Something Real

by Heather Demetrios

  I gesture to the notebook and piles of textbooks on my desk. “I’ve got a ton of homework, and I’m pretty tired.”

  I know this is the part where I’m supposed to hug her, tell her it’s okay. Give her a tissue or something.

  I don’t.

  She stands and rubs her palms against her skirt. “All right, then I’ll leave you to it.” She crosses over to me and kisses my head. “I really am sorry.”

  I ignore her and turn to my homework, but when she opens the door, she stops. “Look, I know this is terrible timing, but I don’t want you to be confused tomorrow. They’re going to start assigning individual cameras to you, Benny, and Lex.”

  My head snaps up. “What?”

  She shrugs. “Chuck thinks it’d be good to get you guys on your way to school or when you go out with your friends.” Her eyes flick over my panicked face and her voice takes on that high I’m-lying-to-you tone. “It’s no big deal, Bonnie™. It won’t be every time. Just to give some context to the whole show. You three are gone so much.”

  “Mom, that is so not cool. No one is going to want to go anywhere with me!”

  I was hoping that the Vultures would get bored with us after a while and I’d be able to go out more. Patrick and I still haven’t had a real date, and I miss the Tower District and hanging out at Mer’s or Tessa’s.

  “Sweetie, I think your friends would be really excited to have the chance to be on TV. The guys Kirk works with don’t mind. The cameras are always on-site with him—half the time they forget they’re even there. It’s no big deal.”

  The condescending tone grates on my nerves, and my head hurts so freaking bad, why did I drink those margaritas, why did Dad let me? I don’t even think, I just throw. I gasp as the notebook leaves my hand and flies toward her. She shoots out a hand and knocks it down, and we just stare at each other for a second, panting. Then she crosses the room in three quick strides and slaps my face. Hard.

  I cry out—from the shock or the pain, I’m not sure—but she just stands over me, her mouth a straight, hateful line. Everything in me begs to slap her right back. I’m not sure why I don’t.

  “You’re really turning into a little bitch, you know that?” she says.

  Mom’s voice slices into me, cutting away the shred of respect I have left for her. I want the world to see this, right now. This is Beth Baker-Miller in all her glory.

  “You hit me,” I say, hardly able to believe it. My parents have never hit me. Ever.

  Mom’s jaw tightens as Kirk and a cameraman step into the room.

  “What’s going on in here? We heard you all the way downstairs.”

  Me, talking over Kirk: “Get out,” I say to the camera. “You’re not allowed in my room. No bedrooms, no bathrooms.”

  But he doesn’t leave.

  I can see Benny and Lex and a few of the other kids crowding in the hallway. Lacey Production Assistant stands behind them, furiously texting. The word bitch seems to echo in my ringing ears, over and over. I put my hand up to my burning cheek.

  “I’m not going to live in a house where my seventeen-year-old daughter throws things at me,” Mom says.

  “Then don’t have strangers with cameras follow me around everywhere!” I shout.

  “Bonnie™, don’t speak to your mother that way,” says Kirk. “You need to channel your anger into something more productive, like—”

  “Who the hell are you? You’re just some dude hitching a ride,” I snarl.

  I don’t know if that was me or residual drunkenness speaking, but either way, it feels damn good to say.

  “That’s it!” Mom screams. “Do you want to go live with your father? Would that make you happy?”

  “Oh, you mean with the guy who never wanted any of us in the first place? Sure, why don’t I go live with him? That’s a freaking great idea!”

  Two seconds ago, I thought I could never be angry enough with her to tell her what Dad had said. What kind of person am I turning into?

  Mom’s face pales, and she shrugs Kirk off when he tries to put a hand on her arm. She backs away, toward the door, her eyes two sharp pieces of flint.

  “Go to your rooms,” she says to everyone in the hallway. I hear whispers, but I don’t know what my siblings are saying.

  She turns back to me, her hand on the knob. “You’re grounded.”

  I can’t help it; I start laughing. “What do you call this?” I ask, gesturing to the air around me.

  She slams the door, and I flip her off, though she’ll never see it. Hate is a lot like love. It’s warm and fills you up until every part of you is tingling to release it.

  * * *

  It’s Tuesday night, and the most recent episode of Baker’s Dozen is about to start. Though I’d been grounded since Friday, Mom said I could come over to Tessa’s to “study.” Truth is, I’d finally decided I was ready to watch an episode of the show, but I didn’t want to do it alone. Tessa’s wearing her Hello Kitty killing a TV T-shirt to commemorate the event. Her parents had refused to sign a waiver, so Chuck deemed it pointless to send a camera guy with me. Small victories.

  “This is kind of bizarre, watching the show with you,” Mer says as she finishes up the glittery polish on her nails.

  Tessa switches on the TV in her bedroom and flips through channels until she gets to MetaReel.

  I nod. “Tell me about it.”

  Tessa throws me a sympathetic look. “Are you sure you want to watch this?”

  I need them to watch it and then tell me that I’m not as crazy as I’m starting to feel.

  “I have to see how Chuck’s going to spin the fight I had with my mom last week. Matt says Coach tells him that the best defense is a good offense. So I’m being offensive. Er, you know what I mean.”

  Tessa scrunches up her nose. “I can’t believe you just quoted Coach Hardwick.”

  “Desperate times…,” I say. I turn up the volume on the TV. “All right, let’s do this.”

  Mer hands me my Pepsi as if it’s a beer I really need, and they sit on either side of me, like bodyguards.

  “This is so cheesy,” I say, when our opening credits come on.

  The upbeat, canned song our show has had since my childhood plays as our individual pictures fly by the screen. There’s some of the footage from the studio where they made us all run and jump around, barefoot and goofy. It ends with a family photo of us all squished together on Mom and Kirk’s bed and the Baker’s Dozen: Fresh Batch logo, which looks like a recipe card.

  “At least your picture looks good,” says Mer.

  “Are you opposed to me throwing things at your TV?” I ask Tessa.

  “Um, here.” She hands me a stress ball. “Just squeeze it.”

  Mom: “C’mon, kids, time for school. Let’s go!”

  Mom turns to the camera and rolls her eyes.

  Mom: “I swear, those three act surprised every morning.”

  It’s this past Tuesday. I can tell because I’m wearing Patrick’s Mammoth Mountain sweatshirt, which he’d given to me during gov after the heater broke. It smells like him, so I’d refused to give it back.

  Tristan™: “Mom, why can’t we go to school, too?”

  Mom: “You do go to school.”

  Gavin™: “At home.”

  Mom: “When you’re sixteen…”

  She’s running around the kitchen, getting food for everyone. Jasmine™ reaches up to the camera, pulls it down to her level, and kisses the lens.

  Jasmine™: “I loooooove you!”

  She giggles and runs away. Kirk walks into the kitchen, wearing Dickies and a Fresno State T-shirt.

  Kirk: “Hey, honey. I’ll be home by one.”

  He gives my mom a peck on the cheek.

  Mom: “Okay, good, because I have to catch a flight to Chicago for the book signing.”

  “Fun fact,” I say. “They made them redo their conversation because Chuck wanted Mom to set up that she was doing book signings. Originally she’d just said, ‘Grea
t!’”

  “So ‘reality’ TV,” Tessa says, making air quotes, “isn’t big on the reality aspect.”

  I nod. “Not so much.”

  I’m dodging the camera, letting my hair swing in front of my face. I’ve got spy hair—these are my incognito tresses. I grab an apple and a granola bar. Benny gets our coffee and Puma Guy follows us to the car. Then the shot changes to Lexie™ giving my mom a hug good-bye. At around that moment, Chuck and I were having an argument about the Bonnie™ and Benton™ cam, but the editors cut it out for obvious reasons.

  Now, the focus is back on us as the camera gets in the backseat of our car. I glare at it, then get in the front and slam the door.

  “Dude, you look pissed,” Mer says. It’s a little weird—a lot weird—to have someone say that to you while looking at you on TV.

  “I was. I am,” I mutter.

  Tessa reaches over and squeezes my arm. “Just think happy naked Patrick thoughts,” she says. I’m too tense to even roll my eyes.

  The show cuts to the interview area in the basement. My mom’s on the couch, looking serious.

  Mom: “Bonnie™ is…”

  She looks up, searching for the right word.

  Mom: “She’s still struggling with Andrew’s surprise visit. It’s definitely taken a toll on our relationship. She’s very distant.”

  They cut to my bedroom. The camera is peeking over Kirk’s shoulder. I look awful. My face is really red from where Mom had just slapped me (of course, the camera didn’t get there in time for that). My hair’s all tangled, and I’m wearing an oversized T-shirt and sweats that make me look fat.

  Kirk: “What’s going on in here? We heard you all the way downstairs.”

  Me, talking over Kirk: “Get out. You’re not allowed in my room.”

  I had said this to the cameraman, but they edited it so that it looks like I was talking to Kirk.

  Mom: “I’m not going to live in a house where my seventeen-year-old daughter throws things at me.”

  The camera zooms in on the notebook on my floor, then goes back up to Mom and me, facing off.

  Me: “Then don’t—” There’s a long beep covering over everything I’m saying.

  “What the hell?” I shout at the TV. “I didn’t curse, I didn’t!”

  I remember what I’d said (it was basically “Then don’t have cameras following me around!”). But MetaReel made it look like I’d up and cussed out my mother on national television. I squeeze the stress ball in my hand, but it’s not enough because my hands want to do ripping, tearing, shredding things.

  “Can they do that?” Mer asks. “Just totally make shit up?”

  “Shhh,” Tessa says.

  Kirk: “Bonnie™, don’t speak to your mother that way. You need to channel your anger into something more productive, like—”

  Me: “Who the hell are you? You’re just some dude hitching a ride.”

  Okay, wow, that was harsh. My face reddens a little, but I’m still on Bonnie™’s side. I mean, my side. I blame the Heisenberg Principle—I’m not really sure I would have said that if the camera hadn’t come in. Guess I’ll never know. Mer and Tessa both put a hand on my knee.

  Mom: “That’s it! Do you want to go live with your father? Would that make you happy?”

  Me: “Oh, you mean with the guy who never wanted any of us in the first place? Sure, why don’t I go live with him? That’s a freaking great idea!”

  Mom, turning to my siblings: “Go to your rooms.”

  The camera pans to the hallway, where my brothers and sisters are gathered looking shocked, worried, sad. Then it goes back to Mom and me.

  Mom: “You’re grounded.”

  I start laughing like a maniac, which is unfortunate because it’s not very attractive.

  Me: “What do you call this?”

  The show cuts to Mom in the interview area again. She’s dabbing at her eyes. Whatever.

  Mom: “I don’t know how to get through to her. I wish Andrew was more involved, but he’s pretty much dropped off the face of the earth.”

  Chuck’s voice: “Do you think she might try to hurt herself again?”

  I grab the pillow I’m leaning against, stick my face into it, and scream.

  Mom: “I don’t know. Honestly. I have her seeing the school counselor, but she refuses to take medication. She isolates herself when she’s home and treats Kirk and me like her punching bags.”

  She dabs her eyes again.

  Mom: “I love my daughter, but she’s tearing our family apart. Again.”

  “Shut it off,” I say.

  Tessa grabs the remote, and the screen turns black. We sit there in the middle of her bedroom for a minute, staring at one another.

  “Chlo, this is…” Tessa shakes her head.

  “Seriously screwed up,” Mer finishes. “I wish there was a way you could, like, defriend your family.”

  “Yeah.” I feel totally unhinged, like I’m free-floating in space with nothing to hold on to. “I can’t believe she would say that about me,” I whisper.

  My voice hitches a little on “me,” but I close my eyes and take a deep breath and count to ten. I exhale, imagining the panic flowing out of me on the tide of my breath. It’s thick and gray, sick-looking. I don’t open my eyes until the tight feeling in my chest crumbles.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I am officially renouncing all ambitions to be famous,” Mer says.

  I give her a wan smile. “My friend, if you didn’t, I’d think you were crazier than I am.”

  Tessa stands and starts pacing around the room. “Chloe, this has to be illegal. You have to fight them.”

  I hold my hands out. Empty. I’ve got nothin’.

  “How? Every time I try to talk to my mom or Chuck, they brush me off. I’m ‘too dramatic,’ or I need to ‘go with the flow.’ I mean, you saw what happened when I tried to tell my mom I didn’t want the Bonnie™ cam.”

  We marinate in awfulness for a minute or two, but then my phone vibrates, and the sound breaks the spell. I look at it—Patrick. He promised he would never watch the show after that first live one, but he knew I was watching tonight and that I was freaked about it.

  Everything all right?

  No.

  What can I do? Anything up to and including assassinations.

  I’ll keep that in mind.

  Need a ride home? (That’s code for I really want to see you.)

  Benny was supposed to come pick me up at a gas station a block over so that we could avoid the Vultures finding out where Tessa lives.

  Can’t. I wish I could … too many Vultures. TTYL?

  Yes, please.

  I text Benny to tell him to come pick me up, then put my phone back in my pocket and start gathering my stuff together.

  “Chloe, maybe there’s someone you can talk to or—” Tessa begins, but I cut her off.

  “Tess, I have no one. Seriously. My dad is a total dropout, I don’t really know any of my relatives, and you saw my mom. There’s no getting through to her. I just have to deal.”

  “But—”

  I zip up my bag and head toward her door. “I love you both. But I really need to be alone for a bit before Benny comes to get me, okay?”

  They nod, and I see myself out, giving Tessa’s parents a quick cheerful good night before I leave. Most of the houses on her street are decorated for Christmas, but the lights and blow-up Santas just depress me even more.

  She’s tearing our family apart. Again.

  So Mom does blame me for the divorce. Nice to know. Is she right? Am I the place where all the problems in my family begin and end?

  “Five more months,” Benny says, when he picks me up ten minutes later. “Then we’ll graduate, and we’re free.”

  But that doesn’t make me feel better. I’m beginning to think I can’t hold out that long.

  * * *

  When we get to the house, Chuck is standing on the porch, smoking a cigar. Like he’s celebrating screwing me
over.

  It’s now or never.

  “Chuck, can I talk to you for a sec?”

  He raises his eyebrows, but nods. I’m lucky to catch him before he leaves for the night. I stay on the porch while Benny heads inside.

  “What’s up?”

  “I saw the episode tonight.” I wrinkle my nose against the stench. His cigar smells like body odor and too-strong potpourri.

  He takes a long drag and the ember glows a menacing orange. “The ratings were great. They just eat you up, Bonnie™.”

  A sharp wind cuts through the driveway, and I rub my arms. I wish we could go inside, but I can’t have this conversation with my mom around.

  “That’s the problem,” I say. “I feel eaten up. I’m not comfortable with being talked about on the show. What my mom said about me in the interview was … wrong.”

  He laughs and puts a meaty hand on my shoulder. I involuntarily flinch, and his eyes darken.

  “Listen, Bonnie™, you’re like a daughter to me.”

  I don’t say anything, but this is total BS.

  “When you get a little older, you’ll see that all this stuff is no big deal. All teenagers fight with their moms. Trust me, kiddo, you’re no different than every other seventeen-year-old girl in America.”

  “That’s not true,” I say. “And even if it were, it’s still not cool to talk about my past like that. And the bedrooms are off limits, so Puma Guy shouldn’t have been in there.”

  Chuck furrows his brow. “Puma Guy?”

  “The cameraman.”

  “Mike.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” I say. “Can you please not—”

  Chuck holds up a hand. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, sweetheart.” I try to say something, but he holds up his hand again. “But, I will do my best to make sure that your past doesn’t come up anymore, okay?”

  It feels like he’s just let out all the wind in my sails. My perfectly constructed arguments and zinger insults suddenly feel out of place, like I’m some overwrought harpy. Still. “It’s not just that, though, it’s—”

  He gives me his it’s-out-of-my-hands shrug. “I just tape what I see. You need to talk to your mother about the sort of things she says in the interviews.”

  He pulls out his keys and starts walking toward his Mercedes. “’Night, Bonnie™.”