Page 91 of In What World

“You and Jeannie Gratto,” I say, playfully scandalized.

“I know.” She looks at the ground. And I see in her face something I never once brought out before—a thrill. “In what world?”

“You’re telling me.”

“Wait. What are you going to do aboutSpring Awakening?” she asks.

I don’t even have to think before I respond, “I’m going to play Dallas’s part.”

“The show must go on,” Priscilla says proudly.

“For Dallas,” I say.

“For Dallas,” she replies.

34

Priscilla

Marlowe Jenkins canstill act.

It’s not a surprise, but it is a delight. Dallas is with her in her every arm flick and eye squint as she manages the difficult task of squeezing meaning out of each line without pulling too much focus from the kids.

My heart wants to burst, knowing how much she’s put on the line to do this show. Her fears. Her embarrassment. With little notice and a whole lot of reality traveling since the last time she even looked at this script, she’s still able to pull it off.

So why am I sitting here feeling bad for myself that my agent dropped me? How have I let other people’s opinions so thoroughly dictate my decisions, when I never got into this business for other people? I got into this business for me. Because acting lets me become anyone I want to be, and that excitement still feels novel, even all these years later.

Seeing so many different versions of reality, and knowing that there are worlds with less theater, places where I’ve chosen paths I’d never even consider, I can’t believe I’ve ever waffledon the path I wanthere. It feels more important than ever that I continue. For Dallas, but also for the little me.

Thisis how I take her out of that house with me.Thisis what we both want.

When Marlowe takes her bow, I’m not the only person standing. The entire audience gets to their feet, giving her the long, loud ovation she deserves. No one usually walks away from a production ofSpring Awakeningtalking about the adults, but that’s because they’ve never seen Marlowe Jenkins in one of the roles.

By the time the entire cast is onstage, there isn’t a dry eye in the house.Spring Awakeningis an emotional show already, but this whole cast has been on a journey to get here. They lost two teachers, gained back only one, and they still put on their show. Nobody gets to any finish line without struggle. It’s always hard. But art, in particular, is resilience. Art is how we survive. And as we stand and clap for them, crying the whole way through, never has that felt clearer.

There are days when you don’t like it. Days when you’re convinced you should quit. Everything in life feels that way at some point, and at least with this, you get the satisfaction of knowing you’ve brought meaning to the human experience.

I can’t shake the nagging feeling that Dallas should’ve realized all of this, too. He should’ve been here to appreciate what he created one final time—not just the show, but the people he’s molded, like Marlowe and me, who know how to fight because of him. It’s funny how obvious a lesson can be when someone else needs to learn it, and how hard it is to recognize when it’s you.

The explanation we’ve shared with the world is that Dallas went on a trip. We found him and asked him to come back with us, but he wasn’t interested in returning. There are a lot ofgaps that don’t add up, and absolutely no one—other than the school’s principal, Dr. Adamson, who claims to know this was the case all along—is satisfied with our vague half answers. For now, though, it’s enough.

After the curtain closes and the cast has changed into their street clothes, they come out to greet the audience in the lobby. I let Marlowe have her fanfare, knowing everyone else in the audience is dying to talk to her. I spend my time examining the pictures on the wall, all the past shows Dallas put up. Marlowe and I are together in so many of these images. So young. No idea what awaits us.

“Priscilla?”

Jaz Sinclair stands a few paces behind me with the woman I recognize from social media as her fiancée. Someone whose name I should already know. Whose life details should be easy for me to grab.

“Jaz!”

Our hug is more of a collision than an embrace, and her fiancée has to act as a bodyguard, preventing us from falling over.

“I’m so sorry I haven’t reached out more,” I say, desperate to put this into words now that Jaz is here with me.

“Come on. Don’t worry about it,” she says, rocking us back and forth even harder in our hug.

“No.” I pull back, forcing her to meet my gaze. “You were my best friend, and I cut you out when I moved. You didn’t deserve that. And my life has been less meaningful without you in it.”

Tears flood her eyes. “Aw, Priscilla,” she says. “Not you making me cry!”