Page 26 of In What World

“That’s forsure.”

We’re back in front of Dallas’s office, gesticulating with our arms like we’ve been instructed to play this conversation to the cheap seats. My hand hits her forearm by accident, and she backs up, annoyed at my invasion of what she probably deemsherspace.

It’s ridiculous that we’re arguing. I can’t believe she’s already gotten me this heated, which only makes me more frustrated.With all this new adrenaline pumping through my veins, I could lift a car over my head and throw it.

“You just told me I needed to stop acting like I know you,” I say. “Seems like you’re pretty comfortable acting like you know me, though. Any other feedback on my life you’d like to give, since you’re the expert?”

“I don’t keep up with yourlife,” she says, going way too heavy on the disdain.

“Kinda feels like you do,” I tell her. “By the way, in case you weren’t aware, bitterness is not a good shade on you.”

“I’m not bitter,” she says bitterly.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” I say. “I think the Memory Machine worked, by the way. If Dallas told me he’s figured out how to walk through universes, then we’ve done the same. I think we’re in an alternate reality.”

For a moment, Marlowe falters. Her eyes flicker to the side, like the very ground beneath our feet might turn to quicksand. Like she knows it’s not our usual ground at all. But then she hardens, returning her gaze to me, and I know what she’s going to say before it comes out of her mouth. Forever my antagonist, no matter how right I may be.

“We are not in analternate reality,” she says. “Please be serious. We’re almost thirty-five. This isn’t a good look.”

“I didn’t realize alternate realities had age restrictions. As usual, the good parts only go to the young ingenues,” I say. “Just think about it for a second. Dallas has spent decades making a gigantic box called the Memory Machine that has a purpose he’s never explained and that he’s very protective over. He’s about to retire, and he won’t be able to spend long nights here to work on it anymore, so he’s put his foot on the gas, and he’s finally used the machine.”

“And why would he do thatnow?” Marlowe asks.

“Maybe he only meant to do a test run?” I guess.

“So Dallas decided to test out the infinite vastness of the universetwo daysbefore his last-ever show opens? And now we’ve inadvertently joined him in the test?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Exactly.”

She huffs out such a big sigh of frustration that her bangs lift up off her forehead from the force of it.

“He does have that undergraduate degree in physics,” I remind her.

That’s when we hear the voice. Marlowe’s voice. Only I’m looking right at her, and she hasn’t said anything else.

The voice speaks again. Louder. More distinct. Still undeniably Marlowe, but coming from the other side of Dallas’s office door.

“Don’t,” Marlowe whispers, blocking me from reaching for the handle.

The sweat on her nose has made her glasses slide down. I have an urge to either swipe them off her face or push them back up for her. I can’t tell which.

Instead, I skirt past her to throw open the office door, only to find Marlowe already inside, sitting at Dallas’s desk.

9

Marlowe

The buzzing overheadlights make my skin crawl like there are bugs beneath it. Who knows if I’m hot or cold, because the school has the AC pumping hard to beat the muggy May heat, but sweat is pooling in my armpits and sliding down between my boobs. Inside Dallas’s office, wearing a different sweater-vest and a pair of glasses I’ve never once owned, I sit behind the desk, rifling through papers.

I know it’s me, even thoughI’mme, and I’m standing in the doorway. There is just no one else it can be. Even the way she mutters to herself—it’s the same need I have to express my frustration out loud, speaking like a character doing an aside in a play, letting the audience in on the intricacies of her inner life.

“Where did I put my coffee?” she asks, so flustered with herself she hasn’t heard the office door open.

“Backstage,” Cilla tells her. “Beside the Memory Machine.”

The other me screams as a stack of papers confettis in the air around her. She shoots up from her chair, backing into the wall with her hands raised.

My own body won’t let me faint, which I find cruel. It would be easier to black out. Or maybe wake up in a hospital bed and learn I’ve been in a nearly fatal accident and I’m on heavy drugs. That would make more sense than this current situation does, where I’m looking at myself backed against the opposite wall from where I’m standing.