Something Real by Heather Demetrios Page A

from the chapter. “ Andrew was so sweet with the kids, but only a year after we got the triplets from China, he was hurling insults in my direction every day. It wasn’t until he pushed me against a wall that I knew for certain that he hated me. It took me four more years, but I finally found the courage to kick him out. It was only a matter of time before he started hitting the kids. I didn’t want to be a statistic .”
    Benny leans his head against a stack of art books and briefly closes his eyes. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
    I run my fingers over the glossy photos with captions underneath that imitate a family album in the middle of the book. There’s me, being born—on camera. There’s the day when Ronald McDonald installed a fry machine in our house. There’s Dad, giving me a bouquet of flowers on my twelfth birthday. There’s Lexie™, posing for the camera like a preteen Playboy model.
    I flip back to the table of contents, hoping I won’t see—but there it is. Chapter fifteen: “Death on Our Doorstep.”
    “Benny.”
    I’m gutted. Compared to everything Mom’s done, this is the worst. How could she do this to me? To all of us?
    He scoots closer to read over my shoulder, abandoning his own copy.
    The night Bonnie™ overdosed was the most terrifying of my life. We’d already had to deal with her cutting—
    I hiss as all the air leaves my chest, but keep reading. I have to keep reading. Benny squeezes my shoulder.
    Andrew had moved out the week before and was at the house for a visit with the kids. I think Bonnie™ took it harder than the rest—she’d always been very attached to her father. I come from a broken home, too, so I knew how hard this would be on the kids … but I never thought my daughter would try to commit suicide.
    I shake my head. “I told her that’s not what it was.”
    Benny stays silent, and I look at him, accusing.
    “You still don’t believe me?”
    He says each word as if it’s a stone, gently turning over each one and inspecting it before it leaves his mouth: “I think if you were upset enough to put all those pills in your mouth, you might not have been the best judge of your real intentions.”
    I slam the book shut with disgust. “That’s comforting, thanks,” I spit.
    I don’t know how to explain to him—to all of them—that I seriously wasn’t trying to kill myself. I’ve never seen the episode where I swallow nearly all of the random pills in my parents’ medicine cabinet, but I’m sure it was portrayed as a suicide attempt. At the hospital, there were social workers and therapists and lots and lots of family. It was hard to breathe, that’s what I remember most. Bright fluorescent lights, everything stark white, people hovering. But I was lucky to be breathing at all. I know that now. I know it was so stupid. Beyond stupid, obviously. I just wanted my parents to hear me, and it seemed like no matter how much I said or how loud I said it, they were never going to let me have a normal life. To make friends, to meet boys, to go outside the confines of our high-definition life. And then Dad left.
    Oh, Bon-Bon, they would say, you have no idea how lucky you are .
    But why would such a “lucky” girl take those pills?
    A few customers pass by, and I lower my voice. “I’m not a coward, Benny. I was just trying … you know what? Never mind.”
    Benny tries to grab me, but I’m too quick for him. I drop the book and race down the Fantasy aisle, losing him among castles and warlocks. I push past the Mystery section, skirt the bestseller table, and practically knock down a display of crossword puzzles. My chest constricts, and it’s getting harder to breathe. Waves of panic roll over me, and my arms begin to tingle. I push through the heavy glass door and ignore a startled woman’s glance. When I’m in the sunshine and cool air, my throat unclenches just a little. I stand behind a large planter that blocks me from the parking lot,