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very funny, but I have to point out that it takes
time
to learn to curl hair, and a certain amount of privacy. That’s something we don’t have when my sister’s home. End result: none of us have styled hair. Living in our house is like being a reality television star against your will and without the requisite narcissistic personality. What would you do? Answer: as close to nothing as possible.
    Back to the awkward coffee visit in the living room with my sister’s agent.
    â€œThis is perfect,” said Sylvia, smiling her crooked city smile. She lifted a mug to her lips and sipped politely.
    My mother finally shrugged off her jacket and went to the hall closet beside the front door.
    â€œSo how are things going?” asked Sylvia.
    â€œI think they’re going okay,” said my mother, still facing the closet. “Don’t you agree, Normandy?”
    â€œYeah,” I said, trying not to think about what my sister had told me in the dark. “Things are good.”
    My mother sat down in the green chair, easily the nicest piece of furniture in our house. Keira bought it before she left for CIAD. The chair was created by a famous German designer whose name sounds like something a school-yard bully calls you before delivering a beating. It cost about the same amount as Mrs. Dekker’s dually truck, and we probably shouldn’t sit in it because it might end up forming the basis of my parents’ retirement plan, but there are only so many seating options in the living room, which is pretty small.
    My mother has a tendency to perch when she sits in the German chair, as though she’s worried there’s a hidden ejector button.
    â€œIs Keira ready to speak to me yet?” asked Sylvia.
    My mom and I exchanged glances. In another family, one of us might have gone to ask Keira if she’d like to come out and talk to Sylvia. But this was chez Pale.
    â€œYou know she loves you, Sylvia.” My mother’s hands clutched her knees. Her fingers looked raw. Her eczema had been acting up. “She just needs time.”
    Sylvia put down her mug. “I feel terrible about this, and I don’t want to pressure her. But there is a financial issue at stake here. Keira’s financial future. My financial future. Perhaps your financial future. As you know, Keira’s main goal has always been to take care of you. She’s right on the cusp of being able to do that with this film deal. I don’t want to nag and I know I’m no longer Keira’s agent, but I negotiated the deal for the new Chronicle. So I have to represent her interests. It’s a year overdue. I know you’ve said she’s working on it. That early burn phase of a new work is intense. I want to respect that and I know you do, too. I just need you all to know that I’m here for you and for her. If you ever want to discuss anything.”
    From anyone else this would have been four steps over the line, but Sylvia had been Keira’s agent since my sister was sixteen. She had been the person closest to Keira right up until the time Keira came home and stopped talking to nearly everyone.
    Sylvia turned to look at me.
    â€œHas she said anything to you, Normandy? What happened at school?”
    I willed my blood to stop moving in my veins and my facial muscles to freeze. I’d made a promise. I wouldn’t repeat what she’d told me. It was a miracle that my older sister, after years of treating me like an inconvenience (or material), was opening up to me. Her trust made me feel respected, even if the “me” character in the Chronicles was a dud in every recognizable way. Discretion was all she’d asked. I had to show her that I was capable of that. Maybe she’d even redeem my character in the Chronicles if I proved myself worthy. I admit that part of me hoped she’d go back to school if I handled this situation right.
    I shook my head. “No,” I said, the