I Am Not Jessica Chen(41)

“You can’t be sure of that,” Leela protests. “Look at the water. If there were snakes, we wouldn’t be able to see them, now would we?”

We both look—Celine, just to humor her, and me, because I secretly share her fear. Venomous snakes might not be first on my list of concerns, but they’re definitely on it.

The lake waits ahead of us, the surface as dark as the clouded sky, revealing nothing of its depths. The little light that touches the edges is instantly dispersed by the rippling waves. Celine turns away after a brief moment, but my gaze lingers. Water is one of the most difficult things to paint because it’s always moving, always shifting shapes; because it cannot exist separately from its surroundings. I couldn’t paint the lake without capturing the cluster of bellflowers growing over the banks, or the reflections of students warming up and gathering their towels in their arms, huddling together to escape the cold. And to get the colors right, I would need to mix indigo with Aegean and spruce and find a darker shade for the shadows—

“I still doubt there are snakes,” Celine says contemplatively. “Maybe dead bodies, though.”

“Celine.” Leela glares at her.

“Or friendly mermaids,” she compromises. “Happy?”

“Not at all.”

“What are you so worked up over?” Celine asks. “Jessica will test out the waters for you. She’s getting in first.”

“Yeah. Can’t wait,” I say as I shrug off my school shirt until I’m standing in my swimsuit. The freezing air shocks me, nipping at the skin on my bare arms. In all the years I’ve been here, I’ve managed to skip the swimming carnival due to a feigned stomach bug or fever or mysterious skin rash that magically faded by the next day. I wasn’t even close enough to the lake to see who was swimming—exactly the way I liked it.

It’s not just that I detest swimming. I’m one of the only people in my class who had to take the school’s water safety program three times before they let me pass, and that was with the recommendation that I actively avoid large bodies of water.

But Jessica is one of the school’s star swimmers, and it’s basically tradition by this point for her to swim the first and longest race.

“Speaking of,” Celine says, “you should head down now, Jessica.” She points to the lake, where the school’s swim coach is barking out instructions. “Look, the other swimmers are already lined up.”

I take a deep breath and tuck my ponytail under my uncomfortably tight latex cap.

Leela glances over at me and pauses, her eyes widening. “Wow.”

“What?”

“No, I’m just impressed by how good you look with the swimming cap on. It makes everyone else look bald. But on you . . . it’s basically high fashion,” she gushes. “It really brings out the color of your eyes.”

I’d think she was being ironic, but as I tread over the grass and join the other swimmers, I catch a glimpse of myself in the dark shine of their goggles. Incredibly, I do look good; with my hair pulled back, my cheekbones are more prominent than ever, my neck as elegant as a swan’s.

Then I stare ahead. Four parallel diving boards have been suspended over the lake. The wood is rough and freezing under my bare feet as I walk slowly to the end of the board like someone walking the plank, scared I’ll slip and fall off before the race has even started.

“Get ready,” the swim coach calls, his voice rolling over the water.

In my peripheral vision, I watch the swimmers lower themselves with expert precision, their arms stretched out in a perfect line, the starting position I never learned. Just when I’m imagining myself tumbling headfirst into the lake, Jessica’s muscle memory kicks in: my own arms seem to extend on their own, my toes inching toward the edge of the board, my calf muscles steadying me when I lean forward. It’s like magic. It is magic.

A chorus of excited shouts sound from the banks.

“Let’s go, Jessica!”

“You’ve got this.”

“We’re all cheering for you!”

“Oh my god, oh my god—Jessica’s race is starting.”

“Damn, she looks ready.”

Warmth shoots through my veins the same time adrenaline does. I feel like everything I wasn’t: strong, capable, athletic. My fingers flex. My breathing quickens with anticipation. Maybe I could actually win this.

“Set,” the swim coach says.

A shift in movement around me. A collective inhale. One final breath.

“Go.”

I kick off from the board—there’s a heartbeat’s moment where it seems I’m weightless, where I’ve escaped gravity itself. Then my hands pierce through the surface, and the water rushes in around me. It’s even colder than the air, but the cold feels separate from my body, from the heat in my limbs.

And then I start swimming.

Though I might not be, Jessica’s body has been trained for this. Her lungs expand as I dive deeper, and when I come up for air, the oxygen slides sweetly through my teeth in the half second before I go down again. Her arms slice expertly through the white spray. Each powerful kick propels me farther and farther away from the other swimmers; I can hear them splashing behind me, sense the quick, frantic bursts of movement through the ripples. Nothing can stop me. Nobody can beat me. I swim on and on, sleek as an otter, the water parting with every stroke.