Page 29 of In What World

Other Alice whips around, newly aware the office holds another person. If only she opened the closet, she’dreallybe in for a surprise.

“Priscilla?” Other Alice asks.

Cilla saunters toward the wall of wigs, plucking one down to brush out the bangs with her fingers, then positioning herself in front of the mirror Dallas has hung on the wall. “Please. Call me Dr. Covington-French. Saving lives in Utah one day at a time. It’s not easy work, but it’s my passion. And no, for the record, I’m not Mormon. I’m too bisexual for that. I do have a soda order, though. I put coconut cream in Diet Coke, with a squeeze of lime and three pumps of raspberry syrup. It’s very good. I can make it for you sometime.”

My wish to faint has finally started to manifest. I rock on my feet, woozy. This is all too much.

Other Alice grabs hold of my arm. “Are you okay?”

“No,” I tell her.

Cilla puts a short blond wig on her head, turning side toside to see it from all angles. None of this bothers her even a quarter as much as it does me. In fact, it doesn’t seem to bother her at all. If this is a competition of maintaining composure—and it is, because everything between us is a competition—she’s coming out the clear winner.

She also looks good with that very obviously synthetic hair on her head. Is there any indignity, in any world, that Cilla Cove will ever have to face?

“Pardon me for butting in, but what do you guys have to talk about?” she asks Other Alice. “Is it juicy? I love gossip.”

Other Alice puts a surprisingly possessive hand on my arm as she tells Cilla, “We’re buying a house together. We found a place we love, and we want to put in an offer as soon as possible.”

“We are,” I say, forcing myself to play along. I won’t let Cilla do this better than me. My jaw clenches into something that hopefully resembles a smile, if you squint hard enough, as I lean my head onto Other Alice’s shoulder. “You know how hard it is for us millennials to pull off the American dream, but we’ve finally made it happen.”

“Really? You changed your mind?” Other Alice whispers to me, her eyes lit up with hope.

Other Marlowe lets out a soft groan from the closet.

“Yes!” I tell this Alice, hoping my vibrant enthusiasm redirects her attention from Other Marlowe’s agonized sounds. “I changed my mind! You finally convinced me, baby. But unfortunately, I have to go. I need to show Cilla something backstage.”

“Since when do you call her Cilla?” Other Alice questions. Her jealousy at what she believes is an affectionate nickname is almost comical. She’s nearly reaching hating-Jeannie-Grattolevels of intensity. It’s a reaction I did not know I could get out of her, to be honest.

“I know, right?” Cilla grins. She’s way too comfortable with Other Alice’s possessiveness. It’s like watching any of the countless viral celebrity-flirting-with-an-interviewer clips, like it’s just par for the course to have people be weird around her twenty-four hours a day. “Marlowe insists on calling me that. She won’t use my real name. Very strange. Can’t wait to see your house, though. Do you happen to have a Zillow listing I could browse?”

“Marlowe currently lives in this dungeon of a studio apartment,” Other Alice offers as she walks over to show Cilla something on her phone.

This time, Other Marlowe and I groan together.

“You live in a dungeon?” Cilla asks.

“It’s a great apartment, but yes, it is also very small. Compared to where I once lived in New York, though, it’s a verifiable mansion.”

Cilla says nothing.

Other Alice, either oblivious to what she’s done or lacking the empathy of the Alice I know, swipes to another picture and says, “Look at the backyard. We can start a garden.”

“Marlowe, I didn’t know you had a green thumb. What will you grow out there?” Cilla asks me.

“Sorry,” I tell Other Alice. “We really have to get going. Cilla has a…surgery to do soon.” I grab Cilla’s hand and yank her out of the office, dragging the both of us toward the wings.

“I don’t think Alice Yeung is too happy you’re holding my hand,” Cilla teases once we’re in the hall.

I drop it immediately. “Go on, get out your pithy remarks about how pathetic my life is,” I say. “Let’s do it now, before welearn whatever other tragic thing about my existence you’ll find worth judging.”

“I’m not judging you,” she says. “I just always pictured you somewhere cool. I thought New York made sense for you.”

This is rarefied air. Of the two of us, while neither was particularly cool—we were theater kids, after all—Cilla was definitely the one everyone saw as cooler. She had more friends than I did. She dressed better. She took things less personally. She made acting seem effortless and instinctual, because for her, it was. If there was ever an opportunity for the drama department to choose official sides in the war of Marlowe vs. Priscilla, I’d have come out the loser.

“Unfortunately, I couldn’t afford it,” I say. “Or Chicago. And since neither town was scooping me up to star in any plays, I came back home. And here I still am.”

“Is this what you want?” she asks.