I flip back to the table of contents, hoping I won’t see—but there it is. Chapter fifteen: “Death on Our Doorstep.”
“Benny.”
I’m gutted. Compared to everything Mom’s done, this is the worst. How could she do this to me? To all of us?
He scoots closer to read over my shoulder, abandoning his own copy.
The night Bonnie™ overdosed was the most terrifying of my life. We’d already had to deal with her cutting—
I hiss as all the air leaves my chest, but keep reading. I have to keep reading. Benny squeezes my shoulder.
Andrew had moved out the week before and was at the house for a visit with the kids. I think Bonnie™ took it harder than the rest—she’d always been very attached to her father. I come from a broken home, too, so I knew how hard this would be on the kids … but I never thought my daughter would try to commit suicide.
I shake my head. “I told her that’s not what it was.”
Benny stays silent, and I look at him, accusing.
“You still don’t believe me?”
He says each word as if it’s a stone, gently turning over each one and inspecting it before it leaves his mouth: “I think if you were upset enough to put all those pills in your mouth, you might not have been the best judge of your real intentions.”
I slam the book shut with disgust. “That’s comforting, thanks,” I spit.
I don’t know how to explain to him—to all of them—that I seriously wasn’t trying to kill myself. I’ve never seen the episode where I swallow nearly all of the random pills in my parents’ medicine cabinet, but I’m sure it was portrayed as a suicide attempt. At the hospital, there were social workers and therapists and lots and lots of family. It was hard to breathe, that’s what I remember most. Bright fluorescent lights, everything stark white, people hovering. But I was lucky to be breathing at all. I know that now. I know it was so stupid. Beyond stupid, obviously. I just wanted my parents to hear me, and it seemed like no matter how much I said or how loud I said it, they were never going to let me have a normal life. To make friends, to meet boys, to go outside the confines of our high-definition life. And then Dad left.
Oh, Bon-Bon, they would say, you have no idea how lucky you are.
But why would such a “lucky” girl take those pills?
A few customers pass by, and I lower my voice. “I’m not a coward, Benny. I was just trying … you know what? Never mind.”
Benny tries to grab me, but I’m too quick for him. I drop the book and race down the Fantasy aisle, losing him among castles and warlocks. I push past the Mystery section, skirt the bestseller table, and practically knock down a display of crossword puzzles. My chest constricts, and it’s getting harder to breathe. Waves of panic roll over me, and my arms begin to tingle. I push through the heavy glass door and ignore a startled woman’s glance. When I’m in the sunshine and cool air, my throat unclenches just a little. I stand behind a large planter that blocks me from the parking lot, my hands on my knees, my chest heaving.
You are in control, I repeat, over and over. My therapist from before told me I should practice saying this when I feel a panic attack coming on. You are in control.
But I’m not, am I? That’s the problem.
“Hey.” Benny’s kneeling down, and his hand starts to rub my back.
“Hi,” I choke out. I don’t want him to see me like this. He’s got a suicide-watch look in his eyes, and the last thing I need is for MetaReel to find out I’m still having the attacks.
“How long have these been back, Chlo?” I can hear the worry in his voice, and I know it’s because he loves me, but they’re mine, these attacks, and I hate that everyone thinks they can talk to me about them.
I shake my head, try to get my breaths even. I hated being on the medication: the antidepressants, antianxiety, anti-me pills. And even though it felt like such a victory to stop using them, right now I could go for some. Anything to wipe that look off of Benny’s face. Guilt settles in my lungs, cold and heavy. It must suck having me for a sister, never knowing if I’m gonna lose my mind again.
“I’m fine, Bens.” He purses his lips, and I force myself to stand up straight. “Really. That was just, you know, unexpected.”
Keep it together, Chloe. I love and trust Benny more than anyone in the world, but if he thinks I’m anything like season thirteen Bonnie™, nothing will keep him from alerting Mom.
“I don’t know…”
I grip his arm, hold his eyes. “Benny, I’m okay. Seriously. Please don’t say anything. It’s the last thing any of us needs.”
I can see the argument inside him, the way his jaw tenses as he looks past me, off into the busy parking lot. I know he’s weighing it all, imagining what Chuck could do with this tidbit, remembering that night he found me, unconscious and barely breathing.
“I won’t say anything for now,” he finally says.
“Thank you.”
He grabs my shoulders and holds me away at arm’s length. “But you’ve gotta be straight with me, Chloe. If it’s too much, if you maybe need meds, you can’t hide it from me. Because if I find out you are, I’m going straight to Mom.”
I nod and he engulfs me in a bear hug. I feel something hard against my stomach and pull away.
“Benny,” I say, looking down, “what’s in your shirt?”
He looks over his shoulder, then quickly pulls my mom’s book out of his waistband.
“Benton™ Andrew Baker!”
He shrugs. “Serves them right for selling this trash.”
“And you’re worried about me?”
* * *
When I get home, the camera crew is MIA. They can’t film inside the home unless Mom or Kirk is here, but the live streaming cameras have already been mounted on the walls of every “public” space in the house (basically, not the bedrooms or bathrooms). Once the first episode airs, the streaming cameras will be activated and fed onto our website. That way if any pervy dude watching wants to see what I’m up to at any hour of the day, he can just get online. I wish I was being paranoid, but it’s true. Every single kid in my family has gotten skeezy fanmail, and there are more than a few creepy blogs dedicated to us. I shudder, imagining those sickos getting off on my sisters playing dress-up in the living room. In season ten, I remember getting a letter that obviously no one had checked, because it said the most disgusting things I’ve ever seen in print. The fact that it was written in crayon and had stickers on it is what still makes my skin crawl. That was the episode where I asked my mom what a blow job was.
The house is eerily quiet, like it’s bracing itself for tomorrow. Earlier this week, Chuck had informed us that Good Life magazine is featuring the Baker-Miller clan on its January cover, and they’re going to be here with their crew and our crew and our big-ass family all day. I look out the sliding door that leads to our backyard; the little kids are running around with the new nannies, their cries of delight muted because of the thick glass door. In addition to the Hulks for homeschool, we now have two nannies who hang around from six A.M. until all the little kids are in bed. I haven’t bothered getting to know them—in my eyes, they’re just part of Chuck’s entourage. Like everyone else, they’ve had to sign some serious legal paperwork promising not to gossip about us to the tabloids, which is all I really care about.
As I step into the kitchen, the toe of my shoe gets wedged between those stupid camera cords again, and I nearly fall on my face. I throw out my hands and catch myself on the counter. I have to stop tripping over this thing before we start streaming. I give the cords a vicious stomp before I grab a glass of water and head toward my room. Some of the older kids are in the basement—from the sounds coming up, I can tell they’re playing that blood-and-guts game Chuck surprised them with yesterday. Lex’s car isn’t in the driveway, and Benny’s out with Matt; after I’d had my panic attack, I told him I needed to be alone for a few hours.
Being home doesn’t feel any better, though. My anger at Mom�
��s betrayal has morphed into this ugly black thing, like tar is coating my insides, filling me up with hatred. Hatred. I think it’s actually come to that.
I take the stairs two at a time and push my bedroom door open, then lock it behind me. Mom had finally agreed to install a lock on my door after one too many kids ransacked my room. Now I’m more grateful than ever for the privacy it affords me. I don’t even care that it’s cramped and tiny—Lex and I were going to have to share, but Kirk divided the room in half by literally putting a wall in the middle of it. When we lived in New Hampshire, I’d had to share with her and Farrow™, my fifteen-year-old sister. I guess there are perks to having a contractor as a stepfather.
My room is my favorite place in the universe, because if I run my fingers over the walls, I literally have the world at my fingertips. Every square inch of space is covered with glossy photos from travel calendars. Since we moved here, I’ve been ordering them online—old ones, so they’re super discounted. Just across from me are Morocco, India, and Japan. Someday, I’m gonna take these down, pack them in a suitcase, buy a plane ticket, and go. Far, far away—that’s where fairy tales happen, right? In a land far, far away.
I grab my laptop and plop down on my bed, leaning against a stack of pillows. Normal people would scour the Internet after their mother wrote a tell-all. But I don’t need to Google myself to know that it’s not going to be pretty.
Instead, I open my e-mail, feeling hopeful. Patrick and I have had this back-and-forth all week. Little stuff, like a link to a favorite website or a homework question. I smile as I see that something from him is already waiting for me. He must have sent it right after school today. At first, I don’t open it. Instead, I try to savor our cyberspace flirtation, my body humming with this bit of happiness that comes from just seeing his name there. Knowing that, right now, he likes me for who I am. Well, for who he thinks I am.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I click on the e-mail, then turn to sparkly mush as soon as I read it.
Three Things I Thought About Today
1. You
2. This weekend
3. The park
My fingers hesitate over the keyboard, ready to evade him again. But my pulse quickens as I remember the silence in the house, the absence of the crew. This might just be my last chance to have a date in high school. I reply:
Re: Three Things I Thought About Today
1. You
2. Tonight
3. The park
I hesitate before hitting Send. What if these were isolated thoughts, and I somehow misunderstood? I must consult an expert in the field. I dial Mer’s cell.
“Hello, stranger,” she says. “What’s up?”
I can hear the cast of Oklahoma! in the background. She’s one of the big parts, I forget which.
“Am I interrupting a chorus line?” I ask.
“Hilarious.” Her dry tone makes me smile.
“I have a question,” I begin.
“Uh-huh.”
“So I think Patrick is trying to set up a date—”
I have to pull the phone away from my ear as she squeals. I have not perfected this excited girl sound, but she manages to do it loud and long enough for both of us.
“OMG, first date, maybe first kiss. What are you going to wear?”
Good old Meredith. “Okay, first, I’m not sure if he’s actually asking me, hence my phone call.”
I read her the e-mail, and I imagine her nodding on the other end of the line, twirling one of her red curls.
“Yep. This is cryptic boy speak—even more so because it’s Patrick and slightly artistic. However, in my professional opinion, he is so asking you out.”
For a second, everything is beautiful. Show schmo, I don’t care. I, Chloe/Bonnie™ Elizabeth Baker, have a date.
“So, my e-mail response is good: you, tonight, the park?”
“Totally,” she says. “I have to go perfect my crotch-revealing high kick, but listen. Wear a button-down shirt and put on some makeup. I want a FULL report as soon as you get home. In fact, I’m texting Tessa right now. We’re having a sleepover, so just come right over as soon as he kisses you good night, ’kay?”
I hesitate, but then remember my parents are out of town.
“That’s hopeful,” I say. I can’t even believe—me, a kiss, Patrick. “Okay,” I say. “Wait, why a button-down?”
“You’ll see,” she says, her voice going low and flirty.
Oh.
“Love you!” She hangs up before I can respond.
I hit Send on my e-mail and stare at the screen until Patrick e-mails me back. When he does, I throw down my laptop and jump around the room—Mom’s book, the show, and the pills all but forgotten for the time being.
SEASON 17, EPISODE 9
(The One with the Zombie Apocalypse)
Glenview Park is in one of the older suburban areas of town, tucked off a side street. When I arrive, the playground is draped in shadows and milky moonlight. Instead of pulling into one of the many empty spots in the parking lot, I leave my car across the street. Patrick said this way, the cops won’t bother sweeping through the park as they drive by. Since it’s past ten, the park is closed. Across the grassy lawn where, I imagine, picnickers usually lounge, the bright fluorescent lights of the tennis courts suddenly shut off. As I get out of my car, I can hear shouts and laughter from the baseball diamond on the other side of the tennis courts. Those lights, too, have turned off, and I can just make out a small group of boys trudging away from the sandlot, jostling one another as they head toward idling minivans.
I wait until a car passes, then dash across the quiet street so that I can get under cover of the large, sleepy trees bordering the park as quickly as possible. For a second, I lean against a tree and try to calm my breath, which is hard because my heart is pounding against my chest like it’s been buried alive. I know Patrick is waiting for me at the top of the apparatus in the playground, and I can just make out the large wooden structure up the stone path that weaves through the trees.
Isn’t it considered a bad idea to have a first date with a boy you barely know in a deserted park after ten o’clock at night?
Yes. But this is Patrick Sheldon, not some shady-ass guy at a party with roofies. Still, I get a bit of a thrill, walking on the wild side. For the past year, I’ve been wallflowered, trying to rein in every inclination to make noise, be noticed, get a laugh. Bonnie™ died hard. Even though by the end of season thirteen I’d hated doing the show, living my life in front of the camera had fashioned me into a total ham. Before, I could stand in front of crowds of people or hang out on the set of Good Morning America like it was my own living room. I went to movie premieres, did photo shoots, whatever. Never nervous or shy. Now just the thought of any of that makes my stomach churn.
I pick my way out of the shadows and move up the path, the ground growing soft beneath my feet as I get to the sand that marks the playground’s territory. I shiver, both from cold and anticipation. The empty swings move eerily in the breeze, faint starlight glinting off their thick metal chains. The apparatus looms before me, a sturdy wooden structure consisting of a hut enclosed on three sides, a slide, monkey bars, and a tiny net of rope for climbing. We used to have one just like this in our backyard when I was a kid. I remember falling off the monkey bars, the air whooshing out of me with frightening speed. Our nanny at the time was too busy preening for the cameras and so, for a long minute, nobody noticed me. Finally one of the cameramen heard me gasping, but by then I was so frantic that it took almost an hour for me to calm down. That was the episode where the nanny got fired. I think it was season six.
“Hey.”
I hear a soft whisper, and when I look up, Patrick is dangling from the monkey bars. As he hangs suspended above the sand, I catch a slight glimpse of the bare skin between the waist of his dark jeans and the hem of his flannel shirt. I look away, blushing.
“Hi,” I say.
He jumps down and comes over t
o me, our mutual nervousness hanging in the air between us, heavy and cumbersome. He reaches out and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the swings. I wish I wasn’t wearing mittens—I want to feel his skin against mine.
“Will you tell me the moment you start freezing your ass off?” he asks.
“As soon as I experience a numbing sensation in that general area, I will let you know,” I assure him.
“Excellent.”
He lets go of my hand when we get to the swings. I wonder if this is a cool thing to do on first dates or if it’s a Patrick thing. I’m guessing Tessa and Mer will let me know.
I twist my swing until the chain gets all tight and wound around itself. Then I pick my feet up and let it spin me. I feel dizzy, but I’m not sure if it’s the swing or being alone with Patrick.
“So do you live around here?” I ask.
I instantly regret this question because now he’ll want to lob it back my way.
“Yeah. Up the street a bit. You don’t though, huh?”
I shake my head, and he doesn’t press the issue. For a while we’re quiet, pushing ourselves into the sky, letting the cold air wrap around us. What does one say on a first date? I can’t have conversational filler with Patrick. I want a deep thought, a witty observation, something that will not be off the picked-over carcass of Getting to Know You.
“Your three favorite words: go,” he says.
(How totally wonderful is he?)
I lean back and pump my legs, climbing higher and higher. I had forgotten how fun something as simple as a swing set could be.
“Ummmm,” I say. Obviously stalling. I want good words. I want the right words.
“Don’t think. Just, you know, whatever comes to mind first.”
“Okay,” I say. “Serendipitous.”
He nods, but doesn’t say anything.
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