“It’s what Mom wants, so yeah, I guess,” I say, surprised. The reboot is definitely a good thing—it could kick my mother up a notch, move her from B list to, well, B+. I’m proud of my mom’s success, even if other people denigrate her work as fluff just because it’s targeted to girls. (I’ve noticed that no one seems to crap all over the men who star in action movies.) Also it’s not easy to sustain a career in Hollywood like she has, especially when you’re an aging woman.

“I feel like, I dunno, and you probably won’t understand this, because you two are besties so it’s different for you, but I mean, she hasn’t even asked how junior year has been going.” We never talk about the fact that I am closer to our mom and she’s closer to our dad. I will not insult her by pretending I don’t know what she means. I nod. “Still, this is it. The most important year of high school and she’s totally checked out.”

“Come on. You’re Isla. You’re acing all of your classes and kicking Wood Valley ass.” I wonder if my mom and Isla aren’t as close because my mom has decided that Isla is like one of those low-maintenance plants. The more you tinker, the more you mess her up.

“Still,” she says, and so I pat my little sister’s head, like she’s Fluffernutter.

“Sorry, dude. Your success gets tedious. But fine, I’ll bite. How’s junior year been going for you?” I wonder if maybe for the first time my sister could be struggling. Did school suddenly get hard for her like it did for me? I was fine in seventh grade and even mostly in eighth, and then in ninth I started to sink under the weight of all that homework and expectation. I became resentful that every choice I made—classes, sports, extracurriculars, even summer break—was tied not to what I enjoyed the most, but to what everyone thought would look best on a résumé. And I can’t even blame my parents. It was everyone. Activities turned professional and hardcore. Dabbling was no longer allowed. No more being bad at stuff and doing it anyway just for fun.

“Kicking Wood Valley ass, of course,” she says, smiling. “Like you have no idea. My advisor wants me to consider adding an extra AP to my schedule.”

“I hate you,” I say, and she shrugs, like It’s all in a day’s work.

“Seriously, though, you really don’t think things have gotten a bit out of control here lately? Like a little gross?” Isla asks.