Page 36 of In What World

“Oh, you meanthis?” I go for a knee slide across the linoleum.

Cilla’s increased laughter hits like lemonade on a hot day.

There’s applause, too, but immediately I know it’s not hers. It’s a clap I’d recognize even with amnesia—sharp, staccato smacks, executed with precision, never given away for free.

Dallas Winthrop.

He’s once again dressed in theSpring Awakeningcostume he made for himself. Somehow, with only one look, I already know it’s notourDallas, the same way I know this world isn’t the world I’m from.

“Haven’t seen you dance since we didAnything Goesyour junior year,” this Dallas says, proving me right. Our Dallas helped me choreograph the One Direction number. And we never didAnything Goes. “Did you two switch your clothes? And your hair?”

“Youjustmissed our performance of ‘I Don’t Dance’ fromHigh School Musical 2,” Cilla tells him.

“We had to bring the number full justice by culminating in an outfit swap designed to make the audience question the true nature of our relationship,” I add. “The history books might call us friends, but anyone who knows how to read between the lines will understand the truth.”

This makes Cilla laugh so hard she has to hold me to keep steady.

“You’re not yourselves,” this Dallas says.

It has a sobering effect, snapping me out of whatever weird goodwill has taken my body hostage. I wouldn’t normally be caught dead boy-band-dancing for Cilla Cove in the hallway of my work or making jokes about Disney Channel Original Movies with her. Yet here I am.

“We used the Memory Machine,” I tell him. “You’re missing in our reality.”

“We just had a very interesting conversation with the alternate versions of ourselves who live here,” Cilla says. “We would havelovedto gab with those gals for hours—they’re so much fun—but you’re the one we need to talk to. And look at our luck! Here you are! We’re hoping to findourDallas, and we need you to tell us how.”

“No, we’re hoping to get back to our reality,” I remind her.

Cilla eyes me for a moment, then turns back to this Dallas. “We’re hoping to find Dallas, maybe go to a few other realities with him and see what’s going on in the multiverse, then get back home.”

“No,” I say, a warning edge in my tone. “He left us without a trace, and we very misguidedly followed him into the darkness. We need to reverse course before our entire town discovers we are also missing. We will not be going to even more realities.”

“Easy, Death Cab for Cutie,” Cilla says. “Let’s not bring down the mood! I doubt anyone’s even realized we’re gone yet.”

“It’s very likely that time works differently between realities,” this Dallas says. “In the world where you come from, you may be gone for an hour, or a day, or a week. Hard to say.”

“A week?” My throat goes dry. “I told my mom not to worry about me.”

“Could also be a minute,” he offers.

“I don’t know if that’s better,” I say.

“Well, you were never supposed to exist alongside other versions of yourself,” this Dallas replies, launching into a variation of the same speech we heard from the first Dallas we met, about how his intention was to replace himself in an alternate reality, not exist alongside himself. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to tell him we know all of this already. He finishes by saying, “There are infinite versions of our lives, and the machine is meant to find a very specific version of reality for me.”

“Which one?”

Dallas’s expression switches from friendly to cold—the kind of stark, bone-chilling shift that makes his performances in our student shows memorable, no matter how small the role. It’s not as impressive when it’s directed at me.

“Your Dallas did it wrong, so forgive me, but I won’t be opening up about where he’s trying to go, or anything else pertaining to the precarious nature of the technology, since I’m also trying to get there,” he says. “Putting the machine together requires very advanced knowledge of physics, but there’s also something unexplainable that makes it all work. Something beyond words. Something as incorporeal as time. Talking about it only makes it harder to grab.”

“Dallas, my dearest, this isn’t the moment for your superstitions,” Cilla replies. “We are stuck right now, with no way to save our Dallas or ourselves. Weneedwords.”

“Maybe there’s a reason you’re stuck…” This Dallas perfumes the sentence with his favorite brand of lingering mystery. “Isn’t there always, in situations like this? It’s just a door. But it’s also your entire life.”

I almost scream. As if there would ever be a reason that Cilla Cove and I would need to be flung out of space together. As if we have time for his metaphorical riddles.

“I’ll tell you this much,” this Dallas says, leaning in.

Finally, I think.Something useful.