Page 73 of In What World

She tugs me farther into the field of wheat.

“That’s Wilbur Reed,” she whispers.

I chance a glance around. “Where? I don’t see anything other than the farmhouse.”

“The man,” she says. “That is Wilbur Reed. Of Wilbur Reed High School. That’shishouse.”

“Shut up.The titular Wilbur.”

“What if this is what inspires him to build the school?” she asks. “Dallas always said he wondered why Wilbur bothered to create our auditorium. It’s an original feature of the building.”

“You think our presence here changes the course of history? I thought Dallas said we couldn’t break the universe? And this isn’t our reality anyway,” I remind her. “Or maybe it is. I guess there’s no way to know.”

“But remember the fixed points?” she implores. Her conviction is only increasing. “This could be a fixed point in reality.”

“How can it happen in every reality if we’re the only versions of us who are traveling here?”

The tension leaves her expression. “Good point. Okay, never mind. I’m getting worked up. Thanks for bringing me back down.”

It’s nice to get her praise. I like it as much as I suspected Iwould, like I might comb through thousands of mean comments on my social media to catch this one compliment from her, holding it like a lightning bug in a bottle.

“We should still stick around,” I say. “At least for a little bit. When will we ever have an opportunity like this again?”

The old Marlowe would’ve protested. She’d have a hundred reasons why this would be a bad idea. But this Marlowe’s eyes glitter with excitement.

“We’ll just stick close to the machine, so we can make our escape whenever it feels right. We’re basically invincible,” I say.

“We kind of are.”

She grabs my hand and squeezes. And yes, I would rearrange the stars for her. I would find her in any life.

25

Marlowe

When we returnto Wilbur, he’s standing in the middle of the road. One of the women from the buggy has joined him.

It’s Estelle.

His wife.

An oil portrait of them hangs in the front hallway of the school. I’ve seen that painting thousands of times in my life. They look so much like the portrait, it’s like they’ve crawled out of the frame, Estelle in her poufy cream-colored dress and matching toque hat, and Wilbur in his casual three-piece suit and top hat.

“This is my wife, Estelle,” Wilbur confirms. “We would like to see your play.”

“Oh, no. It’s not ready yet,” I tell him.

“No matter,” Wilbur says.

“We are dedicated patrons of the arts,” Estelle explains. “We love to see works in progress.”

My mind charges through so many thoughts at once that I can’t decide which one matters the most. We’ve made it back intime. What will it do to their well-being if we get into our magical box and disappear? Does the Memory Machine stay behind after we go? Does it duplicate or travel with us? The Memory Machine can do so much. Dallas is a literal genius. Dead people were once alive. I am a lesbian millennial untapping her possible gender fluidity while wearing a muscle tank in 1893. Priscilla has the kind of face that poets write sonnets about. How did we ever hate each other?

No. Scratch that.

Does our past matter when our present is constantly rewriting it?

Priscilla steps forward. “That’s so lovely, but we are of such modest talent. I shan’t embarrass my family with such a paltry display of disgrace.” In her quest to land on an appropriate voice for the era, she’s ended up in a space that’s somehow British mixed with a little bit of transatlantic.