Chapter 10 #2
This is kind of hot. A Marlowe who thinks she’s a big-shot actor should be a bad thing, and it is, but I like that my Marlowe fights with Famous Mars the same way she fights with me—boldly, and with way too much righteousness.
If only these two had a wrestling ring. A wife-pleaser tank on each Marlowe. And maybe some mud?
“Where are your glasses?” my Marlowe asks.
“I don’t need glasses. I got LASIK years ago,” Famous Mars says.
“That was dangerous of you.”
“I like danger.”
“No, you don’t.”
Wanting to knock Famous Mars down a peg while also proving our legitimacy, I set my aim straight for the jugular as I ask, “Would a fan know that you used to steal clothes from the costume room as a teen?”
With a visible deliberateness, a choice way too obvious even for an actor, Famous Mars narrows her eyes at me in an attempt to intimidate. “What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” I say, narrowing my own eyes right back. No matter who this Famous Mars thinks she is—and it’s clear she thinks she’s someone important—she can never get under my skin the way I can get under hers, because I see right through this performance.
Babe, I wrote the script!
“I watched you do it over and over for weeks,” I say.
Bringing this up again will surely increase the friction between my Marlowe and me, but in the end, I’m doing what Detective Jane would do—risking it all to solve the case.
“You took all kinds of dresses, and Dallas freaked out about losing them,” I continue. “You never came clean to him. You’ve lied, for all these years, to your beloved mentor.”
Teacher Priscilla lets out a murmur of surprise.
I look to her, searching her eyes for proof that she knows this, too, finding it in her small, permissive nod.
I nod in return, preparing to team up with her to hold our own against our nemeses.
Let’s go, Team Priscilla! We don’t have to fight like the Marlowes! We can unionize!
“Didn’t we see that?” I ask her.
Teacher Priscilla switches to staring at the ground.
“Come on! Back me up!” I urge. “Didn’t Marlowe catch us in the parking lot spray-painting Mr. Conrady’s car, and didn’t we threaten to tell on her to Dallas if she told on us to the principal? Didn’t we come to a bitter agreement to hold each other’s secrets instead?”
I can’t read the other me’s expression, unsure if it’s recognition or genuine obliviousness happening underneath her nervous fidgeting.
Famous Mars seems to have committed to an eyebrow arch no matter what comes out of my mouth.
If my Marlowe never stole the costumes, and she and I never had an argument in the parking lot when she caught me spray-painting my evil freshman biology teacher’s car, is this what would have become of us?
Our entire lives would be reversed? Everything hinged on a heated conversation in the school parking lot when we were fourteen?
And they tell you high school doesn’t have to define you!
“Let’s not forget the Truth-or-Dare kiss during our last cast party,” my Marlowe says.
My jaw falls open. My Marlowe’s not fighting me. She’s backing me up, searching for a pressure point that will break our new alternates.
“You kissed me,” she says, looking at Teacher Priscilla instead of the real me.
Heat flushes through my system as I remember the way my body had moved of its own accord, crashing atop Marlowe’s in Jaz Sinclair’s basement.
I can still taste the Dr Pepper on her tongue, and a little bit of that Carmex she was always slathering on her lips.
For a moment, we weren’t rivals. We hadn’t spent four years hating each other. We were something else entirely.
When I come back to my senses, Famous Mars’s eyebrow arch has softened, and Teacher Priscilla is kicking imaginary rocks on the stage.
Pleased with her success, my Marlowe says, “If you tell us where Dallas is, we will stop this.”
“Because I bet you both know perfectly well what else we can bring up,” I add, determined to push this further. “Something that happened on this very stage…”
“He’s in the costume room,” Teacher Priscilla blurts out, preventing me from finishing that particular sentence.
“I flew out for his final show,” Famous Mars offers, even though no one’s asked.
Interesting.
All four of us definitely know about what I’ve threatened to mention. The memory’s electricity charges the air like the sky before a storm.
“How could I not?” Famous Mars continues, determined to push past my threat and make the moment about her. It’s an admirable play, I’ll give her that. “This place is about to be named the Marlowe Jenkins Theater, after all.”
“You’re on TV, aren’t you?” my Marlowe questions. “On a medical drama called—”
“Heartbeats,” says Famous Mars.
“Looks like they can make the show without you after all,” my Marlowe murmurs to me.
This is a dig, but it also feels like a joke we’ve created together, like we’re starting to build a weird shared language amid the madness of this situation.
“Mars won the Golden Globe for it,” Teacher Priscilla offers.
“You won?” my Marlowe and I spit out in unison.
“I won,” confirms Famous Mars. “And there’s a good chance I’ll get nominated for an Emmy, too.
My team feels really confident about my submission package.
I did such a great job with the interview circuit.
It’s just a matter of politics in the end, so I can’t take it too personally if it doesn’t happen.
But winning the Globe was a massive step in the right direction.
I’m finally bypassing auditions and getting direct offers, thank god.
” She gives my outfit a once-over, as if just now noticing we’re dressed identically. “Are you an actor?”
None of this is real, I remind myself. Her success is not my failure, because this isn’t my life. These aren’t my dreams. My Marlowe has a way of getting under my skin, but Famous Mars doesn’t get to reach me in that way, even though she clearly wants to. She will not penetrate my force field.
Come to think of it, no Marlowes can penetrate me.
I need to stop thinking of penetration.
“We would love to keep chatting, but we really need to find Dallas,” I tell our alter egos. “You guys should probably hang back here until we return so we don’t confuse the rest of the world with our surprise secret clones. Ciao!”
I grab my Marlowe’s hand, pulling her away from this insufferable, fame-obsessed alternate of her. The worlds around us might be changing, and the people in them strange mirrors of us, but she’s still here, just as she’s always been, her pulse beating hard and fast in my palm.
She’s mine, I think again.
Whatever that means.