I Am Not Jessica Chen(25)

But even the kids pretending not to care immediately stiffen when the classroom door creaks open and Ms. Lewis steps out. She’s probably been at Havenwood the longest of all the teachers—someone found a sepia-toned staff photo of her in the school archives, back when there was still life in her eyes—and she’s always reminded me vaguely of a pencil, with her dyed black hair and long, angular limbs and ankle-length skirts.

“Line up in alphabetical order, please,” she croaks, consulting the list in her hand. “First up: Hannah Anderson . . .” One by one, she goes through the names. “Audrey Brown. Aaron Cai . . .”

I feel my heartbeat stutter as Aaron brushes past me and strides up to the front of the line. He’s shrugged free of his blazer and has on just the plain white collared shirt, his tie loose and askew, his sleeves rolled up casually to his elbows. His expression is bored, his hands empty. He might be the only person here who’s actually calm about the test—but that’s because he’s the kind of genius everyone at Havenwood is either aspiring or pretending to be. The kind of genius who has it easy, who doesn’t even have to study to get a perfect score.

Ms. Lewis moves further down the list and pauses at the next name. “Jenna Chen.” It’s not a question. Without even glancing around, she scribbles something down.

My pulse ticks faster. “Excuse me, Ms. Lewis?” I venture.

She lifts her head. “Yes?”

“Sorry, I just . . . is Jenna Chen not here?” Obviously she isn’t. But I have no idea what that means for the school.

“She’s absent,” she tells me.

“Absent? Do you know where she’s gone?”

And just like yesterday, with my mom, her eyes go hazy. Unfocused. Like someone has painted over her thoughts with a white brush. “She’s away until further notice,” she says in a dreamy, distant voice. Then she focuses on the next name—Jessica’s name—and it’s like nothing’s happened. Everything goes on as usual: the students stamping their feet, the after-rain chill clinging to the air, some girl panicking in the back about forgetting to bring a highlighter.

But all the hairs on my neck stand up.

“I guess she’s really not coming to school anymore,” Aaron murmurs as I move into place behind him.

“No. Guess she’s not.”

His brows furrow slightly. Then he stares down at my hands; without meaning to, I’ve been shaking my pen between two fingers. A nervous habit of mine, not Jessica’s. I force my hands to still, but he’s already seen it. “Stressed?” he asks.

“Only a little,” I lie.

In an even voice, he says, “Jenna was always doing that when she was stressed too.”

“W-what?”

“The thing with the pen.”

“Oh really?” I cough. “I must’ve picked it up from her then.”

A lie. I remember sitting in the desk behind Aaron all those years ago, watching him spin his pen with the tips of his fingers while the teacher droned on and on at the whiteboard. You think it makes you look so cool, Cai Anran, I’d scoffed at him. To which he’d only grinned. You try it then, he challenged.

I did try, but to my great humiliation and his amusement, I could only manage a pathetic wobbling motion. He’d laughed so hard the teacher had stopped midlecture and glared at us. I’d gone home that night and spent hours practicing, but in the end I never did master it properly.

“Please take your seats,” Ms. Lewis instructs, snapping me back to the present. The test. Jessica’s life. “Keep quiet, and don’t pick up your pens until I say so.”

As we shuffle inside in silence, Ms. Lewis offers me a special little smile, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. “Good luck, Jessica,” she whispers. “I know you’ll get one hundred percent, as always.”

It should be a compliment, but somehow it feels more like a heavy mallet to the chest, crushing all the air in my lungs. It’s Jessica she has faith in—not me. I nod weakly and wipe my clammy palms against my skirt.

The classroom has already been rearranged, the test papers placed face down on each individual desk, a pitcher of water prepared up front next to a box of tissues. The reading and writing times have all been copied out on the board, starting from now and split up into ten-minute intervals.

I sit down. The air feels very cold and compact, and I’m sharply aware of everyone else around me. Celine, crossing one leg over another and squinting at the paper as if to try and see through it, her dark hair falling against her cheeks. Leela, pushing her thick ponytail from one shoulder to the other and back again. Aaron, leaning back in his chair, his eyes straight ahead, the line of his mouth confident, bored, beautiful.

Focus.

I take off my blazer with its stiff fabric and shining badges and shift forward a few inches, like someone about to start a race. All the names and key figures and dates fly around inside my head in a frenzy.

I am Jessica Chen, I remind myself, breathing in, even as doubt scratches the back of my mind. I am so smart it scares people. I am everything my parents hoped for, everything I used to envy. I am, I am, I am.

But I don’t feel like Jessica. I don’t feel smart or capable or even remotely confident. I feel more like I’m wearing a beautiful rented ballgown that’s a few sizes too small. Beneath the pearls and the silk, it’s the same. It’s just me.