I Am Not Jessica Chen(28)
Her unwavering integrity.
Whoever nominated me for the award is out there, somewhere. And I can’t see them, but they can see me perfectly. I’ve always wanted that: to be looked up at, to be known by people I’ve never even spoken to before, to be special, distinct, standing up on the tallest, brightest platform. But only now do I realize that when you’re out in the open, alone under the lights, and everyone else is in the darkness, you make for such a terribly easy target.
Even after we leave the stuffy air of the hall, my head feels light, and my breathing is a little too quick, too unsteady.
Then it stops entirely when I notice the school photo hanging outside the hall.
The photo was taken two years ago, in celebration of Havenwood’s one-hundredth anniversary, and every single student had been forced out onto the lawn to pose. We’re all in our best uniforms, white socks and polished leather shoes, hair smoothed back from faces and stiff smiles. Jessica is standing in the front row, next to Aaron Cai, the sun coming in at the perfect angle. Seeing the two of them together is like seeing celebrities on TV; they’re larger than life, glowing, untouchable, the subject of everyone’s envy. It seems like the most natural thing in the world that they would belong beside each other. Nobody else could reach either of them.
Then there’s me at the back. Or at least, that’s where I’m supposed to be.
My heart hammers inside my chest.
Somehow, impossibly, my features have all been blurred. As if the photo were drawn using charcoal, and somebody had smudged a finger right over my face. If I hadn’t seen it before, I wouldn’t even know it was me. But it can’t be the photo quality itself. Everything else is clear as ever, of such high resolution I can see the glint of Cathy Liu’s silver earrings, the blue cut of Celine’s eyeliner, the loose button on Aaron’s school shirt.
“Jessica?” Celine glances back at me, brows raised in question, and I realize I’ve stopped walking completely.
“What’s wrong?” Leela pipes up, turning around to study the school photo too. “Did they photoshop an extra arm on someone again? You’d think they’d learn their lesson after that lawsuit three years ago.”
I shake my head, my throat tight. “Can you . . . can you see that?” I ask, pointing at my face. Jenna’s face.
Leela frowns and looks closer. She’s quiet for so long I almost forget how to breathe. “Who’s that meant to be?”
“Jenna,” I say. There’s a great roaring in my ears, my two selves and realities colliding; in the same instant, I feel something shift in the air, like the universe itself is a physical presence, watching from afar.
“Right . . .” Her frown deepens. “It’s weird, but I actually can’t remember what she looked like.”
“What?”
“Jenna Chen.” She says the name very slowly, as if she’s never said it before, as if unsure it’s the right one. “I can’t remember,” she says again, her voice more distant, her expression clouded over.
A slow chill spreads down my spine.
It’s quiet back in Jessica’s house. Her parents are out again, and everything is the same as it was this morning.
I stare around their luxurious kitchen, the porcelain dinner sets and marble countertops and modern glass lanterns suspended from the high ceiling, the house I’ve always dreamed of. Magnolia Cottage: even the name of it is like a place from a fantasy. A place of peace, without any disruptions or distractions.
Back in my house, there was always noise: my mother chopping up garlic in the kitchen, some kind of thriller movie playing in the background; my father listening to the news, repeating snippets to himself to improve his English. More often than not, one of us was complaining about the lack of space, the lack of silence. I remember trying to study for our politics test last semester, and my father practicing outside the door, murmuring over and over the new phrases he’d learned for the day, switching between tenses: This country . . . is beautiful. This country . . . was once beautiful. This country . . . could be beautiful.
My heart pinches. It already feels like forever since I heard my father’s voice.
But with that comes the memory of our last exchange—the disappointment in his eyes, the bitter accusation in his tone.
Look at your cousin Jessica.
He would be much happier to see me now, like this. The daughter he’s always wanted.
I circle the living room a few times before the tug of hunger in my gut pulls me back to the kitchen. There’s a thick leather-bound menu sitting next to the microwave. Phil’s Private Dining, it reads in gold-foil italic letters. I flip through pages and pages of glossy images of appetizers and stop when I reach the number at the bottom. Once, Jessica had flippantly mentioned that nobody in her family cooked, because either her parents brought food home, or they had their private chef deliver Michelin-star dishes straight to their house.
My brief moment’s hesitation is broken by the gurgling from my stomach. I enter the number into Jessica’s phone, double-checking it against the menu, then wait. It feels wildly overindulgent to order such fancy food for a snack, like buying a new fur coat just to wear it once, but it’s not like I’m doing anything Jessica wouldn’t. Really, when you think about it, I’m just staying in character.
After the second ring, a pleasant, polished male voice floats up from the speaker. “Good afternoon. This is Phil’s Private Dining. How can I help you?”