Something Real (9 page)

She sighs. “I hope so. ’Night.”

Chuck and Kirk exchange good nights, and I hear the stairs creak under Kirk’s weight as he goes up to the master bedroom. A chair scrapes against the floor and the fridge opens, then closes. A clink of glass, the hiss as a bottle opens. The pop of a wine cork.

“Thanks,” Chuck says.

I don’t need to see them to know Chuck is drinking one of Kirk’s Heinekens and Mom’s downing a glass of Chardonnay.

Chuck: “Look, I love Bonnie™ as if she were one of my own kids. You know that. We’re not supposed to have favorites, but she’s always had a special place in my heart.”

Screw. Him.

“But, Beth, you’ve got
twelve
other children. Are you going to agonize over every decision about this show because one of them has become a little camera shy?”

Camera shy?
I guess that’s what we’re calling me wanting some goddamn privacy.

“Of course not,” Mom says. “But even you have to agree that this isn’t just any episode.”

I wish I’d heard the beginning of this. I consider walking in there and demanding to know what they’re talking about, but that’s Bonnie™. Going in with guns blazing always backfires on her. Chloe has to play this smart.

I ease over to the little decorative cutout in the wall. From here, I can see their faces as they sit at the kitchen table. Chuck’s folded hands and serious expression make him look like a Sunset Boulevard Yoda. Mom’s organizing the art supplies the triplets left on the table, putting crayons back in boxes and stacking construction paper as she talks.

“The rest of the kids will be okay with it,” she says. “Maybe even excited, once they get over the shock. But Bonnie™…”

“Bonnie™’s a teenager, Beth. She’s going to be hormonal about anything we do.”

Why do people think it’s okay to chalk all teen emotion up to hormones? As if they’re less real or something.

My phone starts vibrating in my pocket, and I frantically push buttons to get it to stop. It sounds like a freight train. I duck down just as Chuck’s head begins to turn in my direction. After a second, he continues pontificating, and I let out a silent sigh. I look at the screen—Mer. She’ll never know how bad her timing was.

“Beth, this is going to be a beautiful episode. It’s a great way to kick off the show. All heart.”

I peek over the ledge of the cutout in the wall. Mom is running her finger around the rim of the wineglass, her lips pursed.

“What if people think this is just a stunt?” she says. “I’m doing this show because I love my kids and I want them to have everything I never had. But the tabloids are going to say I’m exploiting them—you know they will.”

“I hear you, I really do,” Chuck says. “It’s a dramatic beginning. But we gotta think of the ratings, Beth. It’s how we keep you on the air.”

I wish Benny were here. Maybe he’d be able to decode this better than I can. Something big is going down for our first episode. Something Mom’s convinced I’m not gonna be happy about. But what?
What?

“You’re right,” she says. “I know you are. I just think we need more boundaries than last time, and I’m not sure this isn’t crossing one.”

Chuck nods. “I couldn’t agree more. Trust me: you are the final word on how the world sees your family.”

Mom pinches her nose with her thumb and index finger. After a minute, she lets her hand drop. “I’m terrified of our audience losing sight of what this family is about.”

Chuck leans forward, resting his elbows on the scratched surface of our huge kitchen table. “Love, Beth. It’s about
love.
The best kind—messy and imperfect and
real.
People are gonna watch the show because you’ve taken everything the world has thrown at you and you’ve still come out on top. Stronger than ever.”

I don’t think my parents getting a divorce is coming out on top. Apparently, neither does Mom.

“But everything with Andrew … how is that inspiring? How is that about love?”

I think of my dad, doing whatever it is he’s doing in Florida. Does he know the show’s back on? Or will he find out like the rest of the country—from commercials and magazine ads and talk-show interviews?

“But that’s just it, Beth. You’re a single mom who got dealt an impossible hand. Then you were so brave, willing to love again, after everything Andrew put you through. This is an
American
story. Half the women watching
Baker’s Dozen
have had their marriages fail. You’re showing them … you’re showing them how to fail
well
.”

Wow. Chuck Daniels, ladies and gentlemen.

Mom laughs, a bitter, tired sound that flicks at the air. But it’s at herself, not him. He drains his beer, then sets it down. The sound of the bottle against the wood is like a gavel—Chuck’s word is law.

“Growing pains, Beth—that’s all you’re feeling. MetaReel’s gonna take good care of your family. That’s a promise.”

He stands up and gives her an awkward pat on the back. “This’ll be your best season yet,” he says. “You’ll see.”

When the front door closes behind him, Mom presses her fingers to her skull and starts massaging her temples.

“Okay, okay, okay,” she whispers.

As if saying the words could magically make them come true. But I already know that whatever Chuck has planned, it’s not
okay
.

SEASON 17, EPISODE 6

(The One with the Retro Sunglasses)

Benny talked me off the ledge when I told him about the conversation between my mom and Chuck, but I still feel like jumping off a building. Preferably a tall one.

“You can’t control everything, Bons,” he’d said. “MetaReel’s gonna do what they’re gonna do. It’s all about how we respond to it. Us getting wasted … not the best response.”

And because of that bottle of bourbon we shared, neither of us is really in a position to negotiate with Mom. I know if I bring up my eavesdropping with her, she’ll see it as more proof that I’m getting out of control. And I can’t have her think I’m going off the deep end again. That will just give Chuck more episode ideas.

Still, I can’t stop replaying the whole thing. I feel sick just thinking about the first episode. Why would it be particularly bad for me? I’ve gone through all kinds of possibilities in my mind, but the only thing that would truly mess me up would be if the cameras came to school. The worst part is, I have no idea when it’s all going down. Our show doesn’t air until the end of November, but they’re shooting the footage now.

“Oh, hells
yes
! I am so wearing this tonight,” squeals Mer.

I snap back to reality. Mer holds a mod red dress against her body, then runs behind the leopard-print curtain in the tiny dressing room at the back of Hand Me Downs.

“That’s hot,” I say, belatedly.

My words sort of hang in the air, and I smile at Tess to cover up their clumsiness.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I lie. “You know how it is when parentals are nuts. It’s all good.”

She gives me a concerned look across the vintage accessories table, and I busy myself with a rack of sunglasses. I’ve been two beats off all afternoon, tone deaf to their bubbly, glittery Saturdayishness. Even Tessa, our resident grump, has the Saturday bug.

So far she and Mer have been cool about not pushing me to tell them what’s going on, but I know it’s only a matter of time before they stage an intervention. Hastily, I grab a huge pair of seventies sunglasses and model them for Tessa, my voice peachy-keen light because I’m fine fine fine.

“Like?”

Tessa grins. “
Love
. You so have to buy those.” She holds up a vintage tee that says
The Too-Loud Polka Parade
with cartoon drawings of a polka band. “I can’t resist this.”

“It’s perfect for your collection.” Not that she needs any more—Tessa has three drawers full of offbeat T-shirts at home.

I check my reflection in the gilt mirror over the 1920s hat display. The frames are see-through mauve, with dark lenses that take up half my face. They’re perfect for when the Vultures descend: movie star sunglasses that put a thin, plastic wall between me and the flashing cameras.

The dressing room curtain opens with a flourish. “What do you guys think?”

Mer’s in the red dress, her long auburn hair falling in waves over her shoulders, and she juts out one hip and rests a hand on her waist. All she needs is a catwalk and a pair of white, knee-length patent-leather boots.

“Hello, 1965,” says Tessa. “Two enthusiastic thumbs-up!”

I point at her with a lace parasol. “That dress has ‘It’s My Party and I’ll Cry if I Want To’ written all over it.”

“Yes!” She dances back into the dressing room singing one of her goofy, made-up songs. “
Parents out of town! Cha-cha-cha. Party at my house. Cha-cha-cha.”

Tessa rolls her eyes in Mer’s direction and calls, “Don’t quit your day job.”

“What-ever!” Mer sings.

The clerk bites her lip to hide an amused smile—she probably thinks we’re silly little teenagers. She looks like the kind of girl who might carry her own flask, a regular Tower District type. Tattoos snake up her arms, and her lips are vixen red. It’s a cool contrast with her 1950s housewife dress, and I wish, not for the first time, that I had the guts to look like that. But then people would look at me, which is sort of not the point of trying to be wallpaper.

Finished changing, Mer sashays toward us, the dress over one arm. “You guys ready for some Vicenti?”

Vicenti is heaven on earth—an amazing Italian deli with dirt-cheap sandwiches and creamy gelato. On warm summer evenings, the line snakes out the door and around the block.

“Oh, yeah.” Tessa glances at me. “You’re gonna get those, right?”

I take the glasses off. They’ll draw attention, but they also scream
personal bubble
.

“Yeah.”

We pay for our stuff and head down the street. It’s a chilly afternoon—for California, anyway—so the usual buskers aren’t serenading pedestrians with their guitars. This strip features some of the only independent businesses in our suburban town, where there’s a Walmart or McDonald’s every few blocks. The Tower District’s a mishmash of boutiques, coffee houses, performance spaces, and thrift stores. Everyone who doesn’t fit in comes here, the San Joaquin Valley’s own little slice of San Francisco.

“Chloe!”

I jolt as Mer shouts my name, certain that a MetaReel camera must be pointed right at me. But no. When I follow her gaze, I go warm all over. Patrick Sheldon’s behind the counter at Spin, the only indie record store between LA and San Francisco.

“Mer, don’t stare at him,” I growl.

“You know, I was looking for a David Bowie record. Maybe—” Tessa starts to cross the street, but I grab her.

“We are
not
going into Spin. We’re going to Vicenti.” There is no way I can face Patrick after acting like a lunatic in gov yesterday.

They both ignore me and sprint across the street.

“You guys suck!” I say, catching up to them.

Tessa swats my arm. “No we don’t. We love you. And you
loooooove
him. So we’re going in there.”

Just seeing him with his elbows on the counter and his head in a book makes me swoon. The way his hair gets in his eyes and how he bites his lip in concentration … yum.

“I don’t know what you see in that dirty brainiac, but
comme tu veux
,” says Mer. That’s Mer’s French for
suit yourself
.

“I disagree,” Tessa says. “He’s got this
je ne sais quoi
about him.” (They’re both in French III.)

Tessa opens the door and practically shoves me inside. Patrick immediately looks up and breaks into a startled grin.

“Baker!”

It’s a Schwartz thing—he never uses first names in class, and the people who get his weird fabulousness (he once asserted that the Declaration of Independence was sexy) take up the habit. You always know a Schwartz devotee by the use of last names.

“Hey, Sheldon,” I say.

He puts a scrap of paper between the pages of his book (
1984
) to mark his place.

“Lee, Mason,” he says as Tessa and Meredith come in behind me. “What’s up?”

“Mopey Emo Dude! I didn’t know you worked here,” feigns Mer. “This is
so
what Hamlet would do if he wasn’t a rich-ass prince.”

Patrick shrugs. “I basically get paid to read and listen to music all day. It’s pretty excellent.”

“Um.” Tessa glances around. “My dad’s birthday is coming up so I’m gonna…” She points in the general direction of the store.