Page 6

Chapter Six

I come down the stairs after showering, hair wet, and can see a glow of light—as bright as the afternoon sun—emanating from the library.

I round the corner and stop.

It’s not the summer sunshine.

It looks as if Greta Gerwig has shown up to shoot an alternative ending for the Barbie movie.

Jess is wearing a pink wig, lips and nails the same color, standing before a pink backdrop with lights and electrical cords snaking everywhere. There is only a single object positioned on a stool covered in gold fabric before the backdrop: Pink Sand Beach , the brand-new novel from Summer Sparks, the beloved, bestselling beach read author.

Summer Sparks owns summer. Every bookstore in America—be it an independent bookseller, Barnes & Noble, Costco, Walmart, Target, Meijer grocery store—has their own table, if not window, devoted entirely to—of course—Summer.

Summer Starts with Summer!

Put a Spark in Your Summer!

You get it.

The cover features a woman in a wide-brimmed hat, turned away from the reader, of course, which is all the rage these days among book covers—sitting on a beach gazing into a Dreamsicle sunset.

Jess points and directs her assistant, Babe, to move a light.

Although we’re the same age, Babe conducts her every move with the drama of one of Capote’s real-life Swans.

Jess hired Babe as an intern a few years ago after they met in college at New York University, when Babe still went by her given name, Karen. Karen was a girl prone to wearing hoodies and ball caps, a book always in her hands. She dresses like a fashionista now.

Karen was branded “Babe” when The Swans took flight. Jess thought it would be a cute play on words for marketing, but Karen literally transformed into a junior Babe Paley, calling all the shots for my sister behind the scenes.

And the ultimate irony is that I feel like Karen cum Babe has driven an even bigger wedge between me and Jess, turning our sisterly rivalry into a cold war.

Now the two are inseparable, almost like twins, speaking a language only they understand.

Babe was here for my father’s party, but she stayed in the shadows, orchestrating clandestine meetings between authors and agents in GiGi’s library. The two even shared a room.

“Hi, Babe!”

She waves.

Olivia Rodrigo music plays in the background, pop rock with angsty lyrics about boys who’ve done girls wrong. The lyrics are smart, razor-sharp, clever.

I pick up the novel. “What did you think of Summer’s latest?” I ask.

“Please don’t touch the props,” Babe says, grabbing the book from my hands and placing it on a masking tape X that has been marked on the fabric. “We’ve carefully positioned everything already for the shoot.”

Death stare from Jess.

“Why are you doing this today?” she huffs. “Didn’t you get it out of your system with Marcus and Mom? Can’t we just pretend to get along like we used to?”

“We used to get along?” I deadpan.

“See what I mean?” Jess says. “I’m overwhelmed. One day you’ll understand when you have a job. If I were you, I’d actually be paying attention. You might learn something.”

Babe trains a light on Jess.

“Such as?” I ask.

Jess turns and folds her arms.

“What it’s like to run your own business. What it’s like to be responsible. What it’s like to build something out of nothing, just like Mom and Dad did.”

“You mean like GiGi did,” I say.

Jess plows through my interruption. “What it’s like to know that you wouldn’t make a dime if you didn’t do every single thing yourself.”

“And how many dimes are you making off of this book you didn’t even read?”

Jess unfolds her arms and takes a big step toward me, moving out of the lights.

“That’s none of your business.”

“You’re too ashamed to say, aren’t you? But I already know. I heard you on the phone.”

“I deserve every dollar I earn.”

Jess doesn’t raise her voice, but her eyes flash even in the shadows.

“You deserve ten thousand dollars to promote a book you haven’t even read, from a writer who doesn’t even need your help to become a bestseller?” I ask. “Or do you deserve that money because Mom and Dad’s authors don’t pay you that many dimes and your social media following is shrinking because they don’t read the books you’re forced to recommend? You do realize readers out there blindly believe you’re doing this for free just because you love a book.”

“I do love books, Emma!”

“Not more than followers and money.”

Jess takes another step closer. Babe watches.

“Wasn’t it nice to be in college and sit in an ivy-covered tower where you could discuss a book’s themes, an author’s intent and the ethics of publishing with a group of like-minded Pollyannas who’ve never worked a day in their lives and believe they know more—and better—than anyone else?” Jess takes one more step toward me until we’re face-to-face. “But the real world is a different place. You have to make decisions. Tough decisions. Decisions you don’t like. Publishing is a big business that’s evolving every day. Staying on top is like running across quicksand. I’m an influencer. When I help authors, I deserve to be paid well for my expertise and reach just as much as authors deserve to be paid for their talent. And they deserve credit for trying to stay on top or trying to get there. You can create the best widget in the world or build the biggest outlet mall in the country, but no one will buy it or visit if they don’t know it exists. I make people know it exists.”

“But what about all the other authors who can’t pay enough, have enough followers or are seen as competition to the ones on top? Why don’t they deserve a chance for their books to be seen and read?”

“You don’t even realize how the world works, Emma,” Jess says dismissively. “America is a capitalist society. How did GiGi make her money? Land and stocks. I mean, she was John Dutton on Yellowstone decades ago. I’m sorry, Emma, but you don’t understand a thing about publishing. But you will one day, and then you will see me in a totally different light.”

Babe moves a ring light, and its beam hits me right in the eyes.

I lift my head, shut my eyes and feel the sun on my face. I open my eyes, and little “floaties”—as round as the inner tubes on which I’m floating with my grandmother—spin before my eyes.

“Book that good?” GiGi asks. “Need a break to consider what the author wrote?”

I use my free hand to spin my tube toward her.

I nod. “My head hurts.”

GiGi laughs, a ricochet booming over the flat lake.

One end of a long bungee cord is tied to our inner tubes while the other is anchored to a heavy cooler filled with ice, lunch and drinks. We are floating a few feet into the lake, spinning round and round, reading mass-market paperbacks, our feet bumping into each other’s every few minutes. Every so often, I will wrap my foot around my grandmother’s to steady myself.

My parents and sister sit with their hardcover books under umbrellas on the beach.

I try to remember the last time they’ve actually stepped foot into Lake Michigan.

“Got a question?” GiGi asks.

I nod again. “What’s free will?”

“Oh, my goodness,” she says. “That’s a biggie.”

My grandma closes the book she is reading, holding it on the edge of her tube.

“Free will is the ability to choose between different possible courses and actions in life undeterred by past events and influences in your life,” GiGi says. “Many believe that is possible, others believe that free will is simply an illusion.”

“Why?”

“Well, are our wills of our own making, or is every thought, action, decision and intention we have a result of our pasts, those moments in our lives that make us who we are?” GiGi asks. “Do we even have control over the decisions we make, or are they unconsciously already decided for us? Do we have the freedom we think we have, or do we have no control over our destiny?”

I study GiGi’s deeply tanned face. When she widens her eyes, white lines show—like the veins on the lake rocks we find after a storm—as if to show me her history.

“Can’t you overcome your past to make your own decisions?” I ask. “Like sometimes when you have to put your hands over your ears when the music’s too loud to think?”

GiGi glances at the S. I. Quaeris novel I’m reading. Her face explodes into a smile.

“Now, I think you’re really considering what the author is asking,” she says. “You are so smart, Emma. Such an empath. You feel things more than other people, and that’s a blessing and a curse in this life. But you can’t study everything in life. Sometimes, you just have to feel your way through it. You have to be a student of life. Being book smart only gets you so far.”

GiGi releases my foot and gives my inner tube a little kick with hers. I begin to spin. When I come to a stop, my sister is laughing, tugging on the bungee cord, trying to pull me to shore.

“That’s free will, Emma,” GiGi remarks, “spinning alone in the world and trying to decide which direction you want to go even when family wants to pull you in a direction you may not want.”

* * *

I blink, and the floaties slowly become one image: my sister’s face.

She is a few inches from my face, lips pink, cheeks red, her breath smelling like the peppermint Altoids she mainlines all day long to hide the smell of the coffee she drinks all day long instead of eating.

Her mouth is still moving. She’s still telling me everything I don’t know about the world.

I hold a finger to my mouth, silently shushing her like a stereotypical librarian. Her eyes flash in anger.

“America is actually a mixed economy, Jess,” I say. “We have the freedom to choose.”

“I can’t do this right now,” she says, turning. “Because I just learned that I have the freedom to ignore you.”

“What’s your favorite book, Jess?” I ask, taking her by surprise.

“Excuse me?”

“What’s your favorite book? It’s a simple question.”

“Oh, my God,” she says. “This game again, Emma? You know my answer.”

“Then just tell me.”

“ Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky,” she says finally, clearly exasperated.

“Right,” I say. “What’s your favorite line from the book?”

“It’s been so long since I read it,” Jess says. “I’m a few years older than you.” She smiles at me. “Not that anyone would realize that.”

“Surely you remember something from the book that resonated with you. I mean, it’s your favorite book ever.”

“The themes resonated with me, Emma. Why do you always pick these meaningless squabbles? You’re not eight.”

“‘To go wrong in one’s own way is better than to go right in someone else’s.’”

“What?”

“That’s my favorite line from Crime and Punishment ,” I say. “I remember something from it, and I absolutely despised that book. It’s the novel every pseudo intellectual says is their favorite just to impress people because no one has really ever read the whole damn thing because it’s torture.” I hesitate. “You’re just parroting Dad.”

“Now look who’s judging books.”

“No, Jess, I actually read the novel, so I get to have some opinion! I just personally didn’t love it. And yet, despite that, I took something important from it. It’s actually one of my favorite lines from any novel.”

“I don’t have time for this anymore,” Jess says, turning.

“C’mon, Jess. You never answered my question. What’s your favorite novel really ? Be honest.”

“What do you want me to say, Emma?”

“The truth, Jess! It’s not shameful to love a book that’s never won the National Book Award.”

“I have work to do.”

“Say it, Jess!”

“ Hollywood Wives by Jackie Collins!” Her voice booms across the library, the title echoing off the covers of my parents’ esteemed collection of books. “There! Are you happy now?”

Her lips are trembling, the wings of a pink butterfly in motion.

“I am,” I say.

“Stop it!” Babe looks at both of us, shaking her head.

“Do you know I always dreamed of having a sister growing up?” she says in our stunned silence. “I always hated being an only child. I just wanted someone to talk to, someone who would always have my back, someone who would always be my friend. You two are pathetic. One day, you’ll realize that you need one another, and it will be too late. I hope to God it’s not, or else—despite having a sister—you’ll end up exactly like me—an only child for the rest of your lives.”

Babe glares at me until I meet her gaze.

I cannot look at Jess. Babe grabs her cell. “I’m ready whenever you are, Jess,” she says.

For the first time, I can detect the slightest waver in her voice.

Jess moves in front of the lights and places her hands around Summer’s novel.

“It looks like you’re choking the book,” Babe says.

Jess glances at me and slowly loosens her grip.

“Three, two, one…” Babe whispers, pointing at Jess to signal she’s recording.

The Swans go live, and I glide from the library in silence.