I Am Not Jessica Chen(38)

But my gaze slides past all the schoolwork and lands on Jessica’s phone.

I don’t have to search the contacts for his number; I’ve had it memorized for years. As I lie back on the bed and wait for Aaron to pick up, a series of memories flickers through my mind: Aaron, that first awful year after his mother had passed from her sudden heart condition, still only a child and so quiet it made people nervous. The counselor the school had arranged for, reporting back to my mom because his own father wasn’t around. . . . It would be much less concerning if he threw a tantrum. But he doesn’t even cry. He doesn’t want to talk about it at all. I’m concerned his emotions are going to consume him from within. The Mother’s Day after that, all the kids showing off their caramel cookies and illustrated cards, while Aaron kept himself distant from them, sitting back, the lines of his face hard. Already, he’d perfected his mask of boredom.

Nobody else connected the dots when he signed himself up for a first-aid course the summer after his mother passed, when he memorized the fastest route to the hospital from every major road and fastidiously refilled their supply of medicine every year, just in case of another emergency. Nobody else seemed to notice how he’d tense whenever someone complained about chest pain or feeling lightheaded, how he’d spend his spare time reading up on every documented illness while other boys his age were partying or playing video games.

“Yes?” Aaron’s voice.

Even though I was the one who called, I still feel my pulse jump slightly. I’m used to thinking about him; I’m not used to actually reaching him. “Hi,” I say. “Are you busy?”

“Not really.” He sounds guarded. Almost suspicious. “Is something up?”

“Oh, no, I just . . .” I pause. I can hardly say the truth, that I was worried about him, that I know how much this day affects him even though he’ll never admit it, and the only reason I know is because I’ve been watching him and wanting him in silence for years. No, I definitely can’t say that. But there is something I can ask him about—something I actually need to find out. “I was wondering if you saw anyone move my test today.”

“Your test?”

“Yeah. For politics. I’d left it on the desk, and when I came back . . .” The image of the note unfolds inside my head, as clearly as if I were holding it up in front of me. Not so perfect, are you? “I don’t know. It looked like someone had gone through it while I was outside.”

“You’re scared someone saw your score?” he asks. “I would have thought you’d love for people to find out your score.”

I’m grateful he can’t see my expression. “Maybe not everyone is a show-off like you.”

“Fair enough,” he says dryly. But for the first time since he picked up, there’s a hint of amusement to his tone too. “Well, I wasn’t paying attention to your desk the entire time, but nobody crossed the room. So if someone did sneak a glance at your test, I suppose they would have been sitting near you.”

Sitting near me. Celine’s face flashes through my thoughts. The look in her eyes when she found out I’d been accepted at Harvard. The edge to her smile.

My heart thuds. The only other person sitting at our table was Leela, and even if I hadn’t been outside with her, I knew she’d never do something like that. But Celine—the girl who intimidates everyone, who only speaks to those she deems worthy of her attention, who I was barely acquainted with as Jenna . . .

“Hello?” Aaron prompts. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” I say, rolling over to cover my stomach with one corner of the blanket. “Sorry, just thinking.”

“Does it really bother you that much? If someone saw?”

“It’s a matter of principle.” I’m omitting the real truth, but this is true too. “It’s such an underhanded move.”

“You’re right,” he says. “Unfortunately, it’s the Havenwood spirit. I never did understand why everyone here is so weird about their studies. All the constant competing and comparing—it must require an incredible amount of energy.”

Despite myself, I snort.

“What?”

“Of course you wouldn’t get it,” I tell him. “You’ve never had to worry about your studies.”

“I’d never worry about anyone else’s studies,” he counters. “Which is what most people seem to do.” Then he pauses. “Is that the only reason you called? To ask about your test?”

“Yeah,” I reply, then realize he’s about to hang up. “Wait—no. Um, I still wanted to ask . . . I also needed . . .”

“What do you want, Jessica?”

I only want to distract you. I want to keep you company, so you don’t have the chance to feel lonely. Even if it means you’re annoyed with me. Even if I haven’t forgiven you yet for leaving.

“I wanted to ask . . .” I look around in desperation and spot a framed photo of the three of us on Jessica’s bookshelf. It had been Aaron’s twelfth birthday, and on my suggestion, my mom had taken us to the Imagine Your Future immersive theme park across town. Aaron is dressed up as a doctor, a faint smile on his lips. Jessica stands beside him in a businesswoman’s blazer and pencil skirt, staring calmly ahead. And I’m squashed in the middle in my painting apron, my hair a mess, my face turned away, self-conscious, because Aaron’s arm was around my shoulder. An unexpected pang hits my chest. It had been one of those rare days where everything went exactly the way I’d planned, where joy felt simple.