The camera focuses on me as Chuck whispers in Mom’s ear. She starts shaking her head.
“I don’t care!”
My feet start moving on their own, closer and closer to the camera. I barely register the guy holding it. I reach out my hand and touch the glass lens—nobody’s really paying attention to me anymore except for the camera and the man behind it. You know those tribal people who believed a camera could steal your soul? Turns out they were right.
“I’m sorry, Beth. It’s in the contract—MetaReel has full access to all public spheres of the home. The driveway is a public sphere. What do you want me to do?” Chuck asks. I can see him reflected in the lens, giving his little shrug and faux it’s-out-of-my-hands frown. It’s an expression better suited to a sitcom. He loves playing hapless—he’s anything but.
“Bon-Bon, come over here,” Chuck says, his voice wheedling. “Four years, and I don’t even get a hug?”
I can’t believe I used to like that nickname.
“Bonnie™,” Mom calls. I can hear her heels grinding the gravel underfoot as she comes after me. Hurry, hurry, my blood whispers.
I look right into the camera. My face is practically pressed up against it. America will be able to see my smudged eyeliner and the zit on my chin. They’ll probably show a Cover Girl commercial after this segment—I’ll be a cautionary tale for teen skin care.
I open my mouth to say something—screw you, America!—anything, but I go mute. Typical.
Mom yanks me back, hard. Child Protective Services hard.
“Ouch!” I say it louder than I need to.
The front door opens wider, and Kirk, my stepdad, comes outside. His sandy gray hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing pressed khakis and a button-down. He looks like a totally different person without the paint-splattered Dickies and ratty T-shirts he usually wears.
“Bonnie™, sweetheart. Let your mother explain,” he says.
For a second, I just stand there and stare at him. Bonnie™—et tu, Kirk? I feel like he just walked onto the porch and slapped my face as hard as he could. Up until about three seconds ago, he was one of only two people in my whole family who were willing to call me Chloe. He’d understood why the name Bonnie™ was repulsive to me. He’d said he wouldn’t want to be a brand, either. But now he’s sauntering toward us, relaxed—like he’s having fun. I look from Mom’s perfect hair to his easy grin; this was always going to happen again, wasn’t it? Stupid, stupid me.
“Bonnie™, go inside.” Mom’s still holding my arm, and I can almost feel my skin bruising underneath it, turning me purple. I shake her off, but she doesn’t notice. She and Chuck are having a staring contest.
I give the camera one more glare before I jump back in my car. The keys are still in the ignition, so I peel out of the driveway James Bond style, ignoring my mother’s shouts and the coffee that Lacey Production Assistant has dropped onto the front of her shirt in her haste not to die.
I can’t believe it. Despite all her promises, my mom has finally given in to MetaReel. After four camera-free years, the cast of Baker’s Dozen—my family—is back on the air.
Fireside Chats with Kaye Gibbons
INT—BAKER HOME—NIGHT: A cozy living room with a fire burning in a fireplace. Thirteen framed photos are set up on the mantel. Three of them are empty. [KAYE sits in a wingback chair beside the fire, ankles crossed. Her bob is hair-sprayed to perfection, and she wears a mint suit.]
KAYE GIBBONS: Good afternoon and welcome to another episode of Fireside Chats With Kaye Gibbons. Ten years ago, America—and the world—opened up their hearts to a very special family. For the past 3,600 days, we’ve shared in their joys [CUT to image of couple in a hospital delivery room holding a baby] and their sorrows [CUT to picture of orphanage destroyed by an earthquake. CUT to KAYE GIBBONS]. Though their circumstances are extraordinary, and they have millions of fans all over the country [CUT to image of a packed book-signing, then CUT to KAYE GIBBONS], not to mention a number of highly successful product lines, they’re still just as down-to-earth as when we met them. Today we have an extra special Fireside Chat with Beth and Andrew Baker, and—of course—little Bonnie™, Benton™, Lexie™, Farrow™, Riley™, Gavin™, Tristan™, DeShaun™, Deston™, and Lark™, stars of the hit MetaReel reality show, Baker’s Dozen. To celebrate the show’s tenth anniversary, I’m here at their beautiful five-acre property in Bartlett, New Hampshire, where they live, work, and play. Beth and Andrew have agreed to take a few minutes out of their busy home life to tell us why thirteen is still their lucky number.
[The BAKER FAMILY enters the room, and they arrange themselves around the fireplace. BETH and ANDREW sit in wingback chairs across from KAYE. BETH holds a baby boy and sets a stroller holding two toddlers beside her as ANDREW wrangles two little boys on either knee. The other five children alternately sit or walk around the room. One, BONNIE™, approaches KAYE and gives her a hug.]
KAYE GIBBONS: Well, hello there. I know you! Bonnie™, you have gotten so big since the last time I came to visit!
BONNIE™: [grins] Today’s my birthday—I’m ten!
KAYE GIBBONS: I know. And guess what? We have a very special gift for you today. You want to know what it is?
BONNIE™: [nods] Uh-huh.
BETH: Bonnie™, what’s the magic word?
BONNIE™: [clasps her hands together] Pretty please with a Sweet Sparkles™ cherry on top?
ANDREW: [laughs] Good girl, Bon-Bon!
KAYE GIBBONS: Well, since you asked so nicely … [“Happy Birthday” begins to play as three production interns enter the room, pushing three identical baby strollers. BETH gasps, her eyes filling with tears.]
ANDREW: [clutches the boys in his arms and stands] Oh my God. Oh my God!
BONNIE™: [runs to the strollers and peers inside, then looks up in confusion] But I wanted a bike.
KAYE GIBBONS: Well, Bonnie™, we thought we’d get you something even better. Remember when your mommy and daddy were so sad because the little babies from China couldn’t come?
[BONNIE™ nods.]
KAYE GIBBONS: Well, we have not one, not two, but three baby sisters from China, flown here special just for your birthday!
[BONNIE™ begins to cry, but the camera pans to the joyful faces of ANDREW and BETH.]
ANDREW: We’ve got our baker’s dozen!
[CUT to opening credit sequence of Baker’s Dozen. The theme song, “Recipe for Love,” plays as three more pictures are added to the credits, superimposed over chocolate chip cookie designs.]
VO: KAYE GIBBONS: This has been another Fireside Chat with Kaye Gibbons. To keep up with the escapades of the Baker family, tune into MetaReel on Tuesday nights at eight or watch the twenty-four-hour live feed on MetaReel.com.
SEASON 17, EPISODE 2
(The One with Bourbon and Cigarettes)
The dirt in the orchard is a little damp, but I sit on it anyway. Withered pieces of fruit lie scattered around me like forgotten toys, and the branches they’ve fallen from shiver in the brisk November wind. The scents of rotting apples, manure, and chimney smoke fill the air, and for a second, I can almost imagine I’m back in New Hampshire. Dad would be cooking dinner at home. Mom would be … still Mom. Probably doing a book tour and going on talk shows to sell her clothing line. And, let’s be honest, I’d still be in the New Hampshire equivalent of this abandoned field—wearing more than the thin sweater I have on in California, but still running away from MetaReel, ditching the craziness at home.
I lean against the gnarled trunk of my favorite tree and take a deep breath. I think the idea of fresh air making things better is a myth. It doesn’t take away pain—it sharpens it. I pull my knees up to my chest and press my eyes against my kneecaps until I see a fireworks display of color against my lids. Doesn’t work. The image of my mother with her camera-ready face and doe eyes won’t disappear. I want to open my mouth up to the sky and scream as loud as I can, but this is no time to turn into the tabloid disaster that was “
Bonkers Bonnie™.”
My mind spins, a pinwheel that never stops turning round and round. Just like it did in the days before my parents pulled the plug on the show, just like it started to in the driveway, which was why my fight-or-flight response kicked into overdrive.
Powder your nose and put on some lipstick before you head home. Don’t cry! Puffy red eyes will only add to the misery that is your face. Remember, the camera adds ten pounds. Uglyuglyugly don’t look at me, please, don’t look at me.
I open my eyes. No cameras. No crew. Just me and the trees and the wind. I remind myself that I’m Chloe now—history doesn’t have to repeat itself. I even have the yearbook picture to prove it.
My phone starts vibrating, and I fish it out of my pocket—Tessa. My finger moves to the little answer icon, hovering over it. There’s no way I can go over to her house, not like this, and I know if I hear her concerned voice, I’ll start sobbing and blab everything. The phone pulses against my hand: liar, liar. I clutch it in my fist until the vibrations stop and the screen tells me I missed a call.
My leg’s cramping, so I’m starting to stand up, when I hear the crunch of gravel as a car pulls into the turnoff from the highway. Heart in my throat, I slide back down the tree trunk. I’d parked my car behind an old fruit stand, but it’s easy enough to spot from the road if you look longer than three seconds, which most people don’t. Lacey Production Assistant must have put some sort of high-tech tracking device on my car while I was busy going schizo on camera. Soon they’ll be following me around, and that will be it—I’ll have to start taking those pills again, the ones that make me feel like Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Happy pills for unhappy girls. Shitshitshit. This has to be illegal. I need a lawyer. I need a—
The ignition turns off, and I hear the door creak open, then slam shut. Footsteps come my way, and my stomach does a flip. Bastards. MetaReel cameramen are notoriously relentless—I know that better than just about anybody. I have thirty, maybe sixty seconds before they’re on me. I crouch and run deep into the orchard, barely feeling the cuts that low-hanging branches scratch into my face as I fly past them.
I hear footsteps behind me, and my chest does this thing that reminds me of all those panic attacks I used to get, like it’s on a roller coaster that jumped off its track, so I veer off the path and slide down to the ground, smearing mud all over my new jeans. I clutch at my knees and gulp in air until my heart stops trying to wring itself out.
Breathe. Breathe, dammit.
My body’s on red alert, and I have to bite my tongue hard or else I’ll start giggling. It’s a horrible nervous habit—very straitjackety.
“Chloe—what the hell? Where are you?”
Benton™.
The adrenaline slips out of me and melts into the earth. It’s just my stupid big brother who I love more than anyone else in the world. No cameras. No strangers. My legs are lead pipes, and I have the shakes of an addict, but I stand and make my way back out to the path.
Benny’s standing a few feet away, holding a pack of American Spirits in one hand and a bottle of Maker’s Mark in the other.
“Dude, why didn’t you call?” he says.
The subtext here is thanks for letting me get ambushed by a camera crew, etc.
I shrug. My eyes are getting all weepy again, so I can’t see the expression on his face.
“Oh, hell. Come here.”
I tumble into his arms, and Benny wraps them around me. I squeeze him tight, and I hear the air whoosh out of his chest as he kisses the top of my head. He smells like woodsy cologne with a faint whiff of cigarettes underneath, and that Bentonness that is sort of indescribable but always reminds me of coconut macaroons. He hugs me tight and proceeds to curse out our parents, Kirk, MetaReel, and a number of other people, but because he’s Benton™, it sounds like a soft, reassuring lullaby more than a tirade.
“Did Mom tell you what I did?” I ask.
I feel him nod. “’Sokay. I’m sure they won’t air it,” he says.
Uh-huh. Riiiiiiight.
“Okay, I’m lying. I’m sure they’ll air it in the most sensational way.”
I wish I’d had the guts to say something into the camera. Now I’m just going to look like I was having another mental breakdown. Maybe I was. Maybe I am.
“I thought you were MetaReel,” I mumble into his chest. “Did they follow you?”
Benny drops his arms and shoves the bourbon into my hands, then opens his pack of cigarettes.
“Dunno. Matt had to get back to school for football, so he dropped me off outside our gate, as usual. I took one look at the insanity and jumped into Mom’s car. Then she calls as I’m driving away and proceeds to give me a lecture about driving while talking on my cell phone—for the benefit of the cameras, natch—and then is like, ‘Oh, by the way, the show’s back on, and Bons just freaked.’ I knew you had to be here, so I came right over.”
The flame from the lighter catches in Benny’s eyes, and it’s like I’m looking at two little pools of hopelessness. This is going to be equally hard on both of us, just in different ways. He takes a drag of his cigarette while I take a swig of the Maker’s Mark. The fire feels good as it courses down my throat, but I grimace anyway because, God, it’s disgusting.
“Where’d you get this?” I ask.
“Had it in my backpack. I’d left it at Matt’s house last time I was there, and I was gonna put it back in Kirk’s stash, but … I think we have better uses for it.”
“Do you think they’ll have an episode with an intervention? You know, ‘the Dangers of Teen Substance Abuse,’ blah, blah, blah.”
The look on his face reminds me of season eight, when he convinced my sisters and me to “decorate” Mom and Dad’s bedspread with his permanent markers.
“As the eldest in the family,” he says, “I can assure you I will take full responsibility for all illegal activities conducted on or off the set by our persons.”
The set. Our house is not a home anymore, it’s the set.
“Eldest,” I say, brushing the air with quotation marks.
“Two months, baby. While you weren’t even a twinkle in Mom’s eye, Lex and I were already rocking out in another woman’s womb.”
That would be the surrogate mom my parents lassoed to help them have Benny and Lexie™ before my mom was able to get pregnant with me. They’re twins, but Benny’s older by sixteen minutes and eight seconds. We’ll all be eighteen by the time we graduate in June, which, considering recent events, cannot come soon enough.
“Ho,” I say.
“Slut,” he counters.
I sock his arm, and he kicks my butt with the side of his foot, like he’s playing Hacky Sack, then he grabs the bottle out of my hand and gulps down a few shot glasses’ worth. He passes the bottle to me, and I take a tiny sip. We weren’t old enough to consider drinking last time around, but I did other things to dull the weirdness and pain. I run my hand over the bottle’s cream label, feeling kinda freaked out that I’m, what do you call it, self-medicating? I only know this phrase because it’s what the tabloids said about me four years ago. Benny seems to read my thoughts.
“This is just for today, ’kay?” he says.
My answer is another, larger, sip to drown the image that comes to mind of Tessa waiting for me at her house.
“Wasn’t that fun?” I ask.
“What?”
“Having friends.”
Benny twists the bracelet his boyfriend made for him last summer. “Yeah,” he says, so softly I barely catch it.
I can hear Dad just like it’s yesterday: No more cameras. I promise, Bon-Bon. Just please don’t hurt yourself again. I’ll even come home, if that’s what it takes.
He didn’t, though. Come home. Instead, Mom got full custody, moved us to the other side of the country, and married the contractor working on our new house. Dysfunction meets function. Or something like that.
Benny kicks a clod of dirt, and it bursts against a tree trunk. I feel l
ike that’s what just happened to my life in the past three hours.
“Dad’s gonna flip his shit when he finds out,” he says.
“Not like we would ever know,” I mutter. His condo in Florida might as well be on Mars.
Benny flicks the ash off his cigarette and takes a long drag. “Oh, I’m sure the media will tell us what he has to say about the whole thing.”
Yeah, that would be how we’d know his reaction. A celebrity gossip blog, a segment on Entertainment Tonight. Though I haven’t spoken a word to him in four years, it’s fairly easy to keep up with his B-list-celebrity self. Last I heard, he was doing some lame-ass charity golf thing in Hawaii.
I shiver and gaze at the tree branches overhead. I used to play this game where I’d look up at the sky and imagine that I was somewhere else in the world—Rome, maybe, or Thailand. And I would marvel at how the sky looks the same wherever you are on the planet, give or take some pollution. If I didn’t look down, I could be anywhere but here.
Benny shakes his head. “It’s gonna be so much worse than before.”
“That bitch,” I say, throwing a rotting apple down a path of trees. I rub my arm where Mom had grabbed me. “I can’t believe she’d do it without telling us first. Not after…” I trail off, not wanting to actually talk about It. “Why didn’t they tell us sooner?”
“Why did they make us be on this crazy fucking show in the first place?”
Suddenly, a lot of things start coming together: Mom’s insistence last month on my getting that expensive haircut and the hour-long consultation at the department store makeup counter. That recent family portrait that she’d had us all take and Kirk’s frequent business trips to Los Angeles. They’d been planning this for a while.
Benny takes another huge swig of bourbon. The bottle’s only half full now.
“Okay, Dionysus, lay off the booze.” I put the cap back on and start pulling him toward the car.
He stumbles over some roots in the path and nearly falls flat on his face, but he catches himself and looks up at me, his cigarette clamped between his two front teeth.
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