The Rom-Commers(5)

But stories had a better option.

I was not letting Charlie Yates ruin this movie, his career, the romantic comedy genre as a whole, and all our lives with this nuclear-waste-fueled dumpster fire of a screenplay.

That was where I drew the line.

Nobody was dishonoring It Happened One Night. Not on my watch.

I didn’t even make a decision, really. Just finished reading, clamshelled my laptop, swung myself up to the top bunk, and stared at Sylvie until she took off her headphones and said, “What’s up?”

“I’ve just read a romantic comedy script,” I said, “that will destroy human civilization as we know it.”

Half an hour later, she had the whole story: Logan’s call, Charlie Yates’s situation, my life-changing opportunity. And before I even knew what she was doing, she was typing out an email to withdraw from her summer internship, citing “a family emergency.”

“You can’t not go to your internship!” I said when I realized what she was doing.

“Sure I can,” she said.

“It’s a week away! You made a commitment.”

“They’ll pull someone off the wait list.”

“But—” I shook my head. “But it’s very prestigious.”

Sylvie shrugged. “I’ll go another year.”

“What if they don’t take you another year?”

“I’ll go somewhere else.”

But I was shaking my head—fervently. I mean, I recognized that I’d gotten this started. I was the one who’d climbed the bunk ladder and told her everything. She was a good-hearted person, after all. I could’ve predicted she might try to solve this.

But now that it was happening, I couldn’t stand it.

What was she even thinking, giving up her internship?

Had I protected her too much? Had she had it too easy? Didn’t she know how awful the world was? “I’m not sure you understand what a big deal opportunities like this are,” I said. “You can’t take them for granted. The world is horrible. Chances to shine don’t just fall from the sky.”

“You hear yourself, right?” Sylvie said. “Ditto—right back at you. Do you know what a big deal Charlie Yates is? We studied him in my film theory class.”

“But you’re…” I couldn’t think of a justification. “You’re young.”

“You’re also young.”

“You’re full of promise.”

“You’re also full of promise.”

“But you’re—just…” I shrugged. “You’re Sylvie. You’re my Sylvie.”

“And you’re my Emma.”

I shook my head like that argument held no weight. “I can’t take your chance away from you.”

“And I can’t take your chance away from you.”

“But you’ve already said yes to your chance.”

“But your chance is bigger than mine.”

The more we argued, the more I had to pick a side. And of course, that side was always Sylvie’s. She really was my Sylvie. I’d practically raised her. Between me and Sylvie, I chose Sylvie—every time. That was a given. I didn’t know how to be her sister-slash-surrogate-mom any other way.

But Sylvie wasn’t giving up. “Guess we’ll have to flip a coin.”

“I’m not flipping a coin, Sylvie.”

Ugh. I’d created a monster. I used to win all our arguments—but now she was big enough to beat me.

“You know what?” I said. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

“Too late,” Sylvie said then, looking mischievous and defiant. “I just hit SEND.”

“You what?”

She shrugged like she’d won. “I sent it.”

“We weren’t done talking!”

“I was done,” Sylvie said. “You’re going to LA.”

“Write them back!” I said, grabbing at her laptop. “Say it was a mistake!”

But Sylvie clutched it to her chest. “Never!”

We were just starting to wrestle for it when our dad’s voice came through the wall. “Girls!” he called. “Quit arguing!”

Sylvie and I froze and looked at each other like, Now you woke up Dad.

Then his voice sounded again, deeper this time—resonant and decisive, like the voice of God. “We’ll discuss this in the morning like rational people,” he said, in a tone that made it final. “And then we’ll take a vote. And then”—he paused to be extra clear—“we’ll send Emma to LA.”





Three

ONE WEEK LATER, I was on a plane.

I could easily have taken a month to pack up my stuff, and organize my dad’s medications, and label the supply shelves, and color-code daily to-do lists, and cover every surface with sticky-note reminders.

Taking care of my dad wasn’t an art—it was a science, and it sure as hell wasn’t for amateurs. Sylvie was a smart girl, sure, but she’d never had any training for this, and I felt like an astronaut handing over the keys to the space shuttle to a chimpanzee.

“He has to drink a minimum of forty ounces of water every single day,” I told Sylvie as I marked water bottles in the cabinet with Sharpies. “And he won’t remember, so you have to follow him around and nag him.”