I Am Not Jessica Chen(34)
“Well then, this isn’t up to your usual standards, Jessica,” Ms. Lewis says, keeping her voice low. “I know some students like to let themselves go toward the end of their final semester. . . .” She peers sternly down at me over her glasses, and out of nowhere, I remember the story my mother used to tell me about Sun Wukong, the monkey king from the myths, crushed under the weight of mountains for centuries. It’s hard to breathe. “That’s not what’s happening here, is it?”
“Of course not,” I whisper.
“I certainly hope not,” she tells me, patting my arm. “You’re the best student I have, Jessica. I would hate to be disappointed.”
I can’t muster a response, so I just nod and turn back to my desk. As I do, a terrible thought dawns on me: that failure is permanent, but success is always fleeting, it always happens in the past tense.
Jessica’s Harvard acceptance only came in last week. In the test before this one, and the one before that, she had received a perfect score. But already I can feel the significance of it fading, the light winking out like a passing comet, there and then gone behind the trees, lost to obscurity. It’s not enough to be perfect at one precise moment in time—to stun those around you, to grasp the lightning when it strikes, to move across a stage and gather all the accolades in your arms like fresh roses.
You have to prove yourself over and over, and when the glory for your most recent achievement expires, as it must, as it always will, you have to start again, but with more eyes trained on you, more people waiting for the day when your talent withers, and your discipline weakens, and your charm wears away. Success is only meant to be rented out, borrowed in small doses at a time, never to be owned completely, no matter what price you’re willing to pay for it.
Suddenly I feel suffocated, as though I really am trapped beneath mountains, struck down by the gods. I want to escape this classroom, this school. I want to leave this town behind me in the dust and run for miles and miles.
I want to paint, to smear oils over a canvas, but I haven’t held a brush since my last night as Jenna Chen.
The second I’m seated, someone taps my shoulder. It’s Cathy.
“How did you do?” she asks me.
I manage to smile. “All right.”
“Just all right? I’m sure you did great.”
She wants the actual score. Of course she does; I don’t think Cathy Liu is physically capable of restraining herself from asking about other people’s scores, no matter how unwilling they are to share. There was a rumor going around that she keeps a secret spreadsheet on everyone’s grades across all her subjects, and that it’s more comprehensive than what some teachers have.
I make sure my test paper is fully face down on my desk, so she can’t see, and flatten my hands over my lap. Suppress the violent urge to shred my test into pieces. “It was okay,” I tell her.
“So, like, ninety-nine percent, then?” she guesses.
I say nothing.
“Ninety-eight?” Her dark brown eyes search my face with anticipation. “Ninety-seven? It must be above ninety-six at the very least—”
“Hey, could you give my friend some space?” Celine interrupts, throwing her a look so disdainful even I feel like withering under it. It’s a look that says Know your place.
And Cathy does. She shrivels up at once and retreats back to her desk without another word.
“I swear, that girl cannot go a day without trying to cozy up to you,” Celine mutters to me under her breath. “I bet she was planning to start bragging about her own score next. It’s literally embarrassing how eager she is to impress.”
Despite myself, I feel a faint jolt of pity. I wonder if that’s how Celine saw me, when I was myself: always on the sidelines, trying to cling to Leela and Jessica, to climb higher than I deserved to be. But before I can decide whether to thank Celine or defend Cathy, I’m distracted by the soft creak and click of the door. Leela’s slipped out of the classroom.
Nobody else seems to have noticed; they’re all busy fussing over their scores, complaining over the questions they misread, the half point they shouldn’t have lost. But something’s wrong. It’s a feeling more than a knowing.
“Where’s Leela headed off to?” I ask Celine.
“Probably the bathroom.” She shrugs. “She always goes to the bathroom at this time of the day on the dot. Her biological cycle is like a robot’s.”
That might be true, but I still feel a pang of unease in my stomach. “Well, I’m going too,” I say.
“Be quick,” Celine calls after me. “We’re looking over the answers soon.”
The hallway is quiet when I step out. It doesn’t take long for me to spot Leela standing alone at the very end of it, her head bowed, her paper crumpled in one hand. Her shoulders are trembling.
Then she seems to hear me approaching, and stiffens. Wipes furiously at her cheeks. Hides the test behind her back like it’s something criminal.
“I was just getting some fresh air,” she tells me, her voice scratchy even as she shoots me an almost-convincing smile.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods, nods so quickly her ponytail whips around. “Yeah. Of course, silly.”
I pause, confused by her reluctance, the wariness in her gaze. As if I’m someone to be guarded against, rather than someone to confide in. No matter what it was, Leela Patel would always find me first when something went wrong. I’ve listened to her sob uncontrollably over the phone after breaking up with her first boyfriend, after fighting with her mother, after missing the last entry spot for the computer science camp she’d had her eyes on for years. In comparison, this should be nothing.