Page 80 of In What World

Little me doesn’t notice either way. She’s performing the song for the doll in her hand.

I have no memory of this day. It’s probably too mundane to recall with any specificity, or too far back in my past. The longer I watch, the more I realize I’m waiting for something. My jaw is tight with anticipation, and my breath only comes out in sharp huffs.

Little me trails off mid-note and wanders down the hall.

My parents finish their meal.

“I’ll do the dishes,” Mom announces.

Dad says nothing, leaving his ketchup-covered plate for her and heading to the living room, collapsing onto the couch as he turns on the TV.

I’ve always liked playing characters who have complications that don’t make sense, because I’ve never made much sense, even to myself. I can stand here right now and know I had a bad childhood while watching two parents who smiled at me as I sang, then went about their business. I can judge Dallas forwhat he won’t let go of while knowing I’ve got my own baggage keeping me company at every turn. I understand contradictions. I am loud and messy and impulsive. I am quiet and shy and prone to overthinking.

Would it have been easier to see my parents yell at me? Would that have made me feel more justified somehow in carrying the pain of their neglect for thirty-four years, all so I could feel good about not believing my mom is different now? Or would I want to see her caring for me, so I could realize our relationship was so much more complicated than I ever gave it credit for?

Maybe this ordinary moment is exactly what I needed to witness. Not every day is a good day or a bad day. Some days justare. And I can’t extract meaning from this and turn it into something that makes sense for the story I’ve been telling myself about my life. That doesn’t change the fact that my pain happened, or that it affected me. If my childhood was different, then I would be different, and I actually like who I am. I’m glad I’ve always known how to entertain myself. I make for excellent company.

This is what the psychics meant when they said I had to let go.Thisis what they want me to release—my resentment for my mom. My disbelief that things can be different with her now. And I think I already have. Somewhere in that conversation with Marlowe in the psychics’ basement. Just discussing it made it already softer, less impactful.

What I really need to do is the one thing I’ve already failed at.

I have to stop running away from Marlowe Jenkins.

29

Marlowe

I throw openthe door to the Memory Machine and hurry out the school’s back emergency exit, disabling the alarm and placing a small pebble in the door. It’s a gigantic risk to come back to a universe I barely escaped the first time, but it’s the only place I can think of to try.

When I get to the house, Psychic Marlowe and Psychic Priscilla are sitting on the front porch again, sharing tea.

“It’s…me,” Psychic Marlowe says. While it doesn’t ever get any less weird to see an alternate version of yourself, we’ve spent enough time together for this to not require quite so much reverence. I’m literally wearing her clothes.

“Hello,” I say, waving as I walk up. “And you thought you’d only see me in the mirror.”

Psychic Priscilla watches over the rim of her cup, her eyes tracking my face and then slowly flicking to her own Marlowe as she takes a delicate sip of tea. “Your best yet,” she murmurs in appreciation. Then, to me, she says, “Marlowe makes her own tea blends.”

“I know,” I say, confused. “I had some this morning.”

“Okay” is all she says, her lips tightening.

“I’m here because I can’t find my Priscilla,” I say. “We got into an argument, and she asked me to leave her alone, so I did. For just a minute. But then I realized what a bad idea that is when we’re dealing with the Memory Machine. I thought maybe this was where she’d want to go.”

“There’s only one Priscilla here,” Psychic Marlowe says. She squeezes a lemon and spoons some honey into her cup. Before she takes a sip, she looks at it, then hands it to me. “Tell us what happened.”

I run them through everything that’s transpired since we last saw each other. I only get halfway through before I realize neither of them has spoken. Every other story I’ve told them has come with incessant questions. It’s not like them to be this silent. Unless…

Have I gone to the wrong version of this reality? Is this yet another iteration of the universe, and it just so happens to very closely resemble the one I already know? There’s no way for me to be sure, is there?

Only I’ve asked all of this out loud, speaking my thoughts to process them.

“Be sure ofwhat, exactly?” Psychic Marlowe asks.

“If you’re the versions of you I already met,” I say.

“We are not,” Psychic Priscilla tells me. “We don’t know you. Except, I guess, in the sense that sheisyou.”

“When did you meet us?” Psychic Marlowe asks.