Something Real (32 page)

“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™.”

When I answer, my voice is hollow and small. “Good night.”

I’m not ready to try talking to my mom again, so I just slip upstairs to my bedroom and pretend I’m asleep when she comes upstairs to check on me.

In the middle of the night I get out of bed to grab a glass of water, pissed that I hadn’t thought to bring one up before I went to sleep. Now I’m the star of MetaReel.com, since we’re streaming 24/7. When I walk into the kitchen, everything is bathed in a dim glow. The red lights on the stationary cameras are blinking, and I hurry over to the cupboard, grab a glass, and fill it with the filtered water in the fridge. Then I remember that I’m not wearing a bra under my thin shirt. Fantastic.

I’m groggy, I guess, and not paying attention, because as I walk out of the kitchen toward the stairs, I trip on that same stupid-ass camera cord that sent me onto my knees on day one of filming. My glass flies out of my hand and goes
thunk
against the carpeted stairs. It doesn’t break, but the stairs are soaked, and I look like a total idiot.

“That’s
it
,” I mutter.

I snatch the glass out of its puddle of water and go back to the kitchen. Then I yank open the knife drawer and take out the meat cleaver. God, I’m as crazy as Annie in
Misery
. I march up to the cord, get down on my knees, and start hacking at it. It’s not just one cord, but a whole stack of them taped together with thick black gaffer’s tape. Even better. A few minutes later, the cords are severed, and all the cameras in the kitchen have gone totally dark. I guess I could have electrocuted myself, but whatever. I walk up to one of the working cameras in the living room and wave.

Then I put away the meat cleaver, refill my glass of water, and go back to bed.

I sleep like a baby.

*   *   *

The next morning, this is what wakes me up:

“BONNIE™ ELIZABETH BAKER, GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW.”

I give the morning a grim smile.
Busted.

SEASON 17, EPISODE 21

(The One with the Tabloid)

It’s Wednesday, and we’re hanging out in Schwartz’s room with twenty minutes left of lunch. My mother’s freak-out over the cord this morning has made me surly and Benny’s not helping matters. For some reason, he’s decided to get on my case about applying to some colleges during Christmas break, which starts next week.

“But you have to apply
somewhere
,” he says.

“No, actually, I don’t.” I use my end-of-discussion voice, but Benny has been ignoring that for years.

“Sheldon. Please tell your girlfriend she has to go to college,” Benny says.

I shoot my brother an annoyed glare. “Yes, because we’ve somehow time traveled, and now it’s 1835 and I have to do what my boyfriend tells me to.” I put my hand on Patrick’s knee. “No offense.”

He puts his hand on top of mine. “None taken.”

Benny snorts. “He just wants to get some—that’s why he’s staying on your good side.”

“Benton™ Andrew Baker—”

“If getting some were my ultimate goal,” Patrick interrupts, “wouldn’t it stand to reason that I would actually beg Chloe to apply to a school in New York, rather than potentially stay here?”

I can’t imagine not being with Patrick, now that we’re finally together. I don’t know what I want to do, but in all my vague imaginings, he’s always been with me. I don’t like all this talk of New York.

“All right, Sheldon, you have a point. Actually, a great one. Chloe, what about New—”

I stand up and grab the remains of my lunch to throw away. “I have to go to the bathroom before class. You”—I point to Benny—“are on my shit list.”

My eyes meet Patrick’s, and he winks.

By the time I return, class is about to start. Patrick and I don’t bring up the college discussion again, but I wonder how much it’s been in the back of both our minds. He’d acted weird about the Columbia stuff Benny saw on his desk, and he’s probably noticed how whenever people start talking about college, I tend to find my cell or book really interesting. When the bell rings and we walk out of the room, his fingers intertwine with mine.

“You’re sad,” he says. His eyes travel over my face, and he frowns.

I open my mouth to disagree, but what’s the point? We’ve been dating a little over a month, and he can already read me like an open book. I rest my head against his shoulder as he walks me to my next class.

“Is it about the college stuff?” When I don’t answer, he squeezes my hand. “I haven’t made any decisions yet—about school.”

I smile up at him. “You don’t have to try to make me feel better.”

He kisses my nose, and I turn into a puddle of melted girl. “I know.” We stop in front of my class, and I let go of his hand as the warning bell rings. “Bye,” I say.

He gives me a lopsided grin before heading off down the hall. It’s silly, but it tugs at my heart every time we have to go our separate ways. I watch his back for a second, the way he walks with casual assurance, like he knows his place in the world. Me? I have no idea. I duck into my next class, but as soon as I sit down, my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Mer.

Meet me in the bathroom ASAP.

I saw her three seconds ago in class—what could possibly be that important? I shove the phone back in my pocket and ask Señora Mendoza for
el baño
pass, then hurry up the hallway. When I get to the girls’ bathroom, I shove open the pale blue metal door, but it’s empty.

“Mer?”

“Handicap stall,” she says.

I have visions of pregnancy tests or hemorrhaging, but when I get inside, she’s leaning against the tile wall, a rolled-up magazine in her hand.

“What? Are you sick … or…?”

She shakes her head and hands me the magazine. It’s
Stargazer,
a trashy tabloid the Vultures love. I’m on the cover.

“I’m sorry,” Mer says. “I didn’t want you to find out another way.”

The bold yellow headline says TEEN IN CRISIS: AN INSIDE PEEK INTO THE LIFE OF METAREEL’S MOST VOLATILE STAR. The picture is a glossy promo shot from the
Baker’s Dozen
website. I’m smiling, but not with my teeth, and my eyes look lost, caged. The girl in the picture seems, I have to admit, a little volatile.

The bathroom door creaks open. “Chloe? Mer?”

“Handicap,” Mer says.

Tessa walks in, a bathroom pass in one hand and her cell phone in the other. She looks at me, looks at the magazine. Then she wraps her arms around me. The magazine gets crushed as Mer enfolds both of us in her arms. I don’t cry. I just shake and shake.

“Where’d you get it?” I whisper.

“A girl in chem was reading it, and I just grabbed it out of her hand and ran in here. It must have come out today.”

Tessa smooths my hair. “You didn’t know?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think I can read it right now.”

If I do, I’ll be breaking my number one rule. I’d promised myself, no matter how bad things got, that I wouldn’t read what people wrote about me. But now it’s in my hands and the words are so close. My fingers itch to pull back the cover, but I know from experience that this is a really bad idea.

“Okay, but…” Mer bites her lip. “There’s something you should know, like, right now.”

I grip the thin pages of filth in my hand and nod.

“They have a picture of Patrick in there. With his name and everything. They got a picture of you guys kissing in the parking lot, and there’s, like, this whole sidebar about your relationship.”

I sit on the bathroom floor and tear through the pages until I find the article about me. Sure enough, there’s Patrick and me, just this past Monday. My lips are inches from his, and we’re smiling. Underneath our picture is a tiny article that Tessa and I read.

HOW SHE’S COPING

Bonnie™ Baker is all grown up. Sources close to the reality TV star say that if it weren’t for longtime beau, fellow student Patrick Sheldon, she wouldn’t be able to handle the stress of doing the show and trying to live a normal life. “He’s already told her he loves her. They’re making plans for after graduation,” says a close friend of the couple. But will their relationship withstand the scrutiny of a nation? “Sheldon cares about her, but he doesn’t want anything to do with the show. I just don’t think they’ll last,” says a classmate. After the disappointing reunion with her father on Thanksgiving, it seems that Bonnie™ could benefit from a shoulder to cry on.

“Who’s talking to them? Who are these ‘sources’?” I ask. I look up at Tessa and Mer, but other than the pity in their eyes, they look as confused and angry as I do.

“We’ll find out. There has to be a way to get them expelled or…” Mer looks at me, but I just shake my head.

You can’t fight the Internet or everyone with a camera and a willingness to lie. My eyes skim over the pictures, landing on one of me outside of school. A yellow arrow points to my stomach. Next to the arrow it says,

Bump Alert! Is Bonnie™ pregnant? If so, how will Beth and the kids react?

“None of this is true!” I throw the magazine across the stall, and it makes a loud
slap
as it hits the tile wall. “I’m a fucking virgin! What is wrong with these people?”

I put my head in my hands, muttering over and over, “Ican’tdothisIcan’tdothis.”

Just then, the bathroom door slams open. “Chloe?”

It’s Patrick.

“I texted him just before she got here,” Mer says to Tessa. “Handicap stall,” she calls.

There’s no time to be angry that Mer told him to come. He’s here, and I don’t have the right words to tell him that his life is about to change forever. The door swings open, and Patrick doesn’t stop or say a word. He just scoops me up off the floor and holds me against him.

“What happened?”

He’s asking them, not me.
Oh God, why is this happening? Why me, why now, whywhywhy?
I hear the rustle of paper as someone puts the tabloid in Patrick’s hand. His body goes rigid, so I know he’s reading it, but he just holds me tighter.

“We’ll let you guys…” Tessa’s voice trails off.

We’ve spent half the period in here. I can’t imagine going back to class, even to get my stuff.

“Chloe?” Patrick’s lips are close to my ear, and he speaks to me like I’m a skittish wild animal. “Let’s get out of here, okay? We’ll go to my place. Please.”

I shake my head, numb. “Class—”

“We can get Ms. Finchburg, if you want,” offers Tessa.

I know she means well, but the thought of talking to the school shrink about whether or not I’m pregnant is so not happening.

I pull away from Patrick—it’s
me
who should be comforting
him
. “I’ll just … can you grab my stuff out of Spanish after the bell rings and bring it back here?” I ask Tessa.

She nods, and Mer pulls her out of the bathroom. When the door shuts behind them, it’s just Patrick and me. I can’t look at him without totally breaking down, so my eyes focus on the graffiti on the back of the stall door. Someone has written IT’S OKAY with a smiley face. I wonder who it was and why they did that. How many girls have hidden away in this stall, feeling like their life was over?

Patrick comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. I lean into him for a moment, savoring this last bit of happiness.

Then I pull away.

“You should go back to class. You’ll get in trouble,” I say.

Patrick leans against the wall and crosses his arms, watching me. I still can’t look him in the eye.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says.