Karmit Solokoff
Tzipora Solokoff
Their parents hadn’t planned on raising child stars. Had they, maybe they would’ve considered given them easier to pronounce, less obscure Hebrew names. Their dad, a garden designer for historic Hollywood estates, named them for the birds and vines he worked with every day. Their mother was a preservationist at the Academy, her nose in old film reels all day, sniffing out nitrate decay. Phil and Ellen were industry-adjacent, neither particularly interested in becoming show biz parents. It was only as a favor, “one-time only” when their casting director neighbor knocked on the Solokoff’s door in a panic, needing a backup ASAP after the baby actor she’d booked for a shoot was sick. “Just this one time” turned into an eleven season hit.
Rosie, that precocious little sister of the fictional Bloom family, had stolen the popular sitcom show, and the hearts of its audience. And had ruled the Solokoff sisters’ lives for years.
After years of begging their parents (and Muppet-level teasing by their peers), her sister was finally granted permission to legally change her name to Kara as a pre-teen. And ironically, she dropped the “Solo” of their surname when she eventually took on the lead role by herself, as teenage Rosie.
When Tzipora Solokoff had disappeared from the credits…and from people’s memories altogether.
It had been her choice.
Tzipi loved the stage, loved playing parts. But had envied the kids who, after playing the lead in a school musical, could go back to some sense of normalcy. No studio teachers, no 5-4-1 rule dictating the max hours on set each day: five hours of schooling, four hours of work, one hour of rest.
No customized diets arriving at their doorstep to keep them within the Rosie regimen. No stylists measuring their hair with a ruler to make sure it stayed exactly the same length, keeping them in perpetual adolescence far beyond the norm.
The first thing she did, post-Rosie, was dye her hair bright pink, because she could. Shaved the sides into a magical mane to make her different.
To make her indifferent to the rising of her sister’s star.
Instead of summers spent in an air-conditioned trailer on set, Tzipi stuck her hands into the soil and helped her father quietly coax native plants from the gardens of old mansions and landmarks. Instead of nights spent running lines no one would ever quote, she sat in the comforting silence of old Buster Keaton films with her mom.
And now, Kara was asking her to throw herself back into the burning nucleus of that world, all in the name of love?
I couldn’t escape, even if I wanted to.
Her index and middle fingers were currently squeezed in a vice-grip by her sleeping twin. And her own thumb was instinctively curled to capture Kara’s, left thumbprint to right thumbprint. The Solokoff finger-cling. Her dad’s joke made it sound as inescapable as the Vulcan neck pinch.
It was a habit that had developed in utero, and had continued nightly until they were old enough for their own toddler beds. As evident from the number of times the pose had been captured in ultrasounds and by their mom’s camera. Mirror opposites from the start: as if even in the womb, they'd already sorted out who would be the righty and who the lefty.
Their middle school friends would find they had gravitated during slumber parties, even while in their separate sleeping bags, to accommodate the finger-cling – mortifying. She wondered if Kara did it to Shel’s hand now that they lived together, or if it was strictly a twin thing. Tzipi didn’t think it had ever happened with Lorne, but then again, he was usually up and out of the loft before dawn. She’d never thought to ask him. And you’ll never be able to now.
God, why did her brain insist on adding such painfully obvious footnotes?
Kara stirred in her sleep, all that golden hair spread across the lux sateen of the king pillowcase. Tzipi studied her lashes – both sisters had their genetics to thank for never needing extensions or mascara. But Kara’s lips? Those had had help over the years.
The pout that had launched a thousand GIFs was slightly deflated now. Not quite as lush and perfect as it had been from her last red carpet appearance. Tzipi noticed a faint ridge above her sister’s cupid’s bow, where the filler may have migrated and now settled into something less…curated. More lived in. She used her free hand to trace her own lips. Plain.
Never mind. My mistake.
Her first class seatmate’s words echoed. No one would ever mistake her for her sister beyond a few seconds’ glance.
Let alone a few days.
“Hey, perv. Stare much?” Kara was awake and smirking. “Surprised you’re still here.” Her grasp loosened, pushing Tzipi’s hand away as if she had been the one holding her back.
Tzipi had never been one to hold Kara back from anything.
Her sister bounced out of the King bed and padded into the suite’s living room.
“I’m still thinking about it all,” she called after Kara. The wine fridge door chimed. “There’s really no other way? No better time?”
“This is the perfect time.” Kara climbed back into bed, four small silver spoons in hand. She gave two to Tzipi, adding, “And you are the perfect person.”
Tzipi frowned at the spoons. So cold to the touch, they practically burned; confusing her brain. Were they for ice cream? Would some sort of room service sundae be delivered for breakfast, Eloise-at-the-Plaza-style? If so, she was double-fisted ready and here for it.
“Is that why you brought me here, under false pretenses?”
