Page 33 of In What World

“Alternate reality?” asks Famous Mars.

“I know!” I say. “Turns out, it’s supposed to send Dallas to a different version of some event within his own memories. I’m sure your Dallas has never shared that with you, so, surprise! The machine hasn’t worked properly for us, though. It’s sent us to two random alternate realities instead. We haven’t found the Dallas we know yet. The last Dallas we met wasn’t feeling verycharitable, so we didn’t get as much information from him as we’d have liked. Hopefully you guys have a Dallas who’s chattier! Or best-case scenario, you haveourDallas.”

“Let’s just get back in the machine,” Marlowe whispers to me, but Famous Mars overlaps her, saying, “This is fucked-up. You guys are sick.” She turns to Teacher Priscilla. “I told you my fans were sick. I don’t know how they found out about you, though. Or the name of the Memory Machine. That’s new.”

My own quip hasn’t had a chance to form before my Marlowe says, “We’re not yourfans.”

I shouldn’t think of her with such a definitive possessiveness, because she isn’tmyanything, but as she’s currently the only thing I recognize with certainty, she is mine. I’m not sure what other label fits. In some ways, she’s always felt like mine. My rival. My only equal. My Marlowe.

“Would a fan know that you’re holding a cold brew with one pump of lavender syrup, a splash of half-and-half, and very light ice?” my Marlowe continues.

“This is an iced Americano with a bit of oat milk and a sprinkle of cinnamon,” Famous Mars says.

“No, it isn’t,” my Marlowe challenges. “I—we—get the same drink every single day. From Sawyer’s Coffee.”

“You’re trying to get a sip of my coffee, and I’m not going to give it to you. You’re fucking sick,” Famous Mars tells her.

If I had to choose, and in this scenario, it seems I do, I much prefer my Marlowe. Famous Mars has her same combative nature, but there’s an unbearable smugness on top of it. My Marlowe at least possesses kindness. Famous Mars is as blunt and ungenerous as my bangs were in the fourth grade.

“Would you stop swearing? We’re in a school,” my Marlowe says.

Famous Mars looks at the closed curtain. “They can’t hear us back here.”

“Yes, they can,” Teacher Priscilla murmurs, almost too soft for anyone else to hear.

“What?” Famous Mars barks out.

“Stop being so rude,” my Marlowe tells her.

This is kind of hot. A Marlowe who thinks she’s a big-shot actor should be a bad thing, and it is, but I like that my Marlowe fights with Famous Mars the same way she fights with me—boldly, and with way too much righteousness. If only these two had a wrestling ring. A wife-pleaser tank on each Marlowe. And maybe some mud?

“Where are your glasses?” my Marlowe asks.

“I don’t need glasses. I got LASIK years ago,” Famous Mars says.

“That was dangerous of you.”

“I like danger.”

“No, you don’t.”

Wanting to knock Famous Mars down a peg while also proving our legitimacy, I set my aim straight for the jugular as I ask, “Would a fan know that you used to steal clothes from the costume room as a teen?”

With a visible deliberateness, a choice way too obvious even for an actor, Famous Mars narrows her eyes at me in an attempt to intimidate. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” I say, narrowing my own eyes right back. No matter who this Famous Mars thinks she is—and it’s clear she thinks she’s someone important—she can never get under my skin the way I can get under hers, because I see right through this performance.

Babe, I wrote the script!

“I watched you do it over and over for weeks,” I say.

Bringing this up again will surely increase the friction between my Marlowe and me, but in the end, I’m doing what Detective Jane would do—risking it all to solve the case.

“You took all kinds of dresses, and Dallas freaked out about losing them,” I continue. “You never came clean to him. You’ve lied, for all these years, to yourbelovedmentor.”

Teacher Priscilla lets out a murmur of surprise. I look to her, searching her eyes for proof that she knows this, too, finding it in her small, permissive nod. I nod in return, preparing to team up with her to hold our own against our nemeses. Let’s go, Team Priscilla! We don’t have to fight like the Marlowes! We can unionize!

“Didn’t we see that?” I ask her.