Page 38 of In What World

“Come on, you’re the famous actress here. Surely you know that’s Horror Movie No-No’s 101,” I say, attempting for some reason I can’t explain to appeal to her. To return the light to her eyes.

She doesn’t bother to answer. No comment about how time with her could never be a horror movie. No joke about which of us would be the final girl. Nothing. She just walks down the hall without me.

I’m torn between wanting to point out that this very reaction proves my point and wanting to apologize for saying it so fresh on the heels of her offering me genuine help.

Needing space of my own, I head to my classroom, unable to accept that nothing here is mine. Or willing myself to change this reality, to be back in the place I know so I can hide out for a minute and organize my thoughts back into categories that make sense.

I am a teacher. Cilla and I are adults who do not care about our high school rivalry. Dallas respects me enough to tell me the truth.

Sitting in my classroom, with the lights off and her eyes closed, is Teacher Priscilla.

She shrieks when I enter, sending me skittering back to the light switch, accidentally forcing us to endure the invasive overhead lights.

“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed to have barged in like this. Of course she’d be here. No matter where I go in my life, I cannot manage to escape some version of her. “I was just…I needed a moment.”

Teacher Priscilla’s laugh comes out in a weak trickle. “It’s okay. Sorry I screamed.”

“It’s okay,” I echo.

“I needed a moment, too,” she says. “That’s exactly why I was sitting here in the dark. Until you walked in, I’d almost convinced myself someone had slipped a hallucinogen into my lunch.”

“That’s a good theory. I think I’m going with coma, personally,” I say. “But a good case could be made for fever dream. I’m certainly not acting like myself.”

Her laugh regains some of its force. It’s strange to witness, because she has Cilla’s face. SheisCilla, though I don’t feel our history between us, and that absence gnaws at me.

I recognize this sensation, though I’ve never allowed myself to entertain its meaning before. This is what I experience whenI watch Cilla act. And yes, I watch her act. Not that she needs to hear about it. But what am I going to do when Dallas is always talking about how great she is?

When she’s performing on my TV screen, I’m conscious of my freedom to scrutinize her with whatever level of detail I’d like. But I’m also constantly aware that she doesn’t have the same opportunity. I’ve never had the ability to recognize that it’s a strange kind of sadness. I want her to be seeing me, too.

“I texted Jaz about this,” Teacher Priscilla admits.

“Jaz Sinclair?” I confirm.

“Who else?”

“I just…I don’t think Cilla really talks to Jaz anymore,” I say, relieved that Cilla isn’t around to hear me share this either, because it’s proof I have indeed kept tabs on her life. When Jaz posted about Cilla’s Golden Globe nomination, there was something removed about it. It felt like the perfunctory post of a distant friend, not the excited raving of someone Cilla speaks to all the time. And when Jaz posted about her engagement to a woman she’d met on a retreat, I didn’t see Cilla giving any congratulations in the comments.

“I can’t imagine not talking to Jaz every day,” Teacher Priscilla replies. “Actually, can we text her a picture? She said she’s scared I’m doing some weird white-people magic and she’s too Black to accept this kind of thing without proof. But then she said she was scared to see the proof.”

“If it helps, you can tell her I’m scared, too, and I don’t want to be here any more than she wants me to be,” I say.

“I’ll tell her,” Teacher Priscilla says. “She’s always respected your opinion. Well, other you. You know what I mean.”

My cheeks warm. It used to bum me out that Jaz and Cilla were best friends, because I felt like I had a good relationshipwith Jaz, too, but it could never reach the next level with Cilla in the picture. If this Jaz somehow respects Famous Mars, then my Jaz and I might be on track for booking matching tattoos someday.IfI ever get back.

We send Jaz a picture where we’re smiling cheek to cheek, knowing it would be the exact kind of photo neither of us would ever take with the real version of each other. As we wait for Jaz’s response, I examine Teacher Priscilla’s version of my classroom. Where I’ve hung enlarged covers of classic books and quotes from my favorite plays, she has posters of book-to-film adaptations and pictures of famous actors.

Gesturing to Julia Roberts, I ask, “Any acting for you in this life?”

“God, no,” Teacher Priscilla says. “You made me quit. Well, other you.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. You, I mean, Mars…” She takes a breath. “She would always mess with me during rehearsals in high school. She got in my head, I guess. I don’t know. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this.”

“No, please do,” I insist.

“Well, I tried to do acting for a year in college, and I didn’t expect how much self-doubt I’d experience,” she says. “It was terrible. The teachers were relentless. For people who were supposed to be shaping young new artists or whatever, they didn’t seem very interested in fostering a safe environment to create in. It was more about controlling us. Turning us into their puppets.”