Something Real (7 page)

I snort, and Benny grins.

Kirk’s face goes red. “Drinking is no laughing matter, son.”

“I’m not your son,” Benny says. His voice is harsh, like it belongs to somebody else.

“But you’re under
my
roof—”

“Dammit,” says one of the camera dudes. “Hey, guys. Can you hold on a minute? I gotta re–white balance with this candlelight.”

“What?” I say, incredulous.

Chuck peeks in as the guy holds up a light meter and adjusts his camera. “Looks like we’ll have to do this scene again. Kids, can you just go back from your entrance? This is looking great.”

Benny and I glance at each other, and I know he’s thinking the same thing: hell. We are living in hell.

Praise for
Recipe for a Happy, Healthy Family

“A triumph. Beth Baker-Miller gives a raw and honest portrayal of a family’s struggle toward hope.”

—Modern Woman Magazine

“A must-read for fans of
Baker’s Dozen.
”

—Celeb Weekly

“A fascinating look at a unique and inspiring family.”

—Good Life Magazine

“Beth Baker-Miller knows what it’s like to be a Reel—and a
real
—mom.”

—
Janet Clark, author of
It’s Never Too Late: Starting Over After Forty

Seventeen years ago, Beth and Andrew Baker started a family. Believing that there was nothing more important than to “Fill Your House with Laughter™,” they decided to have thirteen children—a baker’s dozen. What began as a private wish soon caught the attention of MetaReel head producer Chuck Daniels, who took it upon himself to make the Bakers’ wish come true. Over the next thirteen years, the Baker family grew, delighting audiences across America with their precocious antics and fun-loving playfulness. But all good things must come to an end. Here, in her first memoir since the cancellation of the show, Beth details how Andrew’s infidelity and the media frenzy surrounding their crumbling marriage affected her children—and gave her the courage to move on. With never-before-seen photos and a first-ever look into the life of the Baker family since the show’s cancellation,
Recipe for a Happy, Healthy Family
will reunite you with America’s favorite family … and introduce you to their newest addition.

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
.