I Am Not Jessica Chen(37)

I remember the tears shining on Leela’s cheeks, the way she’d hidden her test behind her, and my gut clenches. To avoid answering right away, I pick at a piece of the fried crab dish and suck on the shell.

Both my uncle and auntie’s eyes widen.

“What are you doing?” Auntie asks shrilly.

I’m so startled I flinch. Drop my chopsticks. Blink up at her pale face. My immediate assumption is that this is about the grades, but then my auntie shoots to her feet and—in what I register as a very random, bizarre thing to do—points a shaking finger at the crab.

“How much did you eat?”

“What?”

“How much?”

“I—just that bite—”

“Go rinse your mouth,” she demands. “And eat your medicine. Right now.”

Medicine? What medicine?

Auntie’s features twist with urgency. “Don’t just stand there! Hurry.”

It’s primarily out of confusion that I obey, my feet moving for me while my brain remains at a standstill. Only when I’ve reached the bathroom and rinsed my mouth twice and glimpsed my reflection in the mirror do I realize what’s wrong.

A horrified gasp tears through my teeth.

Red welts have started to swell up all over my neck and cheeks, marring Jessica’s otherwise smooth skin. Crabmeat. I’d been so caught up in the ominous message and her grades that I’d forgotten one very critical piece of information: Jessica Chen is allergic to seafood.

And as if I’m in need of any further evidence, my whole face starts to itch.

“Crap,” I mutter, fumbling around her cupboards for the medicine with one hand while scratching furiously at my skin with the other. In my panic, I send pretty little tubes of face wash and scented soaps and unopened lipsticks tumbling to the ground. The more I scratch, the more it itches, as if I’m driving the sensation deeper into my body.

Finally my fingers close around a white bottle. I check the label, twist the cap open, pour two pills out onto my palm, and swallow them without any water. Then I dig my nails into the flesh of my face, waiting—praying—for the medicine to kick in.

“Jessica?” Two fast knocks on the bathroom door. Auntie’s voice. “Jessica? Do you need me to come in?”

“No,” I say quickly. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Do we need to take you to the hospital? I’ll ask your father to start the car—”

“No,” I repeat. Breathe in. Check my reflection again. It’s hard to be certain in the bright yellow wash of the bathroom lights, but the hives seem to have faded a little. It also no longer feels like there are angry poisonous ants crawling over my skin—now they’re just plain ants.

Three more deep breaths, and then even the ants disappear.

When I crack open the door, Auntie seizes my shoulders and heaves out a long breath of relief.

“What were you thinking?” she asks. “You’ve always been so careful.”

“I just got distracted, I guess,” I say weakly.

She frowns but doesn’t pursue the subject. Nor does she bring up the politics test again. “Come on,” she tells me. “Let’s go down to finish dinner. You barely ate anything.”

But I don’t feel hungry. Not for the food waiting for me downstairs, anyway. What I want is my mom’s cooking. The tender pork ribs and seaweed we’d dip into soy sauce. The vegetable rolls she’d steam herself using white flour and scallions. The rich egg-and-tomato soup she’d serve with rice. The congee she’d make for me when I was sick, the tendrils of dried pork floss she’d sprinkle on top, the scattering of white sesame. When I was younger, I would secretly look forward to catching a cold, because I knew it meant she would let me stay in my bedroom and doodle all day, and she would bring the bowl of steaming congee and a plate of peeled pears and apples. . . .

Stop. I force the thought aside, ignore the ache lodged inside my chest like a blunt arrowhead, the urge to call my parents, to talk to them. I can’t simply let nostalgia distort my memories, erase those dinners where the pork ribs and soup went untouched because I was sulking over one of Jessica’s accomplishments.

“I’ve finished dinner,” I say, summoning a smile to my lips. “I think I’m just going to go study.”

Auntie hesitates, then nods. “All right. Tell us if you have any other symptoms—your dad and I are both flying out tomorrow and we aren’t coming back until the seventeenth, but we can cancel our trip.”

“Hang on . . . the seventeenth?” I echo. “What’s the date today?”

“The thirteenth. Why?”

My heart clenches. I should have remembered what today is. What it means to Aaron.

It’s his mother’s death anniversary.

His father wouldn’t be home. He seldom is, and especially not this evening. Five years ago, on the same date, he’d gone missing for as long as three weeks. Disappeared without a note, without leaving anything in the fridge, no money on the counter, not even an emergency number. Aaron had hidden it from all of us until I noticed that he wasn’t bringing lunch to school.

“Just asking,” I say. “Don’t worry about me. Everything’s good here.”



Once my aunt is gone, I slip into Jessica’s bedroom, letting the door swing shut. My eyes find the ever-growing pile of homework papers and textbooks waiting ominously on the desk. If I want to keep up Jessica’s grades, redeem myself after the ninety-one percent, I should really spend the night studying. It’s what Jessica would do. It’s what a perfect student would do.