I Am Not Jessica Chen(35)

“You can tell me, you know,” I say slowly. “I’m here for you. Whatever it is.”

Surprise flashes through her features.

“Really,” I continue. Jessica would probably say something much more eloquent and profound, but I can only talk to her the way I know how. “I mean, I bet it can’t be that bad. You haven’t lost a million dollars, have you? Or murdered people? Or crashed a car through the principal’s office? Or led a donkey up to the school roof, like those guys did last year?”

She lets out a small snort. “No.”

“Then?”

“You . . . wouldn’t understand,” she murmurs, but her stance is softer, her hands lowering themselves to her sides.

“Try me,” I say gently. “I might understand more than you think.”

“It’s just . . .” She hesitates again. “It’s just . . . this test. I bombed it, as expected. Well, even more than expected, if you can believe it.”

You couldn’t have, is what I want to say, but I stop myself. I’ve had that line used on me enough times to realize it cuts more than it comforts. It’s such a familiar line of conversation I have it memorized. “I did so badly,” I would tell someone, to which they’d say, with a flippant air, “I’m sure it wasn’t bad—it’s not like it was below ninety,” which would render me humiliated and speechless, because it very often was.

So instead I just reply, “It’s only this one test. Mathematically speaking, it’s not enough to affect your average. Plus, we’ve all bombed at least one test before—it’s basically a rite of passage.”

There it is again: the surprise on her face, even more pronounced than before.

“Have you bombed a test before?” she asks with some skepticism.

“I . . .” I trail off. I want to tell her the truth, but I don’t want to lie as Jessica. “I’m familiar enough with disappointment” is what I settle on.

“But you’ve never felt this way, have you?”

“Felt what?”

“Like you’re constantly struggling.” She’s so quiet I have to read her lips to understand the words. “Like everyone is racing far ahead of you and you’re stuck in the same place, or worse—”

“Or slowing down?” I finish for her. “Trust me, I know the feeling.”

She stares up at me. “Really?”

I’ve never known anything else except this. “I told you.” I shrug. “Rite of passage. I’ll bet half the people in our class are thinking the same thing right now.”

“I doubt it. They’re all so smart—”

“You’re smart as well,” I cut in. Sometimes it seems like being called smart is the only compliment that matters at Havenwood. “Everyone knows it. Including the teacher. Remember the presentation you did last month? You literally got a standing ovation at the end like it was a film festival. I don’t think that ever happens, but it happened for you.”

“Okay, you’re just flattering me now,” she says, but she’s smiling a little, her eyes brighter, clearer. This feels so much closer to what I remember, to the way Leela acted around me, laid-back and honest and never afraid to be too sappy. I’ve missed it.

“You know what we should do?” I say, eager to make the moment last, to have my best friend back. “Let’s head down to the Owl after school.” I’m certain this will cheer her up—it’s the café where we would spend countless afternoons, racing to reserve the rose-patterned couches in the corner, ordering lemon teas so cold you could see our breath condensed against the glass and platters of fries the size of our head, dipping them in melted cheese and licking the salt and chicken grease from our fingers.

The tables were always decorated with antiques and misshapen mugs and glazed vases, and we’d bring our sketchbooks with us and draw until all the other customers had left. It was one of the few places where I could truly relax, where time didn’t seem to shrink, but to stretch out around us.

“The Owl?” Leela looks confused. “I thought you said it was too crowded. And the fries were too oily.”

I falter. “Oh. I mean, yeah, but . . .”

To my relief, the classroom door creaks open again, and Cathy skips down the hall toward us.

“What are you two doing out here?” she asks. Then she looks over at me, at Leela’s expression, the test she’s still holding, and seems to understand at once. “Ah. Didn’t get the score you wanted on the test?”

Before either of us can reply, Cathy addresses only Leela. “It’s okay if Jessica beat you.”

Leela’s smile drops completely.

“We should all be used to it by now, right?” Cathy goes on in a matter-of-fact tone. “Jessica is, like, on her own level. She’s basically a god, and gods don’t have any competition except themselves. It’s useless to get upset over it. My best tip? Just accept that she’s better than everyone and move on with your life. None of us can be her.”

This, I suppose, is a twisted form of praise. Yet all I can focus on is how Leela shuts down, shifts back, her fingers curling over the paper. All I feel is the slosh of ice water in my stomach, the sense that something is slipping away from me.