The next morning, my parents march into my room with the sort of militant urgency they usually reserve for special occasions, like movie premieres or pop-up shop appearances. I’m still in bed, the first hour of my day reserved for my new masochistic hobby: scrolling Shola’s and Levi’s Instagram feeds. I’ve watched their honor society speeches, seen tiny bits of the fencing farewell lunch, celebrated Shola’s send-off from the newspaper, even vicariously shopped for a prom dress with Sophie, Levi’s date. She modeled six different dresses from the Bloomingdale’s dressing room for Instagram live and then let people vote.

I preferred the red one, though I kept that opinion to myself.

“Get ready, Chloe. The outfit you need to wear is on the back of the door. I don’t think you’ll be on camera, but it’s always good to be prepared, sweet pea,” my mom says. Her hair has been blown out, again in the new style—straight and simple and curled under—and she’s wearing a boring black sheath dress, understated jewelry. I wonder where it all came from. My mom’s stylist doesn’t usually do conservative, and I imagine it took all her willpower not to attack the dress with scissors and make a long leg slit and a rib-cage keyhole.

“Wait, what?” I ask.

“Keep up, honey. The film crew will be here in an hour,” my dad says. He’s freshly showered and wearing one of his sharp suits, though he too compromised—with who? Paloma?—on the tie and handkerchief. Both are a solid pale blue I’ve never seen before. He’s been forced to forgo his usual loud patterns.

“What film crew?” I ask.

“Duh, 20/20,” Isla says, coming in behind my parents. She’s wearing a dress also, but hers is overly girlish—pink gingham with flutter sleeves. She mock-curtsies and makes a silly face.

“Wow,” I say.

“Yeah. Don’t get too excited. Yours matches,” Isla says.

“We wanted The View, but they make you go to them,” my mom says, unconcerned about the fact that Isla and I will be dressed like twinsie toddler royalty. “Also, those ladies can get a little mean. I wanted the set to be our home, to show we are real people,” my mom says. “That we are a real family.”

“Show who?” I ask.

“The whole goddamn world,” my mom says.

—

By the time I go downstairs, our entire living room has been taken over by men and women with walkie-talkies hooked to belts. Furniture has been moved to the side to make room for cameras and boom microphones, and the floor is zigzagged with taped-down wires. It’s similar to the invasion of the lawyers, except this time, the energy is frantic instead of frustrated. Also, I don’t see any sandwiches or curly lettuce droppings.