Page 47 of In What World

Whatever feeds her delusion.

15

Marlowe

Since our phonesstill don’t work, in order to gain access to the internet, we’re forced to use the only standalone computers the school has—a handful of decrepit PCs hidden in the back of the library. Because the students are issued iPads they’re required to bring to school every day, these desktop computers are mostly decorative, occasionally dusted off when a student needs to print something or wants to look up a book in the library system.

Cilla plops down in front of one, crossing her legs as she types in teacher names she remembers from her time at the school—most of whom are long retired—incorrectly guessing both their email addresses and their passwords.

“I can get us online,” I say, sliding into the seat beside her and plugging in Alice’s credentials, hoping her password is the same here as it is where I’m from.

When it works, Cilla lets out a whoop of excitement.

“Shh,” I remind her, pushing my finger to her mouth. I’mvery aware that this is the second time I’ve done this, and I make a mental note to myself that it needs to be the last.

“Oh yes, of course,” she says in a performative whisper. “Must remain quiet for our fellow patrons, who are all ghosts.”

She keeps her focus on me as she reaches across my body to start typing on the keyboard in front of my screen. Her lips remain pressed into the back of my knuckle like she’s kissing it. My finger should not still be where it is. Her lips should not be doing what they’re doing. But I don’t want any of it to stop.

She breaks eye contact to check out what she’s typed, and the tension between us collapses at the sound of her amusement.

She’s writtenDqllas Wnthrioin the search bar.

“Dee-que-las Win-thrio,” I say.

Cilla laughs. I shove both of my hands under my thighs.

“We’ll probably have better luck finding whoever that is than we’re having finding Dallas,” I continue. “Though I thought we agreed we weren’t looking for him anymore.”

“Marlowe Jenkins, when have we ever agreed on a single thing in our lives?” she asks. She still keeps her arms draped across my body, slowly moving my mouse to every typo in his name, taking her sweet time correcting each one. “I’m not trying to find him right now anyway. If we can figure out why he doesn’t seem to be running the drama department here, maybe that will tell us something about what made him leave in the first place.”

She’s correct in assuming Dallas is not a current WRHS employee. This reality’s Dallas lives in San Francisco, where he performs a drag act at various bars and lounges in the area. With some further digging, we discover he did work at WRHS once upon a time, but only for a single school year—1994 to 1995.

From what we can find, this reality’s drama department hasall but folded. The last musical here happened before COVID. They did a random fall play two years ago. Nothing since.

“The musicals draw the biggest crowds!” Cilla says. “No wonder the stage looks as bad as it does. They’re not putting anything into the program!”

“It’s terrible,” I agree. “The musicals are also our biggest ticket sales, and the parents organize raffles that crowdfund a lot of money for the department.”

“Fuck!” she says, even more upset. “It’s already hard enough to keep the drama department functional!”

Her outrage strikes me as what it is—passion. Cilla Cove is probably the most passionate person I’ve ever known. Even though we are now three universes out from the one we come from, she’s taking every piece of information we learn personally, as if she’s the one living this life, angry over the state of a theater program she hasn’t participated in since she was a teenager.

“Clearly Cilla Cove isn’t donating large sums every year,” I say.

“And Marlowe Jenkins isn’t preserving every tradition with the white-gloved precision of a historian.” She shakes her head. “This program is nothing without Dallas, you, and me.”

It’s odd how true that is. Between Dallas’s legacy, my commitment to continuing it, and Cilla’s wallet, the three of us have been keeping WRHS’s drama department afloat. Especially in the post-COVID world, when our administration has been more than eager to let the arts hit the chopping block in the name of saving money.

“Let’s figure out what the hell you and I could possibly be doing instead,” I say.

We search my name first, landing on a LinkedIn page that tells us this Marlowe works in St. Louis. She got her bachelor’sdegree in marketing, not acting. And at a totally different college than the one I attended. Cilla squints at the profile picture, scrutinizing this other me, who wears a dark blue blazer and has her hair pulled into some kind of low bun.

“You look like a speech judge,” she says.

“Oh my god. I do. I bet that’s what I did in my time here if I didn’t do theater.”

“It has to be,” she agrees. “You’d never miss a chance to speak in front of a crowd.”