Something Real (33 page)

“I do worry. I
should
worry.” My voice goes suddenly hard—it stacks bricks, each word building a wall between us. “I’m not going to ruin your life, Patrick. And
this
will.” I hold up the magazine. “You’ll be a joke at Columbia—because you dated crazy-ass Bonnie™ Baker.”

The muscles in his face grow taut, but he doesn’t say anything. He just keeps looking at me, like he’s waiting for something.

“This is all my fault.” My voice breaks and I clear my throat. “It was so selfish of me to even think this could work. People will be asking your parents questions, and … I won’t do this to you. We can’t be together—I should have followed my instincts at the park and stayed away. God, I’m so selfish! I’ll have our publicist leak it to the papers that we broke up. It’ll nip this in the—”

“No.”

I make the mistake of looking up. His eyes say so much more than that one word; I think of park swings and
Indiana Jones
and eating with his family. I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Patrick. But I can’t run from this.”

“You’re running
from me
.” His voice echoes against the tiles, as if a thousand anguished Patricks are surrounding me.

“Patrick, I tried to kill myself!” He flinches, and now I know for sure he really never Googled me. He didn’t know. “That’s why our show stopped. Because I’m seriously fucked up, and I took those pills and…”

As soon as I say the words, I know they’re true. All this time, I’ve told myself it was a cry for help, a way to get my parents to see me. But in this moment of truth, that’s not what I said. I tried to kill myself.
I tried to kill myself
.

“Chloe—”

I back away from his outstretched hand. “Patrick, you don’t understand. This article is nothing—
nothing—
compared to what they’ll start printing next.”

I take a breath and will my voice to carry me through breaking my own heart. I hold his eyes, surprised by my resolve.

“All my life, I’ve had to deal with this. But I was always isolated—the Vultures could only hurt
me
. They didn’t have anyone else they could drag through the mud. But now they know about you.
MetaReel
knows about you. Chuck’s probably already called your house, asking your parents to sign a release form. They’ll want to make us a story line, and they’ll edit the show so that we won’t even be able to recognize ourselves. They’ll make us hate each other. They did that to my parents. I’m not going to give them that. I won’t.”

He closes his eyes for a second, then looks at me, his voice pleading. “Don’t I get a say in whether or not we get to be together?”

I wish I had the guts to tell him I was pretty sure I loved him. But I can’t say that now because it would be trite. It would sound like, It’s Not You, It’s Me.

“I’m sorry.” My voice finally collapses on itself. I have to get out of here.

He doesn’t try to stop me when I leave. I sprint down the hallway and run to my car. I don’t have my keys, so I just sink down next to it and let myself sob. There is black writing on my hand, where the sweat on my palm had pressed against the tabloid. It says all grown up.

SEASON 17, EPISODE 22

(The One with the Wrapping Paper)

The triplets are eating Christmas cookies at the kitchen table. The Wild Things are trying to kill one another in the living room. Everything’s normal, but nothing is the same.

My mom is waving around the magazine like it’s evidence in a whodunit.
May I present Exhibit A—photographic proof of the first and only boyfriend Bonnie™ Baker will ever have.

“Who is this boy, Bonnie™?”

I don’t even glance at the trash in her hand. I missed the turnoff for Caring long ago. Now I’m just numb.

“His name is Patrick. He’s in my government class. It’s nothing.”

Nothing. I guess that is what we are now. I’ll just be some girl he dated—a weird brush with pseudofame. I’ll be an anecdote or, worse, a fun fact he can tell people during his freshman orientation next fall.

“This doesn’t look like ‘nothing.’ You’re kissing in the middle of your school parking lot!”

My face reddens as Old Guys Rule Dude leans against the wall, keeping the camera trained on me. Lacey Production Assistant is in the dining room, messaging our publicist.

“Can we talk about this later?” I give a meaningful glance at the camera, and Mom throws up her hands.

“Go do your homework.” I dash toward the stairs. “But we’re not through discussing this!” she yells after me.

I cross my room and lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Automatically, my hand reaches to my pocket, forgetting that I had turned off the phone Patrick gave me and buried it in the trunk of my car. It’s too tempting to call him. Would he even want me back, now that he knows I’m a total nutcase?

I tried to kill myself.

Why am I suddenly able to see the truth? How many times have I maintained that it was an unconscious cry for help—no matter how loud you shout, it’s hard to be heard over a dozen other voices. I thought I’d taken those pills because I knew Mom and Dad would finally listen to me. Dad would come back, they wouldn’t fight anymore, and maybe we could stop the show.

It’s summer in New Hampshire, and I am thirteen years old. Barefoot, cool glasses of lemonade, running through sprinklers, and jumping in pools. It’s after dinner, and the sun is starting to set. The little kids are inside, getting baths, and Chuck tells me to go get Dad, that he is in the guesthouse.

Oh my God.
Chuck
told me to get Dad. Chuck
knew
—he knew all along what Dad was up to in the guesthouse. He orchestrated the end of my family. I’m only just now realizing this. I feel nauseous, and I curl into a tight ball.

I creep up to the guesthouse and peek inside, thinking I might try to surprise him, when I see that he isn’t alone; he’s with a pretty girl—way younger than Mom. I’ve never seen her before, but I later hear that she is his chiropractor’s receptionist. They are kissing, and his hand is unzipping her shorts. For a minute, I just stand there at the window, paralyzed. I don’t want to see, but I can’t move or close my eyes. I hear someone call my name—Benton™. “Bonnie™, what are you doing? We’re starting the movie!” I’m terrified the cameras will catch Dad, confused about what I’m seeing, and so, so angry. Dad’s head whips around, and we lock eyes for a fraction of a second. I drop my glass of lemonade and run to the house. I know things are bad between Mom and Dad—they fight all the time. The house is filled with their screams, and the silences that follow are even louder. One of the cameras has followed me outside, and they catch the aftermath on tape. It becomes one of the most viewed clips in MetaReel history. Me, running inside, crying. Dad exiting the guesthouse and trying to get the girl out. Mom, catching both of them. The fight, the tears, the sound of Mom’s hand slapping Dad’s cheek. Dad packing a bag and leaving. Paparazzi everywhere, Chuck yelling into his phone, the MetaReel cameras hovering.

We are carrion.

I take the pills two weeks later, after Mom and Dad tell us that they are getting a divorce. I hear her say that he is never coming back. That it is better this way. Mom says we are still going to do the show, that people will come and help us but that Dad won’t be on it much. I walk up the stairs, go to my parents’ bathroom, and swallow every pill in the medicine cabinet.

But I didn’t want to be found. I remember that feeling now. I wanted to be alone, and I wanted everything to just stop. Forever. So I hid in their closet. It wasn’t a cry for help. I fell asleep lying behind a curtain of my parents’ clothing, hoping that I would never wake up.

“Mom told me you had to help wrap the Santa presents.”

I blink, and Lexie™’s standing in the doorway of my bedroom, her arms full of wrapping paper and shopping bags.

I turn my head back to the ceiling. I don’t want her to see me like this—I feel raw. “I’m too busy wallowing in self-pity right now.”

She comes inside and kicks the door closed with her foot. “I know. Benny told me what happened.”

She sets everything on the ground and then comes to sit in my desk chair, pulling her knees up to her chest.

“Sucks,” she says.

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Bon? You’re not,
you know
 … are you?”

“Lex, I don’t have to tell you those magazines are full of shit.” She raises her eyebrows. “No, okay? I’m not pregnant.” My voice is pretty harsh, even though I’m not trying to be, and she flinches slightly.

“Good.” Silence. Awkwardness. I really wish she would just go away. “Just, you know, if you were … I could help.”

“Lex, if you’re trying to balance out your karma, you’re wasting your time. Good deeds only help you in the
next
life. So you can stop with this whole sisterly bonding thing.”

Lex sighs, but she doesn’t move. “Believe it or not, I’m actually really upset about the tabloid. I know we aren’t close, but one, you’re my sister and maybe I can be a bitch to you, but nobody else is allowed to be. And two, I would kill to have someone look at me the way that Patrick guy looks at you. Even in that stupid magazine, it’s so obvious how into each other you are.”

I turn my head toward her. Lex’s eyes are hungry, and her fingertips rest against her lips, as if she could almost taste the want inside her. I feel like I’m looking at myself. She notices me staring, and the expression disappears. Camera-ready Lex is back.

“Plus, he’s hot,” she says, her voice playful. “Like, Kurt Cobain meets Johnny Depp hot.”

My eyes fill with tears, and I shove the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. I can barely speak, my throat is so choked up with all the words I’d said to Patrick today. “Lex, I know … you’re … trying to help me … but…”

“Bonnie™.” Her voice is soft, and I feel the bed sag as she sits beside me. “Did he break up with you because of this?”

I shake my head. “I bro-broke up with … him.”

“Wow,” she says. “Your relationship is starting to look like a CW show.”

This gets a begrudging snort out of me. “Well, Patrick is not a CW kind of guy, so it’s just as well.”

Lex puts a tentative hand on my shoulder. It’s weird having her touch me, and I can tell from the stiffness in her hand that the feeling is mutual.

“That was brave of you,” she says.

I look up, startled. “What?”

Everyone knows people who try to kill themselves are the antithesis of brave. If I were really brave, I’d run away or stage a protest or punch a Vulture.

When Lex looks into my eyes, I don’t see any of her usual mockery or jealousy. The haughty tilt is gone from her chin. “It was brave of you to give up someone you care so much about in order to protect them.” She pauses, and a soft smile plays on her lips. “But it would be even braver to give him the chance to be with you.” She squeezes my shoulder. “The past is past. You tried to kill yourself. So what? I humped a couch in season twelve. We all have our skeletons.”

“Wow. You went there.”

She grins. “Oh, I went there.”

There’s a beat, and planets realign. Then we burst into hysterical laughter.

This was my day: I made national headlines, broke up with the boy I love, and decided to like my sister.

*   *   *

Sheldon? Really?

She doesn’t look knocked up.

Do you think she’ll have it?

Dude, that totally sucks.

“Chloe … Chloe?”

It’s Thursday, and Diane Le Shrink is sitting in her usual chair across from me, her chin resting on steepled hands. I shake my head of the hallway gossip and try to focus on her.

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I was saying that I appreciate that you came to see me.”

“No offense, but my mom said I had to.”

“None taken.” She cocks her head to the side. “But I can’t help feeling like you chose to come during sixth period as an excuse to avoid Patrick.”

“Why’s that?”

“I checked to see who was in the class you were missing, and his name was on the list.”

I shrug. “Maybe I just didn’t feel like going to government.”

“Well, how are you holding up?” she asks.

This has been my day so far:

• Begged Mom to let me skip school, said I felt sick, etc. She said, No, it was my decision to have a secret boyfriend, and this was the consequence of my actions.

• Got to school and saw the tabloid in half the student population’s hands.

• Had ten people come up to me and ask, “Is it true?”

• Saw Patrick in the hallway, and my heart broke into a million pieces, like a Christmas tree ornament that somebody stepped on. He started to walk toward me, but I shook my head and practically ran in the other direction.