Page 54 of In What World

“Gender is a spectrum I like to play around inside,” I tell her. It’s the first time I’ve ever said something even remotely close to this out loud, and it doesn’t even feel strange to admit. It feels obvious, the same way it felt when I came out as a lesbian in high school, or when Lana told me she was a girl.

“Should I not be calling youshe?” Cilla asks.

“I don’t mind it,” I tell her, which is also true. “If the universe has infinite iterations, who’s to say I don’t have the same within me? Andsheis one that still fits. I am she and she is me.”

God, I don’t sound like myself anymore. Or maybe this is the most myself I’ve sounded in years. Both alternatives scare me. All I want is to make it out of this experience unchanged. All I want is to make it out of this experience at all. But I can’t. The fucking universe won’t let me.

“Itisboring that we live inside such small boxes,” Cilla replies. “Especially now that we know how many ways life can reimagine itself. We can really be anything.”

She’s right. And that’s hard, too. I used to want so many things, and one by one, I’ve eliminated each desire, leaving me with nothing but scraps of my past dreams littering the floor of my current life. I’ve spent so long believing that’s the way it has to be. But every single thing about me could be different, if only I let it.

“You know, I didn’t wear the right shoes for running,” Cilla says. “I’m going to get blisters.”

“Take them off, then,” I tell her. “I’m not slowing down.”

“That was a gorgeous lead-in for you to explain where we’re going, not an excuse to get me to show feet. I’m not doing that for free.”

“Cilla,please.”

“What?” she says in her favorite blameless tone. “Don’t act like I’m the one being weird. We both know you just tried to kiss me.”

There’s no bluff that Cilla Cove won’t call me on. She is fearless, and I am guilty as charged. Only I don’t know how to plead my case without kissing her again. It’s the best motivation in the world to keep my eyes forward, my destination set. If I can’t see her, I can’t kiss her. If I don’t kiss her, I don’t have to deal with whatever happens after that. Because I don’t know what happens after that.

“I’m just trying to survive,” I tell her.

“And to survive, you need to kiss me?”

“No, I need to get the hell out of my high school.” We make it to the parking lot on the other side, where I pause to scan for vehicles that look familiar. “I don’t think I work here. Or I’m already home for the day. My car isn’t in the lot.”

Cilla puts her hands on her knees. “This is a fun thought exercise,” she says, breathing heavy. “IfIwork here, which car is mine? Let’s spend ten to fifteen minutes standing completely still and guessing.”

“What do you drive in LA?” I ask, heaving a little myself. I’m not much of a runner. But my body has to dosomething, or I’m going to pin Cilla Cove against the chain-link fence that surrounds the parking lot and make out with her.

“I can already feel you rolling your eyes at me.”

“Is it a Prius?” I guess. “Why would I judge you for having an eco-conscious car? That’s what I drive.”

“When I got my first big paycheck, I bought myself a cherry-red Camaro,” she tells me.

It takes great effort, but I make sure not to roll my eyes. “A Camaro? Do they even still make them?”

“I don’t know. I got an older one.”

“Why?”

I start moving again, this time a comfortable power walk, leading us to the exit gate and onto the sidewalk beyond it. We’re only a block away from my target. I can travel side by side with Cilla for that long and not try something.

I think.

“When I was young, there was a guy in my neighborhood who had one in his garage,” she tells me. “He worked on it almost every day. Polishing it. Coveting it. Not driving it, though. Never that. I thought it was so fascinating how he could love something so much but never use it. So I told myself if I ever had the money to get myself a car, I’d get a cherry-red Camaro just like his, only I’d drive iteverywhere.”

“That’s nice,” I say.

“I know it’s not a very practical car,” she replies, assuming my comment to be sarcastic, when if anything, it’s too earnest. “But I love it. And I love even more that I drive it, and it gets scrapes and scuffs from the mean streets of LA, and that doesn’t change my love for it one bit. I think it makes me love it more.”

When we take the first left turn off the main road, the familiarity of my surroundings is almost dizzying. The crack in the sidewalk that butts up into a tiny hill, easy to trip on if you’re not paying attention. The oak tree in Mr. Patterson’s lawn with the tire swing tied to the thickest branch. The sweet smell of spring-blooming perennials, lovingly tended to by Miss Mary.

“We’re going to your parents’ house,” Cilla realizes.