I Am Not Jessica Chen(29)
“Hi,” I say brightly, leaning against the kitchen cabinet. “It’s Jessica Chen here—”
“Ah, looking for an afternoon snack again?” The voice is warm, as if recounting a familiar joke. “I’ll get Pete to deliver your usual order—he’ll be thrilled to make the trip, I’m sure. Should only take ten minutes.”
“That would be great,” I tell him, relieved and slightly amazed that he already knows what Jessica would want. I’d been going to the same café down the corner from my house for seven years straight and ordering the same thing each time—a blueberry muffin and lemon tea. But when I’d tried to ask for my usual, the owner had only fixed me with a blank stare. “Thank you so much.”
“Always my pleasure. Have a lovely day, Miss Jessica.”
The doorbell sounds before I’ve even finished unpacking my schoolbag. A breeze kisses my cheek when I open the door, letting in the light and the boy waiting outside. He looks my age, with rumpled gold hair and emerald eyes and perfect teeth, the kind of conventionally attractive guy you would notice from a distance.
“Hey, Jessica,” he says. He sets down the giant ribbon-wrapped white box in his arms, then holds up a bouquet of daisies. “These are, um, for you.” Color spreads fast through his neck as his eyes flicker to my face, then away, like he’s scared of being caught.
“For me?” I repeat, breathing in the flowers’ fragrance. The daisies appear to have been hand-picked, bound together with string, a card tied to the end. A phone number is scrawled over it, the first few digits so lopsided I can imagine his hand shaking as he wrote them. My brows rise in disbelief. I’d always assumed that guys only acted this way in romance movies—then again, my cousin’s life has always been like a movie. “Wow, that’s so sweet,” I tell him, offering him a smile.
“I—I’m glad you like them,” he stammers. “I wasn’t sure what your favorite flower was, and I saw last time I was here that you already had magnolias in your driveway—I mean, not that I was, like, actively taking note of it in a creepy way or anything. . . . Okay,” he cuts himself off, his whole face such a bright, vivid red I could match the shade to one of my oil paints. “Okay, yeah, I’m going to go now. Enjoy your meal.”
He appears dazed as he steps out into the front yard, spins back around, and promptly walks into a tree.
“Sorry,” he calls. I’m unsure if he’s talking to me, or the tree.
I feel a little dazed myself as I shut the door and pop the daisies into an empty vase. It’s silly, and it’s shallow, but it feels good to be wanted. To be so openly adored. I can’t stop smiling while I unwrap the ribbons around the box, the cool silk sliding like water between my fingers.
Jessica’s usual order is, apparently, an entire afternoon tea set: potato quiche and Parma rolls and hazelnut torte and butter scones with cream and glistening slices of fruit, and a papaya salad containing so many kinds of nuts and seeds it seems almost offensive to call it just a salad.
In the sitting room, I sink back into one of the massage chairs, transporting the tiered tray with all the exquisite bite-sized treats onto the armrest, and open Jessica’s laptop.
Time to focus.
After physics class and the Haven Awards announcement, I can’t allow for any cracks in my performance. I have to prove to myself that I can be Jessica, that perfection isn’t so far out of reach from me I can’t even emulate it properly. But there’s more at stake than my pride—if people find out that I’m a fraud in Jessica’s body, who knows what they’ll do? They could lock me up, or report me to the police for identity theft, or maybe they’ll make a movie about it: the mysterious case of the missing cousin. Even if we were to eventually return to our own bodies, it wouldn’t just be my life that’s forever altered—it would be Jessica’s too. I can’t do that to her.
No, I have to make sure nobody finds any reason to doubt me. And that means controlling every detail possible—including Jessica’s emails.
I smear the clotted cream thick over the scones and take a large bite, the pastry soft and piping hot in the center and crumbling instantly in my mouth, then click into her inbox.
Right away, a flood of emails come through. Between the reminders about the swimming carnival coming up in two weeks, the automated responses from school reception, and the increasingly desperate reminders to fill out the student feedback survey, it’s all just award after award, praise after praise, the world’s greatest news distilled into text on the screen.
Dear Jessica, I am delighted to inform you that the Admissions Committee has voted to admit you to the Harvard Class . . .
Congratulations, Jessica! In recognition of your commitment to excellence, we are delighted to present you with the Katelyn Edwards Award. You will receive a cash prize of ten thousand dollars . . .
Subject: Some absolutely amazing news! Huge congrats!!!
Dear Jessica, As a highly valued member of the Havenwood student community, your experience matters. That’s why we would like to warmly invite you to fill out the following questions—
Wait. No. That one’s still the feedback survey.
I’m thrilled to be sending along this early offer from the Dean’s Institute. The selection process this year was the most competitive yet, with only two candidates selected out of the thirty thousand who applied . . .