Page 95 of In What World

Welcome back.

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When Marlowe getsout of the audition, I tell her about the movie, and she shrieks in delight.

“I knew it,” she says. “I knew you weren’t done.”

“And I knew you weren’t either,” I reply. “I saw you dancing in there. That’s aGreaser if I ever saw one.”

“I don’t think this director is seeing me for my inner Kenickie, though.”

“Her loss,” I say.

“Let’s drive by the school,” Marlowe suggests. “I want to dosomething there. Then we can go to Tequila Thursday and really celebrate. I already told Jaz to come, too.”

“Perfect,” I say.

Marlowe parks along the curb. The school is mostly dark, though some security lights still shine, illuminating the space above each door.

“Can you believe I won’t be the head of the drama department?” she asks. “Well, in two weeks I won’t. You know what I mean.”

“I do. And yes, I can absolutely believe it.”

“I’m glad I won’t be running the program next year. I really am. But I’m also sad. It’s scary to hand it over to someone else.”

“There will never be another Dallas Winthrop or you, but maybe that’s not what WRHS needs anymore. It’s time for a change.”

“Change is good,” she says, squeezing my hand. “What do you think the other versions of us are doing right now?”

“I’m sure the psychics are practicing tantric yoga in their cat pajamas. And I bet Teacher Priscilla had a hell of an opening night last week,” I say.

“Oh god,” Marlowe replies, hand over her mouth. “We really left her and Mars with a mess.”

“We did them a favor,” I remind her. “Wouldn’t it have been nice if someone else came into our lives and kick-started some necessary conversations between us?”

“But do you really think those two are destined to be together? Mars is…she’s not the best of me, that’s for sure.”

I cup her chin in my palm like I’m about to say something really poignant. “Isn’t it nice to know it’s not you?”

Our laughter fills the quiet of the car.

“It’s made me want to leave something that’s ours here,” Marlowe says. “Like how we painted the stage. Just a little proof of us.”

I turn off the ignition for her, already on board. “Say where.”

She laughs. “Come on. I still work here. I’m just not running drama.”

“I’ve got a pretty good machine we can hop inside and escape all consequences,” I say. “I’m sure Wilbur and Estelle Reed would love to see their favorite queer thespians again.”

“I know a place,” she tells me.

“Let me guess. The stage?”

“Surprisingly, no.” She grabs my hand, taking me on a winding path to avoid the floodlights and cameras until we end up by the emergency stage exit, in the spot the cameras don’t cover. She opens her purse and gets out a Sharpie, then squats down in front of the flowers lining the side of the building.

The Arts Losers Are Forever, she writes.

I grab the Sharpie from her hand.