Page 69 of In What World

Only upon arriving at WRHS do I realize we’ve failed to consider one very serious problem—it was a breeze toleaveWRHS, but one cannot simply walk into a high school during a school day.

“Break in?” Priscilla suggests, scanning the building for an alternate entry point.

“We can’t do that to the psychics,” I say. “And how would we explain our existence if we were caught? At least in the last life, our counterparts didn’t live in Garden Meadows.”

“Wait until night?” Priscilla suggests next.

“We could,” I say, but neither of us is particularly compelled by the prospect now that we’ve become fully aligned in our purpose. “There isonething we can try first…”

Beth, the secretary who buzzes in school guests, is typing on her computer when Priscilla and I walk up to the visitors’ entrance.

“Hello! Happy Friday,” I say, as cheery as I can believably pull off. “We’re here to pick up our visitor passes.”

Priscilla leans an elbow on the counter. “Lovethat blouse.”

Beth looks at us with unflinching indifference, immune to my friendly wave and Priscilla’s candy-sweet smile. “We don’t have any approved visitors listed for today.”

“Really? That’s weird,” Priscilla says.

“We’re here to see Alice Yeung,” I tell her.

“We don’t have any approved visitors listed for today,” Beth repeats.

Beth has never been friendly. It makes her the perfect candidate for vetting who gets to enter the school. As a colleague, her no-nonsense approach is a comfort. She keeps all of us safe. As a person who desperately needs access to this school’s stage, it is a lot less impressive.

“She asked us to come do a presentation for her class on the metaphysical arts and how they connect to the supernatural elements inMacbeth. It’s for her sophomore group?” I pretend to look at something on my phone. “Yeah. Her third-period class of tenth graders. They just finished reading the play. She’s had a hard time getting them to engage with the text, so she thought bringing in some real-life psychics might catch their interest. She asked us to do this about three weeks ago, so maybe she forgot to put in the visitor request?”

Beth stares. And stares. I feel my entire life unfolding before her eyes.

“I’ll call her,” she says.

Fuck.

Priscilla nudges her knee into the side of my leg. With one look, I know she’s asking if we should run. Giving the slightest shake of my head I can possibly muster, I turn her down.

She eyes the door anyway.

I reach for her, gently fisting part of her dress in my palm.

Beth calls Alice over the school’s phone system, dialing the direct line to Alice’s classroom. She puts the call on speaker, forcing Priscilla and me to endure this agony in real time.

When Alice answers, Beth skips a greeting, going straight to “There are two women here saying you asked them to come visit your third-period class today.” She locks eyes with me instead of Priscilla, some primal sense of hers knowing I’m the rule-follower of the two of us.

“Weird. I don’t have anyone set to visit,” Alice says.

Before this can go off the rails, I chime in. “Alice? It’s Marlowe Jenkins.”

“Marlowe?” There’s an immediate shift in Alice’s tone, all her poise replaced with shock.

I know she’s about to say we haven’t spoken in years, so I get ahead of it with a loud, clear “You sent me a DM three weeks ago saying you were doingMacbethwith your sophomores and that the internet was rotting their brains to the point that you almost started to cry during class because no one was listening to a single word you said. You mentioned in the DM that you were on your fourth or fifth glass of wine, still really worked up over it. And since you knew I ran a psychic business, you asked me to come play up the spooky side of the story with you today.”

There is a long stretch of quiet on the other end. I’ve gambled everything on faith again. Faith that even though this isthe best version of reality for us, it’s not strong enough to have rewritten that series of events. The whole thing really did happen three weeks ago.

One of our shared hills, I realize, warmed by the knowledge that we found at least one in our adult lives.

“My wife is here, too,” I add, suddenly scared only I will be approved to enter.

Calling Priscilla my wife, claiming her in such definitive terms, hits me harder than I expect. It’s a nice idea, even if it’s only for show. What would it be like to belong to someone else in that way? It’s the furthest possible direction from chasing these good feelings without worrying about the why, so I push down the warm thrill it gives.