I Am Not Jessica Chen(21)

I shake away the image of Aaron’s face as I enter Jessica’s bedroom, calibrating the little information I have.

My body is missing, and so is Jessica’s soul. Nobody seems to have detected that anything’s wrong, except Aaron. And my own mom believes I’m away on some sort of trip.

Until I can figure out where Jessica is and exactly what has happened to her, my best course of action is to play the part of Jessica as well as I can. Avoid suspicion. Wear her skin convincingly. Familiarize myself with her routine. I don’t want to steal her glamorous life—I’m just living it for her until she returns, like how you’d keep a borrowed sports car in good condition by driving it regularly around the block. That way, once she’s back in her own body, everything will be able to continue as normal for her.

Still, a bubble of guilt rises up in my chest as I yank open Jessica’s drawers, rifling through the contents inside. It feels like a blatant invasion of privacy, even though I don’t exactly have any better choices. I flip through old notebooks, stacks of printed-out study sheets, notecards bound with a navy hair tie, past exam papers all marked with a shiny A-plus, the margins filled in with teachers’ praise. I take my time reading through them, swinging between awe and annoyance and incredulity. Most of the comments resemble those vague starred reviews you always see in indie movie trailers:

Simply astounding.

A marvel.

Spectacular.

Mesmerizing.

Profound in ways I was not expecting.

This made me weep.

Not only a life-changing experience, but a revelation, and a revolution.

“Okay, this is honestly a little much,” I mutter out loud. I would have been lucky to even get a “Good job!” on any of my tests. Yet as my eyes move farther down the paper, I spot a different kind of comment in Jessica’s signature curly handwriting. She’s circled a date—the only incorrect answer in the entire exam paper, worth merely half a point. And beside it, the red pen pressed so deep it’s almost torn through the page: Did your brain die while you were writing this? How could you get this SO wrong? Fix it. Remember the correct date. Remember, remember, REMEMBER. Don’t you dare let it happen again.

My jaw unhinges.

I don’t know what’s more alarming: the vicious, unforgiving tone of the comment, or the fact that it’s from Jessica . . . to herself. It’s how you’d speak to an enemy, someone you hate. I can’t imagine the words delivered in her sweet voice, with her easy mannerisms.

There’s a sudden prickling over the nape of my neck, the cold sensation of something gone wrong, something misplaced. I snap the test booklet shut and shove it back into the drawer. Then my fingers brush over soft leather. A book I must’ve missed the first time around.

Frowning, I pull it out.

No, not a book. It’s one of those traditional vintage journals I didn’t realize people still owned, tawny brown and bound together with a string and rusted key. There’s a distinctly used quality to the pages; they’re loose and uneven and worn yellow, as if they’ve been leafed through often in the past.

I never would have considered Jessica the type to keep a journal. It seems too sentimental a habit, too impractical, too time-consuming. I inhale unsteadily, my curiosity warring with my own better judgment. My fingers drift over the clasp, pause at the key. I might be able to justify going through her past exams, but reading her journal is different.

“No,” I scold myself, sliding the journal carefully back where I found it, between two folders stuffed full of certificates. “You can’t.”

But I can’t help staring at it a few moments longer before pushing the drawer closed. I can’t help wondering if the entries would piece together the Jessica I know: the model daughter, everyone’s favorite darling, success incarnate. Or if they’re anything like the comment on her test paper: bitter, brutal, brimming with rage.





Five




I go to sleep that night in someone else’s body, in someone else’s bed. When I open my eyes again, nothing’s changed. The sun is streaming in thick through the curtains. I reach out, stretch, and my hands brush over Jessica’s silk blankets, her clothes, her bedside lamp.

“Oh my god,” I whisper.

It definitely wasn’t a dream, then.

I leap to my feet, and instead of horror, I feel nothing but wild, heady relief—then a twist of guilt at just how deep my relief is, how glad I am to still be Jessica. It’s only temporary, I remind myself sternly. It’s only until you manage to find your cousin again.

But even that can’t ruin my mood.

Everything is more familiar the second time around. I zip up her plaid skirt, smooth out her blazer, tug on her white ankle socks, and this time I even think to brush my hair back in Jessica’s signature high ponytail. I find the expensive facial toner she keeps on her bathroom shelf and smear on her pink lip tint. Then I look into the mirror, and recall all those fleeting moments when I was myself and I’d catch my own reflection in the dark window of a store or a passing bus, and think, I could be beautiful, I could be everything I ever wanted. I could be like Jessica Chen. I’d even imagine my features smoothing out into Jessica’s, my lashes lengthening, my skin softening, my lips curving up. But then the moment would pass, and the light would shift, and I would be left with nothing once again.