrick Sheldon.

The sound of the dead bolt reminds me of the
click
of a roller coaster car just before it plummets toward the ground. Right now—with this boy I’m so freaking in love with I can hardly breathe—right now is that moment when the roller coaster car stops at its highest point, just before the fall, and I can’t stand to wait, but I’m terrified of what’s going to happen next.

“How—”

But he doesn’t let me get the question out. He drops the blankets on the floor and crushes his lips against mine. Instinct takes over, and I forget all about my self-sacrificial plan to save him from the Vultures, to spare him the embarrassment of being my boyfriend. I press myself against him, matching his urgency. He tastes like spearmint, and everything is perfect; it’s the smell in the air after it rains, and laughing till my stomach hurts, and getting everything I wanted for Christmas and his tongue in my mouth and—
what the hell am I doing?

“Patrick—”

“
Shhh
,” he whispers, leaning into my neck.

Screw it.

I kiss him the way I wanted to in the handicap stall and outside the shrink’s office, when everything in me screamed to touch him. And it’s like our lips are having this whole conversation, full of exclamation points, every word in capital letters and underlined. Finally, he pulls away and looks down at me, his hands still tangled in my hair.

“I love you.”

No preamble, no hesitation. He says these three words like it’s the most natural thing in the world.