Page 9 of In What World

It’s been so long since I’ve seen her in person. Sixteen years since we were in the same room together. Whenever I’ve FaceTimed Dallas and he’s at the school, she’s been in the background, slinking out of frame, refusing to acknowledge my presence. Even without words shared, we’ve remained linked, forever perched on either side of Dallas’s shoulder.

Yesterday was the first time we’ve looked directly at each other. It made me more aware of myself, suddenly viewing my every decision through her eyes, hearing the aggressiveness in my laugh and the unintended bravado in my casual conversation. I remembered exactly how much space I can take up when I want to.

I try to place that Marlowe in some sort of living environment. It’s two hours later in Iowa than it is here, making it well after midnight for her. She must be in her own bed, the glow of her phone screen illuminating her stern concentration, casting her in blue.

What kind of bed does Marlowe Jenkins have? Who does she share it with? Is that someone she would marry? Does she want that?

Is she waiting for me to reply?

Marlowe,

You’re right. I really thought he would want a production. He’s probably worried if too many alumni get together in one room, we’d all force him to finally tell us what the Memory Machine is actually for.

Maybe take the lenses out of your glasses every so often, so you don’t have to notice all the horrors?

And thank you for the congratulations. It’s a little surreal. I keep thinking this is like when they read the wrong Best Picture winner at the Oscars. Surely this nomination isn’t actually meant for me.

Priscilla

Her next reply comes in even faster than the last. It’s almost like we’re in thesameroom, whispering to each other in the dark. I picture her shaggy hair. The clever quirk to her mouth as she thinks. She probably sleeps in her old cast T-shirts, a stack of plays on her nightstand and all across her dresser. The consummate thespian, through and through.

Cilla,

I still don’t know what the Memory Machine is for, and I see Dallas every day. The last time I asked, he said I never wanted to find out.

You know, I tried contact lenses once. I hated them so much that I took them out in the middle of a school day. All of my afternoon classes had to watch a movie instead of doing my lesson plan, because I couldn’t see a thing. I’m not sure how I used to live like that. Then again, I did a lot of things as a teen I would never do again.

And you’ve been ready for this moment your entire life. You and I both know how much you did to get where you are.

Marlowe

Someone like Erik might think her last lines are an encouraging acknowledgment of the struggles I’ve faced to reach this point in my career. I was, after all, just an eighteen-year-old girl from Iowa who moved all the way to California with nothing more than a few hundred dollars and a dream to her name.

But I know Marlowe.

This is not encouragement at all.

The beautiful thing is, it doesn’t have to bother me anymore. Every day of my life, strangers go out of their way to message me how terrible I am. Some of them even wish me dead on a regular basis. Marlowe Jenkins making a vague reference to our high school rivalry is child’s play in comparison.

I decide to write her one final email.

Marlowe,

Let me know if you ever find out about the Memory Machine.

Cilla

She doesn’t reply.

3

Marlowe

May

On the dayof our first dress rehearsal, Dallas goes missing.

Dallas never shows up late to school. He’s only recently started taking any leave at all. The pandemic taught him he shouldn’t work through every single illness and ailment, but that doesn’t stop him finding a way to clock in somehow. Whenever he asks me to run a rehearsal, he ends up remotely stage-directing the entire affair, texting and FaceTiming every fifteen minutes with suggestions.