Parallel

it? Why would my parallel make something like that up? So what if she had good intentions. Didn’t she realize what was at stake? “Don’t play Cupid,” is right there below “Don’t lie” in the BFF code. Cardinal don’ts, especially if your best friend is Caitlin Alexandra Moss. Things are black or white with her. Right or wrong. True or false. And for someone who thinks religion is a crutch for the lonely and stupid, she has a ridiculously strict moral code.
    Fresh air. I need fresh air.
    I quickly change into running clothes, then grab my phone and keys. Marissa is waiting for me in the common room with a mug of something frothy. She doesn’t drink coffee or milk or anything else they sell at Durfee’s, so she’s set up a little barista bar by our bay window where she brews, steams, and froths her decaffeinated nondairy creations with the espresso machine her parents gave her for graduation. She makes a very tasty vanilla rooibos soy latte. Her hemp milk green tea cappuccino, on the other hand, tastes like the inside of a lawn mower.
    “Chamomile with soy and stevia,” she says, handing me the mug. “I thought you could use something calming.”
    “Thanks.” I try to smile.
    “Are you okay?” she asks gently. “That dream seemed pretty gnarly. Want to talk about it?”
    I shake my head. “I think I’m gonna go for a run,” I say, setting the mug down.
    “But I thought . . . I skipped econ so we could run lines. Your audition’s today, right?”
    Crap. I’m supposed to be at the drama school at two o’clock. I nod distractedly, too preoccupied with the awfulness of the accident to feel relieved that I still have the audition—part of me was sure it’d be erased with the next reality shift, which is why I’ve put off quitting the YDN . But it appears my decision to try out for the Freshman Show belongs on the growing list of recent events that haven’t yet been overwritten. Caitlin says the list makes sense; that because I kept my memories, there are certain things I’ve done since the collision that my parallel can’t undo as easily. “There’s a causal disconnect,” Caitlin said when I asked her to explain it. “Your parallel can’t undo the fact that you kept your memories, so she can’t undo the things that have happened because you did.” I’m still not clear on the nuances of this rule, but I’m not arguing.
    “Actually, I think I’m good,” I tell Marissa. “I’ve been over it so many times, I think going through it again will jinx me.”
    “Whatever you need,” she says. But a hint of annoyance flashes across her never-annoyed face.
    I take another step toward the door, then stop. Of all the roommates I could’ve ended up with, I got the girl who is kind and funny and generous and willing to skip class to run lines with me. Meanwhile, she got stuck with the forgetful, spacey girl who makes lame excuses for her increasingly odd behavior.
    “I’m really sorry to bail like this,” I say, turning back around. “I think I’m just rattled from that dream.”
    The annoyance disappears. “I get it, Ab. Do what you need to do. Just remember—it was only a dream.” She smiles reassuringly, her brown eyes wide and warm.
    Oh, Marissa. How I wish you were right.
    Fighting back tears, I jog up Hillhouse Avenue toward Sterling Lab, where Caitlin’s chem class meets. Lined with nineteenth-century mansions and shaded by towering oak, Hillhouse is one of the most beautiful streets on campus. This morning I barely notice it, though. All I see is Ilana.
    Please let her be okay.
    When I get to Sachem Street, I turn down Prospect and do the loop again, faster this time. By the time I get back to Sachem, I’m heaving and sweating and still thinking about the accident. So I do it a third time, and then a fourth. After the fifth, my lungs are burning and my heart feels like it might burst through my rib cage and my brain is still locked on Ilana.
    Sweaty and spent, I park it on a bench to wait. I try to focus on my breath, counting each inhalation, but the exercise is pointless. My mind is on an unrelenting loop, replaying those awful moments over and over again in garish detail.
    My phone rings, jarring me back to the moment. I haven’t moved in over an hour.
    “Hey!” Caitlin’s voice is bright. Cheery. It fills me with hope. “Isn’t your audition—”
    “Ilana.”
    The line goes quiet.
    “What—what happened to her?” The words are like sand in my throat, but