Page 12 of In What World

I would enjoy seeing this entire exchange play out, but an email from Marlowe Jenkins lights up the screen in Erik’s hand.

“Can I see that?” I ask him.

Hey Cilla,

Any chance you’ve heard from Dallas today?

Marlowe and I haven’t spoken in five months. She never replied to my last email. Erik asked if he should follow up with her, and I told him to let it be. No kissy-face emojis necessary.

My fingers strain to reach past my wings and touch the screen.

Well hello there Marlowe. I texted him this morning and we talked on the phone for a bit. Why?

What time was that?she emails back.

We’re having a text conversation over email. I’m in a chicken suit. That isn’t directly related, but it can’t be forgotten. I send her my phone number. Within seconds, she’s in my text messages.

Marlowe:What time was that?

Priscilla:And good morning to you, too. It was 5:06 a.m. PST. I was up early for a shoot. Why? Is everything okay?

Marlowe:What did he say?

Priscilla:He told me he’d been at the school all night working on something.

Marlowe:Got it.

Priscilla:Is something wrong?

Marlowe:Nothing. Sorry for bothering you. I’m sure you’re busy.

Something is clearly wrong, but I’m not sure what I can do about it in the middle of filming a car insurance commercial ona soundstage in Burbank. Dallas told me more than that, but there is something about knowing Marlowe wants the information that makes me reluctant to give it.

Marlowe:One last thing. Can we still expect you at opening night this Friday?

Shit.

Opening night.

I forgot all about that promise. I’m not sure why I made it. It must have been the excitement of my nomination. Of thepossibilities. Or maybe I was fueled by a need to get Marlowe to stop being so, well, Marlowe about me.

I scramble to think of a satisfying alternative. Going back to Garden Meadows is not an option. The closest I ever get to returning home is offering money to the drama department and my yearly text catch-up with Jaz Sinclair, where I covertly check on my mom’s well-being by asking Jaz how often she sees her around town.

“Erik,” I call out. The director is still trying to sell him on the commercial’s premise, and judging by the fresh sweat beading on his forehead, he’s still failing. “Can you do me a huge favor and find the best florist in Garden Meadows, Iowa?”

“What is it with you and Iowa?” Erik asks.

“Our liberties we prize, and our rights we will maintain.”

“Is that some kind of Iowa thing?”

“It’s our state motto,” I say. “I had to learn it for a school project in fifth grade.”

“They should workshop that. It has a threatening aura.” He looks down at his own phone, which now fills the spot mine recently occupied in his hands. “Are you going to ask me to findout what the state flower is for this, or will you be happy with roses?”

“Roses are great. Let’s do two dozen bouquets. And make sure they all get sent to my dear friend Marlowe Jenkins at Wilbur Reed High School. Write something really nice from me in the note about how excited I am for the musical. Throw in some red hearts.”

“I’ve removed the red hearts from your texting style. It would be brand inconsistent to use them now. What’s the show?”