I Am Not Jessica Chen(10)
Whatever this is—dream or hallucination or simulation—I simply need to ride it out. Wait for it to pass, for me to wake up. Just because the world is vivid enough to seem real doesn’t mean it actually is.
Auntie gives me an odd look when I walk in, and my pulse quickens, certain that she’ll notice something off, that this will be the first glitch in my new fake reality. I wait for her to ask me what I’m doing in her house. But she only pats the back of my head. “Didn’t you sleep well last night? You’re never late in the morning.”
“Oh . . . uh.” I clear my throat, the sound of Jessica’s voice still a shock to the system. “I guess I was just tired. . . .”
“Well, hurry,” she chides, already moving away to inspect her appearance in the reflection of the wine cabinet. She’s all dressed up in a blazer and pencil skirt, her hair gelled back, her lipstick dark. “There are cakes in the fridge—I wasn’t sure which ones tasted best and they all looked so good, I just ended up buying one of everything.”
I stare at her. Having cake for breakfast seems like an impossible concept. Mom would never entertain it. If exercise is my dad’s thing, then a healthy balanced diet is my mom’s. That meant a steady rotation of boiled eggs, steamed corn, soy milk, and homemade whole-meal mantou. Once every three months or so, we were allowed to buy white bread as a treat (or as a punishment, if you were to ask my mom, because of the damage the extra sugar would do to our bodies).
In disbelief, I make my way to the fridge—Jessica’s fridge, in her kitchen—unable to shove aside the unsettling sensation that I’m stealing from someone else’s house. I feel my eyes widen when I pull the door open. Inside, there are mini cakes of every kind and color imaginable, topped with slices of glistening strawberries, crushed cashews, brown sugar pearls, fresh mango, heavy dollops of cream. They’re so intricately decorated, so pleasing just to look at, that I almost feel guilty slicing into the mango cake, with its dotted white flowers and golden flakes.
At Jessica’s massive dining table, by the open, sunlit windows, I finish it slowly, savoring the frosting as it melts on my tongue.
“Oh, Jessica, before you go . . . ,” Auntie says, her bracelets jingling as she reaches into her Chanel handbag. Real Chanel, I’m sure. I remember Mom pointing it out to me once in an online catalog, this exact design, the kind of bag she covets but can’t afford. I had made it my goal to save up enough to buy her one as a surprise. “Here’s your lunch money.” Auntie extends a thick wad of cash to me.
I choke on my last bite of cake. “This is—” Through coughs, I take the money very gingerly, certain there’s been a mistake. “This is, like, seven hundred dollars.”
“Oh, sorry.” Auntie fishes around in her purse and retrieves another four hundred dollars, pressing it into my palms before I can react. “There. That should be enough. Now, hurry, your friends are waiting for you—and leave the plate,” she adds when I start to tidy up. “The cleaner will be here in an hour.”
Friends.
I step outside in a daze, the sun a warm balm on my cheeks, the cold morning air stinging my exposed fingers and knees. There’s a silver Mercedes parked in the driveway, all the windows rolled down, the paintwork so polished it looks brand-new, and I don’t know what surprises me more: the sight of it, or the two girls waiting inside it.
“Get in, babe,” Leela Patel yells, sticking her head out, her ponytail spilling over the side like a black stream of water. This, in itself, isn’t too different from what I’m familiar with. Leela and I have been friends ever since we were assigned to the same table in art class. We were both painters, both obnoxiously fascinated with the Romantic period, and both eager to be loved by everyone. But the thing about Leela is that she is loved by everyone. While I’ve always considered her my best friend, I doubt that I’m hers. I might not even rank in her top three. Those spots are reserved for special people like Jessica Chen and Celine Tan—who’s currently waving at me from the passenger’s seat, a half-bitten croissant held between her teeth.
My footsteps falter.
If this really is a dream, it’s a bizarre one.
Celine has always scared me. She’s been at Havenwood longer than anyone, and she has a reputation as a poet, with a bunch of Pushcart Prize nominations and other prestigious awards to her name already. But while she could go on for pages and pages about how beautiful the moon is in midwinter until you’re moved to tears, I’ve also witnessed her verbally eviscerate people on the spot. Her features are the same: soft and sweet when she’s smiling, but hard as stone when she’s not, her blue eyeliner drawing out the intimidating angles of her face.
“If we end up running late for English, Old Keller’s going to kill me,” she grumbles between chews as I climb into the back seat. Then she brandishes another croissant in front of me. “Want one? It’s still warm.”
“Oh, I’m good, thank you,” I manage, trying to hide my shock. There’s no way Celine Tan would ever deign to offer me breakfast, which means neither of them have detected anything wrong. They all think I’m Jessica. “I’ve already eaten.”
“And we’re not going to be late,” Leela reassures her cheerily, pulling the car into reverse. “But maybe the teachers would be more lenient with you if you stopped swearing so much in class—”