Now That You're Here (Duplexity, Part I) by Amy K. Nichols

he stops talking and asks, “Are you okay?”
    I look down at my hands and realize I’m strangling the Muncha Puffs bag.
    I’m not okay.
    “If this is true,” I say, “we’re talking a total game changer. If you really are from a parallel universe, then what happened to you could happen to any of us. Somehow you crossed from there to here. What’s to stop that from happening to me? Or Warren? What does that mean for the stability of our universe?”
    He’s silent. He clearly doesn’t have the answers either. I continue.
    “And what about the other Danny? The one who usually lives here. Where is he now? And what if word about this gets out? If we’re not careful, you could end up a lab rat. You saw the look in Warren’s eyes. Don’t think for a minute he won’t sell you out. Danny Ogden, you are the missing link in the unified theory.”
    His jaw is set tight, his bubble burst. I hold out the bag. “More?” He shakes his head, so I put the Muncha Puffs back in the cupboard, then straighten the dish towel by the sink.
    All of those things I said are true. All of them are huge problems, so big they could swallow us whole. But they’re not what’s really bothering me.
    What’s really bothering me is her.
    The other Eevee.
    She’s the creeping feeling I can’t shake, though I don’t know why. I again straighten the towel that doesn’t need straightening. “My dad’ll be home soon. I should probably go get my homework done.”
    “Wait,” he says, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Can I ask you something first?”
    “Sure.” I brace for another bombshell.
    He shakes his head so all that hair falls in his face. “Will you cut this off?”
    “What?” Okay, I totally didn’t see that one coming. “No. No way.”
    “I can’t take one more day of this shit hanging in my face.” He blows a strand away from his mouth.
    “Why don’t you ask my dad when he gets home. There’s a QuickCuts over on 51st. He can drive.”
    “I was thinking you could just do it.”
    “I don’t know how.”
    “You’ll figure it out.”
    “I’ll make you look like a freak.”
    “Eevee…” He musses the hair and makes a face.
    He has a point.
    I hear myself say okay. Watch myself pull a towel out of the linen closet and scissors from the bathroom cabinet. They’re small and sharp. They’ll do the trick.
    He sits in a chair in the middle of the kitchen with the towel around his shoulders, his hair hanging down over his face. I walk around him three or four times.
    “What are you waiting for? Chop. Chop.”
    I laugh to cover the fear. “No pressuring the artist while she works.”
    “Oh, excuse me, Monet.”
    “Better Monet than van Gogh.” I snap the scissors twice by his ear and he ducks.
    I have no idea where to start. I’ve never cut anyone’s hair before. Well, that’s not entirely true. I chopped off my Barbies’ hair when I was little. Those poor dolls looked tragic when I was finished with them. “You’re sure about this?”
    “Sure as I am about anything.”
    “That’s not saying a whole lot.”
    I pull the comb through his mop. It’s longer than I realized. Rattier, too. “Have you
ever
had your hair cut?”
    “This isn’t my hair, remember? I keep mine short.”
    Of course he does. In his universe.
    I start small and slow, taking a few inches off the back at the center. The scissors make a sizzle noise as they slice through the strands. I’m holding my breath. I think he’s holding his, too.
    With my foot, I slide a couple of locks along the floor into his view. “Nervous?”
    “No.”
    “Liar.”
    I take the length up to his collar. At least four or five inches more. The hair falls to the floor without a sound. I cut all around the bottom, trying to keep it even. The result: a slightly crooked bob. It’s hard not to laugh, it looks so bad.
    I step back to study the shape of his head and also to buy time. Then I cut the bob shorter, to just below his ears. This is far worse