I Am Not Jessica Chen(4)

The shock of seeing him here in Jessica’s living room—lovely and real and unexpected—today, of all days, feels like a punch in the face. My skin burns, and it takes an impossible degree of self-restraint not to flee in the opposite direction.

“Aaron Cai,” Jessica says unnecessarily, gesturing between the two of us as though it’s our first time meeting, when I’ve known him all my life. His father is best friends with my dad, and my family had invited them to move closer to us, after his mother passed and his father stopped cleaning, stopped cooking, stopped almost everything. I can’t even imagine a world where I don’t know him, where I wouldn’t pass him ready-made lunches before school, where the three of us didn’t spend our childhood summers hanging around on Jessica’s porch together, sharing chocolate pies and staring at the stars when darkness fell.

“You haven’t changed much,” Aaron says, stopping a foot away.

The heat in my skin rises. I know he probably doesn’t mean it like an insult, but after our last mortifying exchange, I’d made it a mission to change myself. To metamorphize into someone gorgeous and glamorous and inimitable. Sometimes at night, I’d envision our next meeting. How his eyes would widen at the sight of me. How he’d eat his words, regret everything.

But today is starting to feel like a cruel lesson in the difference between imagination and real life.

“Neither have you,” I reply, though when it comes to him, this is a compliment. When you’re so widely known and loved, so soaked in glory you’re swimming in it, all you have to worry about is maintenance, not metamorphosis.

“Aaron finished his program early,” Jessica explains. “He’s going to spend the rest of his senior year back here with us. Isn’t that great?”

“Oh” is all I can think to say.

Aaron hesitates, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a single pen. “As promised,” he says, holding it up to me.

I freeze. The pen is intricately designed, plated in rose gold, with a delicate flower charm dangling from the end, the petals carved out of crystals. He remembered. My throat burns with the knowledge, every moment from our past coalescing into the present. We were only twelve when he made the promise. He and Jessica had been selected to attend a math tournament in New York, and even though I’d tried to act like I didn’t care that I hadn’t even been considered for it, he must have seen the disappointment on my face.

I’ll bring something back for you, he’d said, smiling, tugging lightly at my hair. What do you want?

Nothing, I’d mumbled.

He’d cast me a knowing look. You always want something.

I wanted to go with him. I wanted to be on his team. I wanted to be smart like him and Jessica.

How about a new paint set? he’d suggested. You’ve been drawing a lot, haven’t you? A good artist needs good supplies.

That was the first time anyone had ever acknowledged that I was good at something, and so casually too, like it was obvious. Warmth curled inside my chest. I have enough paints—I just want a pen, I had told him. It was a small lie. My paints had almost run out, but a pen seemed like a much simpler and cheaper option, something he could find without trouble. I can use it for my sketches.

But when he returned, he gave me one of the fanciest fountain pens I’d ever seen, the kind a queen might use to sign her letters. From then on, every time he had to leave for a competition or debating camp or a school excursion, he would come back with a new pen just for me.

As I take the gift from him now, I’m tempted to laugh at myself. An entire fortress, built painstakingly over the year in his absence, threatening to crumble at the light touch of a pen. Zhen mei chuxi. The familiar phrase of disdain echoes inside my head. It’s what my mom would say whenever I was being slightly pathetic, like when I’d beg her to buy ice cream for me at the mall, or when I’d cry over a tiny scratch on my hand. “I . . . thank you, Cai Anran,” I say, his Chinese name falling a little too easily from my lips.

“You really didn’t need to bring so many presents for all of us,” Jessica adds.

It’s only then that I notice the boxes of dark chocolate and bottles of fish oil supplements laid out on the couch. My stomach sinks. He’d remembered his promise, but I had forgotten that Aaron Cai has a dangerous way of making everyone feel special.

I can sense Aaron’s gaze on me when he says, “It’s no big deal. Both your parents and Jenna’s parents have been so nice to me—I mean, you’re even letting me impose on your family dinner.”

“Are you kidding? The more people the better, especially for hot pot.” Jessica shakes her dark, glossy hair out as she laughs.

I breathe through the wire coiling around my ribs, feeling the same way I had the morning they left for the math tournament, my feet rooted to the spot, my eyes following their tall, graceful, receding figures to the bus, the distance between us drawing wider and wider. They’ve always looked like they belong next to each other.

Then Jessica whirls toward me, her skirt fanning out in a perfect circle. “Oh! We prepared that extra spicy sauce you like. I asked Ma and Ba to put it in a separate pot for you, though, since Aaron wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

Another thing about my cousin: she’s as naturally kind as she is talented. Sometimes—and I know it’s awful—I almost wish she were a terrible person. Someone undeserving of her success. Someone I could hate without feeling like the villain.