Parallel

and starts pacing, her stiletto boots click-clacking on the sidewalk. “Why couldn’t it go both ways? Why couldn’t she be getting your memories the same way you’re getting hers? Not all of them, obviously—but fragments.” The excitement in her voice is mounting. She paces faster. “It makes sense that she wouldn’t recognize that information as memory—how could she, since it relates to something that hasn’t happened in her world yet? So her brain is storing it as something else. Premonition. Intuition.”
    “But that premonition was wrong,” I point out. “You and Tyler don’t end up together. Not in her world.”
    “The premonition wasn’t wrong,” Caitlin replies. “You said it yourself: Ty and I would’ve ended up together if your parallel hadn’t tried to orchestrate it.”
    I picture the photograph taped to the back of Caitlin’s phone, taken two days before she left for school. She and Tyler are on a roller coaster at Six Flags, grinning like idiots. Idiots in love. That picture is gone now, the moment along with it. Who knew fate was so fragile?
    “Maybe it’s not too late,” I offer. “Maybe you and Tyler could give it a try now. He could come visit and you could—”
    Caitlin just laughs. “Yeah, I think that ship sailed about a year ago.”
    “But you guys are meant to be,” I say. The words sound silly, even to me. I expect Caitlin to laugh again, but she just looks at me thoughtfully.
    “I said I loved him?” she asks. I nod. She’s quiet for a few seconds. “I’ve thought about it before,” she admits, her cheeks flushing just a bit. “What it would be like.” Her face reddens, and she looks away.
    “Call him!” I say, holding out my phone.
    She waves the phone away. “Don’t be silly,” she says. “What’s done is done. Besides, it’s not like it would’ve lasted anyway.” She pulls out her own phone to check the time. “I should probably go,” she says. “I don’t want to miss my train.”
    “Train to where?”
    “New London,” she replies. “I’m meeting with Dr. Mann to convince him he needs a research assistant.” She points at the clock on her phone. “Isn’t your audition at two? It’s one fifty-four.”
    “Ah!” I leap up from the bench, nearly twisting my ankle on the uneven sidewalk.
    “Break a leg!” Caitlin shouts as I sprint down Science Hill.
    “Name, please?” A short guy holding a clipboard is checking people in at the door.
    “Abby Barnes,” I tell him, heaving from my run.
    He marks my name off. “Just take a seat inside. They’ll call your name when they’re ready for you.”
    A quick scan of the theater gallery leaves my palms sweaty and my throat uncomfortably dry. There must be a hundred people here, and at least two-thirds of them are girls, all of whom look like actors. Long scarves, vintage hats, funky boots. I, meanwhile, am wearing running shorts and a sweatshirt with bleach stains on the sleeve. So much for my perfect audition outfit. Since Metamorphoses is a series of eleven vignettes from Greek mythology, my plan was to channel Aphrodite in understated Greek-chic. But the gauzy white dress I scored at Goodwill yesterday is still hanging on the back of my bedroom door, and I am in butt-huggers. A girl in gladiator sandals and a peasant blouse smirks as I pass. Butterflies swarm my stomach.
    Breathe, Abby. Just breathe.
    Actors get nervous before their auditions. It’s perfectly natural and not something to freak out about. Jitters are just part of the process. Bret told me once that he still pukes before every one of his (then again, he hasn’t actually had an audition since his first big movie). The fact that I’m anxious doesn’t mean I’m going to choke.
    I’m totally going to choke.
    It’s happened before. Sixth-grade play. My part was tiny: I had two lines. And on the night of the performance, I forgot them both. If Ms. Ziffren hadn’t made the audition for Arcadia a mandatory part of our grade last fall, I never would’ve set foot on a stage again. Everyone was shocked when she gave me the lead. We all expected Ilana—
    My stomach squeezes. Oh, Ilana.
    “I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out whether his balls are that color,” the voice beside me says. Its owner is sitting cross-legged in the seat next to mine, the latest issue of US Weekly balancing on her knee. Her jet-black hair is cropped boy short, and she’s wearing black fishnets and combat boots under a flowery