Page 83 of In What World

My Priscilla and I hurry behind the Memory Machine to escape notice, though the teen versions of us are so wrapped up in their conversation they’d likely be oblivious to our presence either way.

“Don’t pretend it was anything other than cruel,” Teenage Marlowe says. She’s in the middle of arguing with Teenage Priscilla about the Truth-or-Dare kiss that for her, happened only a night ago.

She has on her short Mark wig and the fake plastic glasses that will leave red indents on either side of her nose for hours. She looks so ridiculous it’s hard to take her seriously, even though I know her anger is very real, and she’d hate that her costume is taking away from the intensity of what she’s saying. Not to mention Teenage Priscilla with her yellow-blond Roger hair.

In my memories, this moment looks different. Priscilla and I are in our street clothes, for one. We aren’t sweaty and covered in smudgy stage makeup. Our innocence doesn’t feel so fresh, so blatantly clear.

But no. We are two teenage girls dressed as adult men, fighting for our lives.

“Why do you always think I’m pretending?” Teenage Priscilla asks. “I don’t even like acting! So I promise I’m not doing it twenty-four hours a day.”

“Thenstopacting,” Teenage Marlowe replies.

I remember these words coming out of my own mouth. I remember believing myself to be speaking with the utmostintegrity and truth. Now all I see is teenage me projecting too many of her own insecurities onto Priscilla. How much between us would’ve been fixed by listening more than we spoke?

Teenage Priscilla lets out a frustrated huff, about to walk away, even though she’s the one who needs to be onstage next. She takes two steps, then turns on her heel.

“Thisis real,” she says, smashing her lips into Teenage Marlowe’s.

The kiss lasts only a second. Barely.

In my memories, it was a riptide that pulled me under for minutes, starving me of all of my oxygen.

“Hold on,” my Priscilla murmurs, clutching my hand through what we both know will be the hardest part of this memory.

Teenage Marlowe pulls away from the kiss, her eyes full of fury.

I wish I could stop what she’s about to do, but that would interrupt this delicate sequence, and while we’ve surely butterfly-effected more than one universe, I do not want to permanently scar any eighteen-year-old version of myself more than necessary.

So Teenage Marlowe shoves Teenage Priscilla. Not hard enough to knock her over, but enough to make Teenage Priscilla fumble back a few steps. In the shocked stillness that follows, both girls struggle to regain their purchase. Teenage Marlowe’s hands are shaking. Teenage Priscilla’s leaned against the side wall.

In her most venomous tone, Teenage Marlowe says, “Fuck you,Priscilla. That was such a fucked-up thing to do. God, I fucking hate you.”

“Fuck you right back,” Teenage Priscilla replies in an impassioned whisper, the real performance still chugging along on the stage beside them. “I fucking hate you, too! I only did that to fuck with you! I’m glad it fucking worked!”

With a dismissive hand flick, Teenage Marlowe storms off. I know she’s headed to the dressing room, where she’ll examine her face in the mirror, searching for signs of Priscilla’s mouth on hers. Where she will beg herself for the courage to push through this without crumbling, reminding herself that soon she will be free of Priscilla. That her big, bright future as a serious and successful theater actor issoclose, waiting for her on the other side of graduation day.

Teenage Priscilla stays in the wings. She’s much tougher than teenage me, who, despite all the internal begging and pleading, will soon start crying. This Priscilla is eerily still, her jaw resolute, watching the end of the song onstage.

When it finishes, Jaz exits into our side of the wings. She crosses right in front of my Priscilla and me. My breath catches as I wait for us to be caught. But we are ghosts to this moment, everyone too concerned with their own lives to notice us.

Teenage Jaz catches sight of Teenage Priscilla and rushes over. “Oh no. It didn’t go well?” she asks.

“She told me she fucking hated me,” Teenage Priscilla whispers.

“After you told her your real feelings?” Teenage Jaz implores, speaking so fast I have to focus extra hard to catch every word. All the while, the crew works to change over the scene. There are only a few more seconds before Teenage Priscilla needs to be onstage.

“I kind of forgot that part,” Teenage Priscilla says. “I just kissed her. But when she said she hated me, I told her I hated her, too, and I was fucking with her.”

“Priscilla!” Teenage Jaz says. “Why would you think that would work?”

“I don’t know! She’ll never believe me now.”

“Maybe if you use youractualwords,” Teenage Jaz says.

“It doesn’t matter,” Teenage Priscilla decides. “We can finishthis show, graduate high school, and never see each other again. I don’t know why I was suffering from some kind of delusion that a world exists where we’d even be together for a single summer. We have very different lives ahead of us.”

The lights onstage change. It’s her cue to enter. With a single breath, she shifts from wounded, sad Teenage Priscilla into wounded, sad adult Roger.