Parallel

believable creative writing cover story,” Caitlin deadpans. “How could he possibly have figured it out?”
    “I’m serious, Caitlin. What if he tells someone and they lock me up or something?”
    “Who’s ‘they,’ Abby? The government officials Dr. Mann has in his back pocket? The man’s been ostracized, stripped of tenure, and relegated to the fringes of mainstream cosmology. Even if he did tell someone, who would believe him?”
    “But you do?” I ask. “Parallel selves. Entangled worlds. Shared reality.” The words are barely audible when I speak them. “You really believe that’s the explanation for all this?”
    Caitlin hesitates, then nods. “I can’t explain why, exactly, and I doubt anyone could ever prove it, but, yeah. I do. So far, anyway,” she adds.
    “Okay, so here’s what I don’t understand, then,” I say. “If our world is really entangled with a parallel world, then it’s not just affecting me—it’s affecting everyone. Which means that right now, your memories of the past aren’t your own.”
    “Right. They’re my parallel’s.” Her tone is matter-of-fact. “I remember things that happened to her—and things that will happen to her over the next three hundred sixty-five days—as though they happened to me.” She balances the saltshaker on a grain of salt.
    “But they didn’t happen to you,” I point out. “They happened to the parallel you. Which means your memories are false.”
    “Technically. Yeah.”
    “Caitlin!”
    “What?”
    “You’re acting like it’s no big deal that the last year of your life has been erased!”
    “Not erased,” she corrects. “Modified.”
    “Rewritten.”
    “Rewritten,” she agrees.
    “And that doesn’t freak you out?” I demand. “The idea that your memories are being rewritten by someone else?”
    “That ‘someone else’ has the exact genetic makeup that I do,” Caitlin points out. “She’s me, under different circumstances.” She shrugs like we’re talking something trivial. “So, no, it doesn’t freak me out.”
    “She’s not you!” I insist. “For all you know, she could decide tomorrow to drop out of school and join the circus.”
    “But the overwhelming odds are she won’t,” Caitlin replies. “Odds are, she’ll do exactly what I would have done in her situation.”
    “Says who? Mine certainly didn’t.”
    “That’s because the collision made the path you took impossible,” Caitlin says calmly. “Your parallel self couldn’t take that drama class last year because it was already full by the time she got to DeWitt’s office. If she’d had the choice you had, she would’ve picked drama, just like you did.”
    I’m not convinced but don’t have the energy to argue. “If you say so,” I say. I drain the rest of my beer and stand up. “Another round?”
    Caitlin looks at her watch. “Our reservation is at eight o’clock, right?”
    Dinner. I’d completely forgotten. “Ugh. Can’t we cancel?”
    “Marissa will be devastated. She’s dying for you to meet Ben.”
    “Seriously? On top of everything else, I now have to make small talk with a stranger?”
    “Two strangers,” Caitlin corrects. “Ben’s bringing a friend.”
    “Right.” I sigh. “Who’s Ben?”
    “Marissa’s boyfriend. A junior at NYU. They met in New York two summers ago—Marissa was doing a summer session at Pratt and Ben was interning somewhere, I think. And the other guy is Ben’s best friend from high school who goes here. Purportedly superhot.”
    It dawns on me that I haven’t showered today. Or looked in a mirror. Caitlin sees the panic on my face. “Relax. It’s not even six yet. You have plenty of time to get ready. But maybe we should forgo the second pitcher.”
    “How about we get the pitcher and forgo the dinner,” I suggest, sliding back into the booth. “I mean, is this really the best time for me to be meeting superhot upperclassmen?”
    “Is that a rhetorical question?” Caitlin signals the waitress for our check. “Now for wardrobe . . . what about that Marc Jacobs top my mom gave me for my birthday—the grayish purple one—with my straight-leg Hudsons? I wear them with flats, so if you wear heels they should be fine.”
    I picture my reflection in the bathroom mirror last night, my expression equal parts fear and delight. A girl in a pajama top and crew socks, ready for anything. Or trying to be.
    “Earth to Abby . . . did you hear what I said? Marc Jacobs top.