I Am Not Jessica Chen(18)

And that’s when I notice it.

The self-portrait I was working on. It’s standing up in its usual spot, the paint splattered over the canvas in my rage. Dripping violet, smeared black. I feel that lump of indignation rise to my throat again, but it quickly hardens into fear as I look closer. The difference is small, yes. So subtle I probably could have walked right past and missed it. Confused it for a trick of the light, a lapse in my memory. But it’s there.

Somehow, the paint I threw last night has . . . spread. Before, only my eyes had been covered, the rest of my features as clear and vivid as if I were holding up a mirror to myself. Now, the entire top half of my face is hidden, disappearing behind layers of violet. It isn’t just that the paint has dripped down—that would make sense, at least. It looks more like someone’s come in with a wet brush and run it across the painting in a series of quick, messy strokes, blurring my nose and forehead.

A chill stirs my spine.

“What is this?” I say out loud, into the empty quiet. “What’s happening?” My fingers reach out before me, stopping just short of the canvas. Well, not my fingers. Not the same fingers that drew this self-portrait, but Jessica’s. Longer and more delicate, the birthmark blooming over my skin like a splotch of ink.

I squeeze my temples and try to think like Jessica. If we’d swapped bodies, and she had woken up this morning as me, then what would she have done?

Okay, let’s reenact this.

I make my way back to the bed and awkwardly lower myself onto it, the springs creaking under my weight. Then, once I’m in sleeping position, I close my eyes, then open them with a theatrical yawn.

So. I wake up. I’m the real Jessica Chen, or Jessica’s soul, in my own body—I mean, in Jenna’s body—god, this is confusing. But point is, I’m Jessica. I’m super intelligent, and practical, and responsible, and everyone is in love with me. I never make mistakes. I never have a bad hair day. I don’t even know what acne looks like. I have the perfect life. My life is so amazing that I probably laugh in my sleep, and it would be charming instead of creepy. Now, I’ve woken up in my cousin’s bedroom for some inexplicable reason, so the first thing I do is—

The first thing I had done this morning: look for my phone.

I sit up and pull open the drawer beside the bed. My phone is exactly where I left it, untouched.

Right. My heart patters as I push forward with my line of logic.

Since I’m Jessica, and my brain just magically works ten times faster than the average human being, I quickly arrive at the conclusion that I’m not in my own body. This is extremely upsetting, because I love my own body, I love my face, and I love my family and my grades and my expensive collection of summer dresses. I’m desperate to track down where my body is and make things go back to normal, so I give myself a call.

I weigh my phone out in my palm, pausing to think. Of course, as Jessica, I don’t know the passcode, but that’s fine, because I can just use my fingerprint. . . .

I pretend to perform the motion and then swipe up. Time to make that call, which should be shown here. . . . I go back to my call history, and frown. Nothing. No new calls since yesterday.

Okay. Maybe I don’t call myself. Maybe I send myself a text.

My pulse accelerates in anticipation as I scroll through my messages. But again—there’s nothing.

Maybe . . . Uncertainty creeps into the corners of my mind. Maybe I don’t message myself. Maybe I message someone else for help. Someone I care about, someone who I’m certain cares about me. Someone like . . .

I can’t bring myself to say his name, but I pull up my last conversation with Aaron. There aren’t any new messages here, either—the last one is dated a year ago. Even without looking, I remember. He had sent it before his flight, only a week after that day in the rain, his tone so uncharacteristically formal I would have mocked him for it under any other circumstances:

Jenna. I’m sorry this is so sudden, but after some thought, I’ve decided to accept the invitation to the medical youth program and will be leaving for Paris tomorrow. I’ve left the math notes you asked for in your locker, if you still need them.

Please don’t wait for me.



Don’t wait. As if it were that easy. As if I could wipe my memory, forget him the second his plane left the tarmac. As if I could just move past the fact that I wasn’t good enough for him, that I lacked some quality that would have made him stay and like me back. Some quality that Jessica would have.

I clench my teeth as I finish scrolling and slide off the bed. “Never mind. I don’t contact anyone, because I decide it’s easier to go hunt myself down in person. I’m still wearing my pajamas, so I have to change. . . .”

Except I can already see the fissures running through this scenario. Even if Jessica had chosen not to wear my school uniform, she would have had to take something from my wardrobe—but a thorough inspection confirms that all my clothes are in order. The more I think about it, the more unlikely it seems that this was a simple body-swapping incident. But if Jessica’s soul isn’t in my body . . . then where is she?

“Jessica?” I whisper out loud. No answer comes. I clear my throat and try again, with the cautious air of someone attempting to summon a ghost. “Jessica? Hello? If your soul happens to be, um, hanging around, feel free to let me know.”