I Am Not Jessica Chen(30)

Jessica!!! I always knew you’d make it big! Just wanted to send a quick note and say I’m SO proud to know you!



It is a great pleasure to inform you that you have been awarded the National Merit Scholarship . . .



Subject: Media Request. My name is Samuel Richards, and I write for Business Insider. I was incredibly impressed to hear about everything you’ve accomplished at such a young age—perhaps most notably, the five million dollars you raised for your global education campaign. Because of this, I wanted to reach out and ask to interview you for the next issue . . .





I stop scrolling and lean back against the couch, catching my breath, overwhelmed by the sheer weight and scope of her achievements. I’d heard somewhere that the imagination is always limited by experience, and that must be true, because no matter how I stretched my mind, I would never even have dared imagine such success.

Then a new email pops up. There’s no heading, no sign-off, only one sentence.

I know what you’ve done.





The world sinks beneath my feet. I drop the rest of the scone back onto the tray and read the email again. My pupils shrink down until all I can see is the black text creeping across the screen. I know what you’ve done. I know.

It feels like my scalp is trying to crawl off my skull.

With shaking fingers, I click into the sender’s details, but it’s anonymous. Just like the person who nominated me for the award.

The little food I’ve eaten threatens to lurch back up. I swallow hard, draw in a tight breath, even though it fails to fill my lungs. A clock ticks from the mantel. The wooden boards of the back porch creak. The silence in the house takes shape until it’s impossible to distinguish the vibrations of the air from the high-pitched ringing in my ears.

What do they know? Who is the email really addressed to? My cousin? Or have they already found out that I’m an imposter, that I’m only wearing her appearance and her reputation like a stolen crown? And if it is meant for me, and they have found out—how? Was it because of my mistake in physics? Or was it something else? Have they been watching me at school?

Could they be watching me now?

Goose bumps break out all over my body. I jerk my head toward the closest window, but all I can see is the burnt orange of flowers, the spreading claws of the trees, the pale yellow light piercing through the gaps in the leaves. Then the clouds shift to cover the sun, and my reflection falls over the darkened glass. Jessica’s perfect, angelic face stares back at me, her large eyes filled with my horror.





Seven




In my old life, when everything was terrible and nothing I did felt meaningful, I would always torment myself by imagining Jessica’s daily routine. But for the past two weeks, I no longer had to imagine; I could directly compare my routine to hers.

My mornings as myself: wake up to the hostile blare of the alarm. Bury my head in my blankets and press snooze. Repeat until the snooze button gets tired of me. Eventually, find the inner strength to stagger like a resurrected corpse into the bathroom.

My mornings as Jessica: wake up to bright golden air, the open sky beyond the window, somehow already energized. Hum under my breath as I slip into my satin bathrobe and silk slippers. Admire my perfect reflection in the mirror and wonder how it’s scientifically possible for a person to not have pores.

Lunch, as myself: wolf down a soggy chicken sandwich and retreat into the shadows of the bike shed, my sketchbook hugged to my chest. Watch Jessica and Leela and Celine from a distance as they laugh together on the lawn, swallow the lump in my throat.

Lunch, as Jessica: lie down in the very center of the school lawn, soaking up the sun, while people like Cathy watch from a distance, desperate to be closer. Catch up with Leela and Celine on the latest gossip. Catch the eye of some beautiful boy passing by.

My evenings as myself: take a hasty shower before collapsing on the couch next to my parents with a bowl of sliced apples, squinting at the light from my phone. Flick through photos and videos of strangers having the best night of their lives, showing off their six-figure brand deals, their shiny new cars, their prestigious art awards, their friends’ yachts.

My evenings as Jessica: take a hot bath infused with roses and expensive oils. Wander around the mansion, where every room smells like the magnolias lining the front yard, sweet and clean. Slide into bed and marvel at how different two lives can be.

But Jessica Chen’s routine isn’t just different from mine—it’s also utterly overwhelming. I’d thought that my schedule was already intense, but Jessica’s chosen the hardest subjects the school has to offer, and her interests just happen to lean in the opposite direction of mine; instead of history, geography, and art, she’s taking chemistry, college-level statistics, and computer science. I find myself rushing from class to unfamiliar class, my anxiety climbing in steady increments with each assignment introduced and each test announced, the work piling up in impossible amounts. It’s just one thing after another after another; it feels like I’m being chased. I can’t slow down, I can only go faster. By the time I get home, the pressure in my skull is so intense I’m gripped by the very real fear that my brain might explode.

Then there are my self-assigned readings.

In the limited spare moments I can squeeze out of my day, I slip into the library, past the filling tables, to the shadowed corners at the very back, where you can find rare, leather-bound books from decades ago, though few students ever try. I haven’t received any new mysterious messages since last week, but the sick, paranoid feeling in my stomach hasn’t abated—it’s only spread. Every time I catch a classmate’s eye, bump into someone in the corridor, I have to suppress a flinch. Do you know? The question bubbles up in my mind like bile. Was it you? Can you tell that I’m not her?