SEASON 17, EPISODE 4
(The One Where I Ditch School)
My eyes skim over the pages of 1984, but it’s hard to concentrate on totalitarian England, even though my house is currently being taken over by Big Brother. I didn’t do the reading last night, and I’m trying to catch up so that I don’t look like a dumbass when Schwartz starts discussing it. But after spending the night staring at my bedroom ceiling, all I can see in front of me is a pile of letters and punctuation. Then one sentence catches my eye.
I grab my pen and underline Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimeters inside your skull. I bet I’m the only person here who really understands this.
I glance at the clock above the whiteboard. Its simple white face and black numbers say steady job, data sheets, and uncomfortable ties. So not inspiring to young, inquisitive minds.
One fifteen: Schwartz is late again. You can pretty much depend on an extended lunch for the first ten minutes of gov. Usually I love the noisy chaos of the room before Schwartz ambles in, but all I can think of is MetaReel. Every time the door opens, I tense up, waiting for Chuck and a camera dude to walk through it. But it’s always another student, adding to the euphoric It’s Friday! conversations about tonight’s game, dates, and movies.
Tessa’s sitting next to me, finishing up her calc homework. Every now and then, she curses under her breath or gives her long black ponytail an angry pull—typical grouchy Tessa. It’s comforting, that bit of normal. I want to tell her that a MetaReel camera filmed me eating my Cheerios this morning. I could just lean over and say it, like it’s something of note. Weirdest thing, I’d say. It seems America is going to be interested in my breakfast habits.
“Poor eraser,” I say instead, flicking the red bits of rubber that cover her desk.
Tessa just shakes her head. “Poor me. Kelson’s a sadist. I can’t believe he expects us to actually answer these questions.”
The door bangs open and I jump, my hands clutching my copy of 1984 as if it has the power to ward off evil production companies. Mer catches sight of Tessa and me and stomps over in her knee-high Doc Martens. With red curls frizzing all around her and a dark green scarf draped dramatically around her neck, she looks like an irate Celtic goddess bent on some serious destruction.
“I’ve decided that Hamlet is a total douchebag,” she says, plopping down at the desk in front of me. “Why is Ophelia into him?”
“Because he’s a prince?” I say.
“Because she’s a doormat,” Tessa mutters.
Mer holds up a well-worn copy of Hamlet. “The NYU audition is next month, right? So I chose Ophelia, only I can’t get into the part at all because I would never want to be with some mopey emo dude like Hamlet.” She throws the play onto her desk, then slams her fist on the cover, like she’s punishing it. “I should have done Juliet.”
“So you’d rather be with a mopey emo dude like Romeo?” Tessa says.
“At least he wants to marry her! Hamlet’s all ‘get thee to a nunnery.’ Asshole.”
I trace invisible shapes on my desktop. “Total douchebag.”
“Or maybe he’s just misunderstood?” a familiar voice says.
Every cell in my body suddenly becomes hyperaware, like I’m on the red carpet at the Emmys, and the camera flashes are hot and bright, and my face hurts from smiling, and I know the whole world is watching. I turn around. Patrick Sheldon is slouched in a desk in the back corner, arms crossed. He’s a patchwork of threadbare flannel and thrifted denim, and his hair is greasy, like he hasn’t washed it since the seventh grade. God, I want him.
“Misunderstood?” I repeat. Wantwantwant him.
“Yeah,” he says. “Dude’s got a lot on his mind. What with his dad being murdered and all.”
“Oh, come on—” Tess starts.
Mer points at him. “Mopey Emo Dude.”
Then she shoots me a too-obvious look that says, We so don’t have the same taste in men. I give her the evil eye.
Patrick shrugs. “Labels.” He points at Mer. “Bohemian Drama Girl.” Then to Tess. “Overachiever.”
Tess raises a fist. “Asian pride.”
Patrick looks at me. He cocks his head to the side, then the ghost of a smile dusts his lips. “Enigma.”
Is that good or bad?
I know I should look away. This is the part where I look away. Look. Away. I grab my book, my eyes shifting to the cover.
“As fascinating as this discussion is,” I say, holding up 1984, “Schwartz is totally gonna pop-quiz us in about three minutes.”
I turn to the front of the room, but Patrick exhales—a soft, derisive little snort.
“What?” I ask, with a quick glance behind me. “Is it so crazy that I have negative zero interest in bombing this quiz?”
He smiles. Just a twitch on the left side of his lip, but it’s a smile. “There’s no negative zero.”
“Whatever.” My lips turn up a little, though, and his eyes hook mine.
I hold his gaze until my cheeks grow warm and then I pull away and stare at the whiteboard. Sometimes Patrick and I slip into easy conversation, where I forget all about my secrets, and it feels like I’m just a normal girl talking to a boy who makes her insides flutter. Other days, I can hardly say a word, too scared I’ll let something slip. I used to talk to everyone, everyone in the whole world.
But that was before.
I drown out Tessa and Meredith as they continue their Hamlet discussion until it’s like I’m sitting underwater in the deep end of my pool and they’re somewhere above me—far enough away for me to pretend they’re not really there. This lasts for approximately four seconds.
“Hello … Chloe … Earth to Chloe,” says a voice above me.
I blink twice. “Huh?”
Jason Calloway is holding a digital camera and snaps a photo before I can come up with one of my customary excuses.
“Jason, what the hell? Give me that!”
I lunge for the camera and grab it out of his hand before he can dart out of my way.
“Whoa, settle down, Baker,” he says. “It’s just a little shot for the senior yearbook spread.”
“Not anymore,” I say.
I bring up the last picture on the screen and hit the Delete button, ignoring Jason’s muttered curses. I watch my surprised face turn into a blue screen that says “No Image.” I wish I could do that to every Baker’s Dozen DVD in the world.
“What’s your problem, Chloe?”
“My problem,” I say, dumping the camera into his outstretched hand, “is that you can’t just go around taking pictures of people without their permission. It’s, it’s…”
I trail off, struggling to put into words what every part of me knows to be true.
“It’s a violation of privacy,” says Patrick.
I shoot him a grateful look. He just shrugs.
Jason holds up his hands and takes a dramatic step backward. “Don’t sue me!” he says. I flip him off, and he grins. What a little bastard.
Tessa poses for Jason. “How about a picture of the only member of the Taft High Korean-American club?” she asks.
Jason laughs and takes the photo while I slink farther down in my chair and stick my head in my backpack, pretending to search for something inside. God, like, fully half the class is looking my way—why did I have to make such a big deal about the damn picture?
Cue the perfectly timed entrance of Mr. Schwartz. Behind him is one of the kids from the AV club, carrying a tripod in one hand … and a camera in the other.
What is up with this week? Have I offended the gods or something?
The paperback in my hand starts to warp under my palms, and the room begins to shift slightly, shimmering like a mirage. I wish I could remember all those weird affirmations and breathing exercises my therapist from last year taught me, but right now all I can think is, Don’t lose it, Bonnie™, don’t lose it. CHLOE, don’t lose it. Oh hell oh hell oh hell. I’ve slipped into using my old name. Bad
sign. Very bad sign.
Schwartz organizes some papers on his desk while everyone watches the AV kid set up the camera. The red light blinks at me, and it’s like everything I’ve been trying not to think about since first period just floods back in, all at once, until I’m drowning in it. I’m dying, and nobody notices. They’re doodling in notebooks and texting under their desks, and just when I wish somebody would see me, I’m suddenly invisible.
“Okay, folks—1984,” Schwartz says, waving around his copy of the novel. “Imagine that this was in every class.” He points to the camera. “In every room in your house. How would it make you feel to have Big Brother watching you twenty-four, seven?”
Schwartz sits on the edge of his desk and folds his hands over one knee, letting his gaze sweep over us, a shark looking for a victim. I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t—
“Like shit,” I blurt out.
I did not just say that out loud. I did not.
For some reason, I look back at Patrick. Our eyes lock, and something in his agrees with me, says yes. My face gets sunburn red, and I turn back around, but now I see that they’re all looking at me, and right now, I almost miss the Bonnie™ era. If I were two-dimensional again, I wouldn’t have to see the expressions on my classmates’ faces. If I were enclosed in flat screens, the high-definition broadcast version of me could believe they weren’t even there at all.
“Okay.…” Schwartz looks at me for a long moment, and I can tell he’s trying to decide whether to welcome my passionate response and riff off of it or say I have to stay after class.
I don’t wait to find out. I grab my backpack and run out of the room, and I don’t stop until I reach my car. My hands are shaking so bad that I can barely get the key in the lock, and I check over my shoulder about fifteen times to see if the campus security dude in his little go-cart has spotted me yet. Fifty hours later, I get inside the car and somehow make it out of the parking lot without any red rent-a-cop lights flashing behind me. It isn’t until I’m on the highway that I realize, Holy shit, I just ditched school.
SEASON 17, EPISODE 5
(The One with Uno)
I drive until the constant buzz of incoming texts gets to be too much.
“Okay!” I yell at my phone.
I swerve into the next strip mall and park in the middle of the half-full lot. I don’t know if MetaReel has bugged my car or not, so I get out and cast a furtive glance over my shoulder, as if the police are hot on my trail for playing hooky. I glance at my phone: ten texts.
“Damn.”
I run across the lot and into Cleo’s, a little café with dessert and coffee that I’ve been to a few times with Tess and Mer. It’s perfect, full of dark corners meant for lovers. I know I’ll be able to hide out here for a couple hours. A college kid gives me a bored hello, and I say hello back, wondering if it’s obvious I’m supposed to be in school right now. I try to look nonchalant as my eyes sweep over the menu behind the counter, but my mind keeps playing my psychoness in Schwartz’s class on a loop. I can’t believe I said shit in class. And then ran out. God.
I order an oversized peanut butter cookie and a mocha. I only picked at my lunch, and I’m sort of looking forward to drowning my sorrows in sugar and caffeine. I check my texts while the barista makes my drink. Tess and Mer sent simultaneous WTF texts followed by worried texts followed by seriously, call me right now texts. They must have gotten hold of Benny because he sends me one, too. Unlike them, though, he gets why I’m being a weirdo. All he says is:
Will meet you after school. Where you at?
I text him back and, when my mocha’s ready, I head over to a huge velvet chair, where I spend the next two hours alternating between trying to read 1984 and staring off into space. I think about how maybe it’s time to go back to homeschooling because I’m not sure I’ll be able to show my face at Taft again. Like, ever.
At three ten, Benny walks through the door. He’s my lighthouse. Always has been. No matter how lost I feel, he’s there to guide me back to myself.
“Lay it on me, sister.”
I tell him everything, and the tears come only when I can see the sadness around his eyes and the way he tries to hide his worry by fidgeting with the stuff in his pockets.
“It won’t happen again,” I tell him, my voice colder than I intended. “God.” I look out the window, but instead of the parking lot I’m seeing orange plastic bottles lined up in my parents’ cabinet.
Season thirteen sits between us, lonely as a buoy in the middle of the sea. Benny swallows. Stares at the palms of his hands.
Disappointment crashes through me. “It’s just … I got the yearbook picture taken, you know? I thought—”
“I know,” he says. Gentle.
I fold and refold my napkin. “It’s like normal’s never gonna happen.”
“True story.” He stands up and grabs my backpack, then holds out a hand to help me up. “Let’s go home.”
Home.
I’m not really sure where that is anymore.
* * *
“Bonnie™, I need you to help your brother with babysitting tonight,” Mom says.
She’d called me into her bathroom while she was getting ready, which is Baker’s Dozen code for I don’t want the cameras to hear this. It’s the reality TV equivalent of spy movie tactics, except we don’t need to turn on the shower or play really loud music to hide our voices.
“What about Lexie™?” I ask.
“She has a date—and didn’t get drunk last night.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she shakes her head. “I could smell it on your breath. Do it again, and you’ll be babysitting until the triplets graduate from college.”
I sink onto the toilet seat and wish, not for the first time, that I’d been one of those kids people abandon on church steps.
“You’re just gonna leave us here with MetaReel all night?”
Mom pulls at her wrinkles, frowning at her reflection. “No. The cameras will be gone in half an hour. We’re just getting some dinner with Chuck. Should be back by ten or so. Jasmine™ has a cough, so don’t let her run around too much, and Deston™ needs to do his homework. Make sure Farrow™ doesn’t spend too much time online and…”
There’s no way I’ll remember her specific instructions for each of the ten kids. My definition of a successful night of babysitting is that no one died and the house didn’t burn down.
“… and don’t forget about the laundry. It’s in the dryer, but it needs to be folded.”
I stand up. “Okay. You’ll be home by ten, right?”
There’s a scream downstairs. “MOM!”
“Oh, God. Now what?” She pushes past me on her way out the door, then turns around and squeezes my shoulder. “Thanks, Bons.”
“Uh-huh.”
She hovers in the doorway, looking uncertain. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she says.
I don’t say anything, just stare at the chipped polish on my toenails.
“I know it’s a major adjustment, sweetie. But it’s for the best. I promise.”
From downstairs again: “MOM! Tristan™ took my doll, and he won’t give it back!”
She sighs. “Okay, then. We’ll talk later.”
We won’t. We never do.
“MOM!”
As she leaves the room, I think about how Mer and her mom have a standing lunch date every Friday. I’ve always been jealous of that—other than little snatches of time like this, I haven’t been alone with my mother since I was in the womb. I’m about to run after her, tell her I’m sorry for being angsty, when I remember that she just wrote a memoir she didn’t bother to tell any of us about.
My phone starts vibrating—Tessa.
I close the door behind me and sit back down on the toilet seat. I hit the green button on my phone before I can change my mind. “Hey.”
“Chloe! Are you okay? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for, like, ten hours.”
I sigh. “Yea
h. I just … it’s a really long story.” Like seventeen years long. “Is Schwartz super pissed?”
“No. I think he was worried, more than anything. He asked me after class if there was something going on.” She pauses, and when I don’t say anything, goes, “Chlo, you’re freaking me out.”
I should tell her. That would be the smart thing to do. But I can’t. A crazy part of me is hoping this will all go away. The other part just wants to hold on to Chloe for a little while longer before Bonnie™ takes over.
“I know. I’ll try to keep the psychotic episodes to a minimum, okay?”
She ignores my joking tone. “Chloe. Spill.”
I clutch my cell phone and rest my forehead against the cool bathroom wall. “It’s stuff at home,” I say. “And I can’t talk about it. Not right now. But I promise I will when … when I’m ready.”
There’s a long silence on the other end of the line. I can hear the growling, guttural voice of Amanda Palmer playing in the background and the sound of Tessa tapping her pen against her desk.
“You know you can tell me anything, right?”
I’m not Catholic, but I can sort of see why people go to confession. It must feel so amazing to be able to tell someone who you really are.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
Someone pounds on the bathroom door. “Bonnie™! Mom says you have to come down now!”
Violet™—one of the triplets.
“Who’s Bonnie™?” Tess says.
“Oh. Um. My sister’s going through an invisible friend phase. Hey, so I gotta go babysit. Sorry for the freak-out.”
“See you tomorrow for Hand Me Downs?”
I’d forgotten. “Sure. Sounds good.”
I hang up, open the door, and plaster a smile onto my face. Violet™’s dressed in a pink tutu and a mini football jersey, and there’s a camera behind her—Old Guys Rule T-shirt dude.
“You silly girl,” I say, pulling on one of her pigtails. The camera loves this shit. I hate how trying to please it is so ingrained in me.
Something Real Page 5
