my hands on my knees, my chest heaving.
You are in control , I repeat, over and over. My therapist from before told me I should practice saying this when I feel a panic attack coming on. You are in control .
But I’m not, am I? That’s the problem.
“Hey.” Benny’s kneeling down, and his hand starts to rub my back.
“Hi,” I choke out. I don’t want him to see me like this. He’s got a suicide-watch look in his eyes, and the last thing I need is for MetaReel to find out I’m still having the attacks.
“How long have these been back, Chlo?” I can hear the worry in his voice, and I know it’s because he loves me, but they’re mine, these attacks, and I hate that everyone thinks they can talk to me about them.
I shake my head, try to get my breaths even. I hated being on the medication: the antidepressants, antianxiety, anti- me pills. And even though it felt like such a victory to stop using them, right now I could go for some. Anything to wipe that look off of Benny’s face. Guilt settles in my lungs, cold and heavy. It must suck having me for a sister, never knowing if I’m gonna lose my mind again.
“I’m fine, Bens.” He purses his lips, and I force myself to stand up straight. “Really. That was just, you know, unexpected.”
Keep it together, Chloe. I love and trust Benny more than anyone in the world, but if he thinks I’m anything like season thirteen Bonnie™, nothing will keep him from alerting Mom.
“I don’t know…”
I grip his arm, hold his eyes. “Benny, I’m okay. Seriously. Please don’t say anything. It’s the last thing any of us needs.”
I can see the argument inside him, the way his jaw tenses as he looks past me, off into the busy parking lot. I know he’s weighing it all, imagining what Chuck could do with this tidbit, remembering that night he found me, unconscious and barely breathing.
“I won’t say anything for now,” he finally says.
“Thank you.”
He grabs my shoulders and holds me away at arm’s length. “But you’ve gotta be straight with me, Chloe. If it’s too much, if you maybe need meds, you can’t hide it from me. Because if I find out you are, I’m going straight to Mom.”
I nod and he engulfs me in a bear hug. I feel something hard against my stomach and pull away.
“Benny,” I say, looking down, “what’s in your shirt?”
He looks over his shoulder, then quickly pulls my mom’s book out of his waistband.
“Benton™ Andrew Baker!”
He shrugs. “Serves them right for selling this trash.”
“And you’re worried about me ?”
* * *
When I get home, the camera crew is MIA. They can’t film inside the home unless Mom or Kirk is here, but the live streaming cameras have already been mounted on the walls of every “public” space in the house (basically, not the bedrooms or bathrooms). Once the first episode airs, the streaming cameras will be activated and fed onto our website. That way if any pervy dude watching wants to see what I’m up to at any hour of the day, he can just get online. I wish I was being paranoid, but it’s true. Every single kid in my family has gotten skeezy fanmail, and there are more than a few creepy blogs dedicated to us. I shudder, imagining those sickos getting off on my sisters playing dress-up in the living room. In season ten, I remember getting a letter that obviously no one had checked, because it said the most disgusting things I’ve ever seen in print. The fact that it was written in crayon and had stickers on it is what still makes my skin crawl. That was the episode where I asked my mom what a blow job was.
The house is eerily quiet, like it’s bracing itself for tomorrow. Earlier this week, Chuck had informed us that Good Life magazine is featuring the Baker-Miller clan on its January cover, and they’re going to be here with their crew and our crew and our big-ass family all day. I look out the sliding door that leads to our backyard; the little kids are
You are in control , I repeat, over and over. My therapist from before told me I should practice saying this when I feel a panic attack coming on. You are in control .
But I’m not, am I? That’s the problem.
“Hey.” Benny’s kneeling down, and his hand starts to rub my back.
“Hi,” I choke out. I don’t want him to see me like this. He’s got a suicide-watch look in his eyes, and the last thing I need is for MetaReel to find out I’m still having the attacks.
“How long have these been back, Chlo?” I can hear the worry in his voice, and I know it’s because he loves me, but they’re mine, these attacks, and I hate that everyone thinks they can talk to me about them.
I shake my head, try to get my breaths even. I hated being on the medication: the antidepressants, antianxiety, anti- me pills. And even though it felt like such a victory to stop using them, right now I could go for some. Anything to wipe that look off of Benny’s face. Guilt settles in my lungs, cold and heavy. It must suck having me for a sister, never knowing if I’m gonna lose my mind again.
“I’m fine, Bens.” He purses his lips, and I force myself to stand up straight. “Really. That was just, you know, unexpected.”
Keep it together, Chloe. I love and trust Benny more than anyone in the world, but if he thinks I’m anything like season thirteen Bonnie™, nothing will keep him from alerting Mom.
“I don’t know…”
I grip his arm, hold his eyes. “Benny, I’m okay. Seriously. Please don’t say anything. It’s the last thing any of us needs.”
I can see the argument inside him, the way his jaw tenses as he looks past me, off into the busy parking lot. I know he’s weighing it all, imagining what Chuck could do with this tidbit, remembering that night he found me, unconscious and barely breathing.
“I won’t say anything for now,” he finally says.
“Thank you.”
He grabs my shoulders and holds me away at arm’s length. “But you’ve gotta be straight with me, Chloe. If it’s too much, if you maybe need meds, you can’t hide it from me. Because if I find out you are, I’m going straight to Mom.”
I nod and he engulfs me in a bear hug. I feel something hard against my stomach and pull away.
“Benny,” I say, looking down, “what’s in your shirt?”
He looks over his shoulder, then quickly pulls my mom’s book out of his waistband.
“Benton™ Andrew Baker!”
He shrugs. “Serves them right for selling this trash.”
“And you’re worried about me ?”
* * *
When I get home, the camera crew is MIA. They can’t film inside the home unless Mom or Kirk is here, but the live streaming cameras have already been mounted on the walls of every “public” space in the house (basically, not the bedrooms or bathrooms). Once the first episode airs, the streaming cameras will be activated and fed onto our website. That way if any pervy dude watching wants to see what I’m up to at any hour of the day, he can just get online. I wish I was being paranoid, but it’s true. Every single kid in my family has gotten skeezy fanmail, and there are more than a few creepy blogs dedicated to us. I shudder, imagining those sickos getting off on my sisters playing dress-up in the living room. In season ten, I remember getting a letter that obviously no one had checked, because it said the most disgusting things I’ve ever seen in print. The fact that it was written in crayon and had stickers on it is what still makes my skin crawl. That was the episode where I asked my mom what a blow job was.
The house is eerily quiet, like it’s bracing itself for tomorrow. Earlier this week, Chuck had informed us that Good Life magazine is featuring the Baker-Miller clan on its January cover, and they’re going to be here with their crew and our crew and our big-ass family all day. I look out the sliding door that leads to our backyard; the little kids are
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