Something Real

by Heather Demetrios

  “What he means to say is that he can buy his cigarettes without a fake ID now,” I say, glaring at him. “I should have turned your ass in to the cops.”

  He sticks his tongue out at me, and I jump up and gather my stuff.

  “Where are you going?” asks Tessa.

  Classes don’t start for another half hour, but Mom insisted I see the Skittle Lady.

  “Morning sickness,” Benny stage-whispers.

  “I’m not above killing you in your sleep, you know.” I hit his arm with my notebook, but he doesn’t even wince. I turn back to Tessa. “I have to go see the school shrink.”

  Mer nods sympathetically. “Secret boyfriend plus possible pregnancy equals major adult concern?”

  “To the tenth power,” I say. “See you at lunch.”

  “I’ll walk you,” Patrick says.

  I smile as he throws an arm across my shoulders. As soon as we round the corner, he stops and leans me up against the lockers. His kiss is soft and lingering.

  “Monday’s looking up,” I murmur.

  “Despite all that morning sickness?” he teases.

  “Not you too.”

  “Do you have to go? Because we have half an hour, and I know an excellent way to spend it.”

  His lips are on mine again, and his hand reaches into my jacket and slides around my waist. His fingers brush against my skin, and I shiver, drawing even closer.

  “I … really … have … to … go.” It’s all I can manage between kisses.

  Patrick sighs. “Okay.” He reaches into his pocket and takes something out. “Don’t get mad.”

  “Um…”

  “I know you said you didn’t want to take your parents to court. Which I totally understand. But what about MetaReel?”

  I shrug. “I can’t really wrap my mind around that.”

  He nods. “Do you trust me?”

  I don’t have to think about my answer for even a second. “Yes.”

  He kisses my forehead. “Good. I talked to my dad, and he got in touch with one of his lawyer friends.” He hands me a card that says MELINDA GREENBERG, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. “She works with the ACLU, and Dad said she could take you on pro bono.” The American Civil Liberties Union—Schwartz worships at their feet.

  “Thanks,” I say. Even I can tell my voice sounds far away.

  “You want me to keep it for you?” Patrick murmurs. I nod, and he takes it from me. “I just wanted you to know I found people out there who will fight for you. I’ll fight for you.”

  I reach my lips up to his for a second. “I’ll think about it.”

  But I already know I’m never going to ask him for that card. How could I betray my family like that? This is something Patrick just doesn’t understand.

  He grabs my hand, and we head toward the main office. The halls look so different now that I’m not Patrick-less in them. Our three days of being broken up is a small weight that we’ll probably carry around for a little while longer, but I feel like there’s something deeper between us, now that we’re on the other side of it.

  When we get to Diane Finchburg’s office, I slip a note in his pocket.

  “What’s this?”

  I smile. “Sweet nothings.”

  His eyes light up. “Good luck in there.”

  “Ugh.”

  He kisses my cheek and then walks toward the gym, putting in his earbuds as he goes. I know that’s where Max and Derrick usually hang out before school. I watch him for a minute, admiring his sloping gait and the way he shoves his hands deep in his pockets. He turns around and grins, like he knows I’m watching him, so I blow him a kiss, and he catches it.

  My appointment with Diane Finchburg is nonthreatening, except for the part where she says that if I ditch school anymore, the principal is going to suspend me. When I told him about it later, Patrick was a bit disappointed, but considering we’re graduating in a few months, we’ll live. Throughout the day, people in the halls stared at me, and my name was on too many strangers’ lips. I heard some girls in the bathroom speculating on whether or not I’d gotten an abortion over break. I’d yelled from my stall that it was none of their damn business, and their stunned silence kind of made my day. It felt good just to say what I wanted to. One girl asked me to autograph her mother’s copy of my mother’s book. I took pity on her because she was even more embarrassed than I was. I turned in the paper on 1984 I’d had to write for Schwartz’s class over the break and he’d said, “Good to see you back, Baker.” I knew he wasn’t talking about Christmas vacation—he’d meant back from the abyss I’d been in those days after the tabloid.

  “It’s good to be back,” I’d told him. And, strangely, I meant it.

  * * *

  When Benny and I get home, Mom is sitting at the kitchen table, idly flipping through a magazine. Puma Guy is stationed behind her, like he’s been waiting for me.

  “Bonnie™, can you come in here, please?”

  Benny shoots me a sympathetic look, then bolts up the stairs. I trudge into the kitchen and lean against the door frame. The Wild Things run past and clip me on the shoulder.

  “Savages!” I yell at them. But I’m smiling, because you can’t get too mad at people whose diapers you’ve changed. I turn back to Mom.

  “What’s up? I have a lot of homework.”

  I know it shouldn’t matter, but I really need to remember to brush my hair and put on some lip gloss before I come home.

  “We need to talk.”

  I sigh and plop into a chair. “Can we talk somewhere else?”

  Mom gives an imperceptible shake of her head. They’ll probably edit out my question, making me look like a willing servant of the show. Why, of course, America, I love discussing my personal life in front of all of you!

  “You saw the guidance counselor?”

  I nod, my face flushing. There goes another secret I don’t need to bother keeping.

  “Bonnie™, I’m … concerned about this boy.” She’d caught me talking on the phone with Patrick a few days ago, so she knows we’re together. Luckily, her book tour had kept her from having this conversation with me. Until now.

  “Mom, I—”

  “Don’t interrupt me, please.” She pats her hair, like she’s making sure it’s still there. “I think you might be investing too much into this relationship with Patrick.”

  Don’t say his name. It sounds wrong, coming out of your mouth.

  My heart gets a sick feeling. “He’s a really nice guy, from a great family. There’s nothing to be worried about.”

  “I need to meet him—and his parents.”

  “Mom! That’s so unfair. You can’t force them to go on camera.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out.”

  There’s so much I want to say, all bottled up inside me, itching up my throat. Each word I’ve kept inside for all these years is straining to break out. So I don’t say anything.

  “There’s something else I’d like to talk about, while you’re here,” she says.

  I stare at the wood grain of the table until my eyes go glassy and the patterns run together like watercolors. She slides something across the shiny surface to me and when I see what it is, my heart stops.

  It’s my journal.

  I grab the leather-bound pages and hug them to my chest. They did it. On top of everything else, they finally got my soul.

  Blood pumps into my fingers—I wish I had claws. I’ve never wanted to physically assault someone so much in my life. She doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed.

  “You read it.”

  Mom coughs a little cough. Nods a little nod. Then she throws her shoulders back, defiant. “I didn’t have a choice. I’ve tried to reach out to you, but you won’t talk to me. You avoid Kirk and me like the plague, and your school says you were truant three times this semester—”

  “Did they film you searching for it?”

  “Of course. This is our life, Bonnie™.” When she throws up her hands,
it almost looks like she’s praying. Maybe she’s asking God why he gave her this horrible daughter. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you!”

  “This show!”

  My voice is shaking, but I don’t have the energy to control it and be robot Bonnie™ for the cameras. Baker’s Dozen has gotten inside me, infiltrated every private place until … Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimeters inside your skull. My journal says everything—everything.

  Mom closes the magazine she’d been reading before I came in with an irritated flick of her wrist. “I thought we were past all this.”

  “What’s ‘all this’?” I ask.

  “The dramatics! The stomping out of rooms and not smiling for photographs and being rude to the crew, who are only doing their jobs. You act like a spoiled brat.”

  “How could you just go in my room with cameras and look through my stuff and read my diary? That’s mine! Those are my words, my thoughts, my feelings. How dare you, Mom? How dare you?”

  She tosses me a self-righteous glare, but speaks with the voice of a wounded woman. So RealMom™ Beth Baker-Miller.

  “I did what I had to do so that you wouldn’t hurt yourself—or this family—again. You think I don’t recognize the signs? I’ve decided that we need to put you on some medication—”

  “I hate you,” I snarl.

  She raises her eyebrows. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I grab my backpack and vault up the stairs. When I open the door to my room, I see the evidence of her investigation right away. Things set down in the wrong place, dirty clothes in the hamper instead of on the floor, a half-eaten Snickers bar gone. My room suddenly feels tainted, like somebody came in and had sex on my bed and tried on my underwear. I look at the walls covered with calendar images from all over the world and the stack of Patrick’s intricately folded notes on my bedside table. The shade of the ornate lamp I’d found at a thrift store with Tessa and Mer sits at an awkward angle. I look at my room through MetaReel’s eyes, and I see a girl who is desperate to get away, but can do nothing more than tape pictures of the Taj Mahal and the Pyramids to her wall.

  Before I even realize what I’m doing, my hands are tearing down the pictures and crumpling them up; the world is at my feet. I reach for knickknacks left over from my childhood: angel figurines, dried roses from my first Emmy appearance (which I kept only because Dad gave them to me), glow-in-the-dark stars that always seemed garish. I rip and tear and throw, and it feels so good. I don’t realize how much noise I’m making until Benny walks into the room.

  “Whoa.” He looks at the floor, full of broken bric-a-brac and shredded paper. I stand in the middle of it, panting.

  I hear footsteps on the stairs, and a camera—followed by five of my siblings—pushes through the doorway.

  “Holy crap,” says Farrow™.

  Tristan™ looks around him. “Dang.”

  Before the others can say anything, I push them out and fix the camera with an angry glare.

  “This is not a public family area, so you need to leave. NOW.”

  The camera slowly backs away, and I slam the door behind me, then lean against it and slide down to the carpet.

  “I want to fight back,” I say. I’m sweaty, and my hands have tiny paper cuts all over them.

  Benny kicks aside some books and sits cross-legged on the floor opposite me.

  “What happened?”

  I tell him about the diary, and he lets out a very un–Benny-like stream of profanity. He must have learned those choice combinations from his football-playing boyfriend.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “I’ve been holding that in for a while.” He picks up a crumpled calendar picture and smooths it against his thigh. Red Square, covered in snow.

  “What are you gonna do?”

  I think of the card that Patrick’s keeping for me.

  “I’m getting a lawyer.”

  SEASON 17, EPISODE 25

  (The One with Kaye Gibbons)

  I call Melinda Greenberg the next day. Her voice is crisp and professional, but she seems to genuinely care about my situation.

  While we talk, I stare out at the school football field, empty now except for a few kids throwing a ball around. I couldn’t call her from home, for obvious reasons. Benny paces a few feet away from me, chain-smoking cigarettes while glancing furtively over his shoulder for teachers.

  “So what exactly are my options?” I ask.

  It feels weird to be talking to a lawyer on my own. Like I’ve aged these past twenty-four hours.

  “Well, since you’ll be eighteen in a few weeks, emancipation isn’t something we would pursue. Do you have friends you can stay with?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know if their parents would be okay with it.” I feel cold, just thinking about those conversations. “It’s just … I can’t bring the paparazzi down on them.”

  “Of course. And you definitely do not want to live with your father?”

  “Definitely not,” I say.

  “Well, then there’s the issue of money.”

  “Oh. Mr. Sheldon had said you could work pro bono?”

  “Yes, but I mean for you. How will you take care of yourself on your own?”

  I hadn’t really thought about that.

  “I have a college fund.”

  “Is this money you have access to, or is it held in trust?”

  “It’s in my savings account. I can get to it, but…”

  My stomach turns as I imagine moving out on my own. Using up my college fund on toothpaste and pasta.

  “Well then, I think you might want to consider suing your parents for back wages.”

  “What?”

  Melinda Greenberg sighs. “I know that’s a hard thing to hear, but the fact is, your presence on the show has made hundreds of thousands of dollars for your family. Your mother’s book deals, all the appearances you’ve done on behalf of the show. The Bonnie Lass™ merchandise—”

  I shake my head. “But my mom said money was the reason we had to do the show again.” I hope we’re not back on air just so we can start taking vacations like we used to.

  “Well, if we do pursue a suit, both your parents will have to provide financial records.”

  Dad. I think of his shiny BMW: We’ve got one just like it at home. How can he afford that car?

  “I can’t sue my parents—I won’t. No way.”

  There’s a slight pause on her end, and I hear keys tapping a keyboard, some paper shuffling. I’m sort of annoyed that she’s multitasking during the bravest moment of my life to date.

  “In that case,” she says, “we can go after MetaReel—sue them for punitive damages, stuff like that.”

  I smile slightly, imagining the look on Chuck’s face when corporate tells him I’m suing his ass.

  “What exactly are punitive damages?”

  “It’s sort of the gray area of lawsuits. Basically, you could sue them for millions because of emotional damage or inappropriate behavior on the part of producers.” I’d already told her a little about Chuck. “We could also look into child labor law violations.”

  “I don’t know … I mean, I’m graduating in, like, four months.” And I don’t want to spend that time in a courtroom. I just want a life.

  “They might settle out of court. MetaReel doesn’t want a huge legal battle, especially now that the ACLU is after them.”

  My head starts to throb, and everything feels hopeless and stressful, and fuck it, I’ll just stay on the goddamned show.

  “Um … this is too—”

  I can hear the nod in Melinda’s voice. “Why don’t I do some research on my end while you take as long as you need to think about how far you’re comfortable going with this?”

  A couple girls run out of the gym, giggling to themselves. I want so badly to trade places with them—I don’t want to be the girl calling her lawyer on the basketball court.

  “Chloe, you don’t have to decide anything now. Think of me as
your ace in the hole. I’ll start figuring out what I can, and you just think on it, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay. It’s just … this is really intense.”

  “I know. You have to do what’s best for you, but you also care about your family. Why don’t you call me in a week or so with an update?”

  My chest feels a bit looser. Nothing’s decided. I haven’t sold out my family yet.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  We hang up, and Benny looks over at me. “So?”

  “I’m gonna think about it.”

  He nods. “If I were you, I would do it. But…”

  He leaves his sentence unfinished, but I know what he means; he’s able to fly under the radar a lot. Sure, people at school stare at him just as much, but he isn’t the one who tried to kill himself or has tabloids taking pictures of baby bumps. I know Benny hates being on the show, but not enough to move out of the house before he graduates. Suddenly I feel more alone than ever.

  “We better motor,” he says. “Kaye Gibbons awaits.”

  “Hell.”

  We’re going to be in LA for the rest of the week because Chuck wants the whole family for a huge PR circuit. Never mind that some of us are in school, trying to maintain decent GPAs. I’ve been hoping a miracle would occur that would prevent us from being on the Kaye Gibbons Show, but so far no luck.

  Benny and I walk to the car while I text Patrick.

  I don’t think I have time to see you before I go.

  NO! Really?

  Yeah. I haven’t packed and my mom’s gonna be in full-on crazy mode.

  Damn. What did the lawyer say?

  Stuff that was hard to hear. I’ll try to sneak away and call you later.

  Okay. Don’t take any shit.

  I love you.

  Love you too.

  Benny looks over my shoulder. “Aww. You guys are at the love stage!”

  “Do you mind?” I shove my phone in my pocket, flustered.

  “Oh, don’t be touchy. I’m happy for you. Sheldon’s awesome. Trust me, that was nothing compared to the texts Matt and I send each other.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I say drily.

  When we get home, Mom is barking orders at everyone, and the cameras are following kids as they try to pack their own suitcases. I’m guessing this is one of Chuck’s ideas—I can hear the hokey, circuslike music playing as the kids put ridiculous stuff in their bags.