Page 87 of In What World

Our joy is cut short by the memory of Dallas. I see it in Priscilla’s eyes just as I feel it in my own heart. “I wish he were here with us,” I say as I set her down.

“Me too,” she replies. “So much.”

Ignoring every other notification pouring in, I call Lana.

“Marlowe?” She answers on the first ring, my name coming out like a gasp.

“Lana!” I say brightly, knowing full well I have never once greeted my sister this way. But how can I be anything other than ecstatic at the sound of her voice, knowing she’s the actual sister I grew up with and not some uncanny valley alternate? “This will sound like a completely out-of-pocket thing to ask, and I know I could just look at my phone, but could you tell me what day it is?”

Queen of rolling with the punches, Lana answers without hesitation. “It’s Friday, May 8. My clock has 1:53 p.m.”

When Priscilla and I left, it was Thursday, May 7.

“We’ve only been gone a day,” I tell her, giving a look that saysIs that okay? Should we try for something closer to when we left?

“We can work with that,” she assures me.

My sense of time already feels slippery, folding in on itself. We went so many places, and they were all different days—sometimes different versions of the same day, but different all the same—which makes it almost impossible to know how long we were really gone. I finally understand what they mean when they say time isn’t linear. It loops in circles, makes figure eights, and bends like wire into whatever shape it pleases.

“Is everyone freaked out?” I ask Lana.

“Oh yes,” she tells me matter-of-factly. “Is this some kind of performance art?”

“You could say that. Listen, I will call you back and explain everything soon. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“I’m glad you’re back,” she says. “Weirdo.”

“I’m glad I’m back, too,” I tell her. She has no idea how much I mean it. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

“Hold on,” I say before she hangs up. “One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“When I was in high school, and I got you all those dresses. Do you remember that?”

“Uh-huh.” She’s still using her measured voice, the one she’s careful to extract her real opinion from. I know because it’s the same voice I use, and in her manicured answer, I can already sense what lives in the gaps.

“You hated them, didn’t you?” I ask.

“Uh-huh,” she says in the same exact way.

The laugh kicks up between us like a whirlwind, until suddenly, we’re both wheezing.

“I don’t know who ever got in your head that I wanted to wear gingham and frills as a sixteen-year-old trans girl, but your heart was in a very pure place,” she says. “I guess that’s what happens when my baby masc lesbian sister decides to be my first-ever ally. It was cute. I liked putting the dresses on for you, because you were so proud of getting them for me.”

It’s a sweet memory I’ve thought of often—the two of us in my room, Lana popping in and out to change into every dress I’d procured for her. Now it’s just funny.

“Okay, so, I stole those,” I admit.

This gets Lana to fully obliterate her pretense of politeness. “What?I thought you got them from the thrift store!”

I’m telling this to Lana, but it’s also for Priscilla’s amusement, since she is openly listening to us and loving every second.

“I took them from the costume room at school,” I say. “How was I getting to the thrift store at fourteen?”

“I don’t know! You were such a Goody Two-Shoes, you had me fooled! I didn’t think twice about it!”