I Am Not Jessica Chen(15)
I could live like this forever, I think, smiling, as I lower myself onto the grass, right under the glow of the sun, my skirt fluttering around my thighs, the rich chocolate melting on my tongue. It’s only been half a day, and already I can’t stomach the idea of returning to my old, small, imperfect self, to my banal disappointments and insecurities.
“Have we heard the news?” Leela asks, lying down flat beside me, one hand raised to shield her eyes.
Celine lies down too, but on her side, in a striking supermodel pose, propped up against her elbow. She somehow manages to stuff two whole strawberries in her mouth and chews. “What news?”
“About Aaron Cai.” Leela looks deliberately at me when she says his name. For a moment I forget who I am, and my heart tumbles in my chest. “Apparently he’s come back from his Paris program early.”
“Seriously?” Celine raises her brows. “Who’d leave a fancy gifted-kid program for this?” She waves a lazy hand toward all the other students milling around the sun-dappled lawn, half of them pretending to study, the wind blowing the clouds into pieces overhead.
“Havenwood isn’t bad,” Leela says, laughing.
“That’s highly debatable.”
“Well, he must have his own reasons.” Leela turns back to me, a meaningful smile spreading across her glossed lips. “I wonder if he’s gotten even prettier. His bone structure was always immaculate.”
I can’t suppress a scoff, even though I know the answer is yes, he has, of course he has. “I honestly don’t think he needs to be any prettier. It would become a legitimate public hazard—didn’t someone walk into a brick wall two years ago because they were too busy ogling him?”
Leela rolls over, laughing harder. “Can we blame them?”
“Well, I sure hope he’s prettier,” Celine says, her brows completing their ascent to her hairline. “The ratio of attractive girls to attractive guys around here is actually quite embarrassing.”
“I thought you said Blake Chen was getting cute,” Leela reminds her.
“Yeah, but then he cut his hair, remember?”
“Blake Chen’s still better than Aaron,” I mutter without thinking.
Both of them fall strangely quiet, and my stomach jolts. Of course Jessica Chen would never make a comment like that, joking or not. Maybe this is it—they’ll realize I’m not her at all. And what will happen after that? Will I somehow snap back into my own body?
Then a familiar voice floats over from right behind me, the last voice I want to hear.
“Conflict of interest aside, I do agree with that.”
Heat shoots up my neck as I whirl around and come face-to-face with Aaron. Or more like face-to-waist. He’s standing up while I’m sitting, his shadow falling over me, the sun’s light circling his head like a halo.
“A-Aaron,” I choke out. Apparently the curse about him always appearing at the wrong time is still well in effect, even when I’m no longer myself. “That’s not really—I meant . . .”
He folds his arms across his chest. “Yes?”
I can’t think of any way to continue without digging myself deeper into this self-made ditch. It doesn’t help that I can see, very clearly, Celine mouthing, “He’s definitely prettier now.” So I just clear my throat and eat another strawberry.
“Do you want to sit?” Leela offers in a bright voice, patting the space next to me. “I can’t believe you’re back. It’s been, like, ages.”
Aaron’s eyes flicker to her, the patch of grass, back to my face. He hesitates.
“We have so much to catch up on,” Leela continues. “Why did you leave Paris early anyway?”
It’s like watching a window slam shut; something in his expression tightens, smooths out. Then he straightens, swings his backpack higher up his shoulder. “I’ll have to pass today, sorry.”
“Oh,” Leela says, disappointed. “That’s fine.”
“Next time,” he promises. Just when I think he’s gone, a combination of relief and disappointment settling inside me like river sediment, he calls for Jessica.
Jessica.
A delayed beat. I spin around, and his expression shifts again. He looks, briefly, startled. Almost spooked.
“Yeah?” I ask, my pulse picking up.
“Nothing,” he says, though he’s still staring at me like he’s seen a ghost. Shakes his head. “Nothing.”
Four
The rest of the school day passes like a perfect movie montage.
In history: the teacher asks a question about the Cold War, and everyone turns instinctively to me, waiting. Before, I could give the correct answer and nobody would even acknowledge it. Now I don’t even have to raise my hand to speak. When I make a joke, the whole class laughs. At the end, we play a game of trivia, and people keep trying to catch my eye from across the room, begging silently for me to join their team.
In the corridors: a group of freshmen do a visible double-take and slow down before me, elbowing each other and whispering. I can make out a few words, repeated over and over: “That’s her. Jessica Chen. Harvard. So successful. I wish . . .” I lift my chin higher and grin at them, and they flush, as if they’ve just been greeted by a celebrity. One of them stammers out a compliment about my skirt, even though we’re all wearing the same uniform. I walk away to the sound of the others laughing. “I can’t believe you just said that to Jessica Chen. That’s like, so embarrassing for you.”