I Am Not Jessica Chen(42)

There’s no exhaustion dragging me back, only elation humming in my veins, pulling me forward, buoying me over the waves.

It turns out that I don’t detest swimming at all—I just detest being bad at things.

I’m the first to reach the end. When I break through the surface, drinking in the fresh air, blinking against the water in my eyes, I see them all gathered on the shores: my classmates, clapping, cheering, screaming my name.

“Jessica Chen. Jessica Chen. Jessica Chen.”

And I’m suddenly grateful for how similar our names sound, because it’s so easy to pretend—at least for a few golden, delirious, glory-soaked moments—that I’m really her, and it’s me that they’re all cheering for.



The best part about winning the first race—other than the winning itself, of course—is that I can simply stand by myself and watch everyone else for the rest of the carnival.

But I’m not left alone for long.

Aaron approaches in my peripheral vision. Like all the other guys who’ll be swimming later, he’s taken his shirt off—a fact that’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the closer he draws.

“Hello,” I say to a pebble on the ground, wrapping my towel tighter around my shoulders.

“Hi,” he says.

I make the mistake of glancing up and I’m instantly overwhelmed by flashes of dark hair, smooth skin, sculpted shoulders, sharp lines. I’m torn, trapped by the impulse to keep looking and the sense to look away before I betray myself.

“That was quite a race,” he comments. “Congratulations on the win.”

“Oh yeah, thank you,” I say, looking back down to continue my conversation with the pebble. “I mean, I’m definitely not surprised I won. I’m just so naturally athletic.”

“Right. That’s great.” He sounds distracted. “Hey, you haven’t seen or heard anything about Jenna, have you? She’s still missing, and nobody I’ve asked can tell me where she is. . . . It’s like she’s just vanished.”

“Jenna?” I repeat, lifting my head. I feel like I’m diving underwater again; everything else grows muted, blurry. “No. Sorry, I—I haven’t.”

“I’m getting worried.” His brows furrow slightly. “It doesn’t make sense for her to leave without warning.”

“Well, maybe she just doesn’t want to be found,” I tell him, and turn to go, eager to untangle myself from this conversation. I don’t want to think about my old self. I don’t want to think at all. I just want to play pretend a little longer, let my classmates come up to me with their pretty words of praise, linger in the lilac haze of my recent victory.

“Wait.” Aaron reaches out, his fingertips accidentally skimming over my damp hair, and my breath catches in my throat. It’s such a familiar sensation, the kind that drags you back through time, sweeps the ground out from under your feet. With a sudden ache, I remember all those evenings spent walking home after school, in the clear blue summer light, him following behind me. Whenever he was close enough, he would play with a stray strand of my hair, wrapping it around his ring finger, smiling with one corner of his mouth, and I would swat him away. Pretend to be annoyed. But secretly I would always slow my steps on purpose whenever I heard him coming, just so he could catch up. Just so he could tease me and laugh.

But instead of leaning closer, the way he would when he was with me, he drops his hand at once and steps back.

“What did you mean?” he presses, fixing me with a sharp, contemplative look, like he can see something invisible to everyone else, something beyond the overcast sky and pearl-gray lake water. “That she doesn’t want to be found? Do you know why she left? Did she tell you? Is she . . . is she angry at me?”

I swallow, my heart straining against my ribs. I should keep my jaw locked. Bury my secrets under my tongue. But instead I falter. Meet his questioning gaze, so heavy with worry, so sincere. And I miss—something. Maybe what we once were before, maybe the knowledge that when he used to look at me this way, he was seeing my face, not Jessica’s.

Tell him, a small voice inside my head whispers. Tell him the truth. It’s Aaron. You can trust him.

“I . . .” I lick my lips, tasting the lake on them. Overhead, the clouds have scattered, soft beams of yellow light falling over the rippling water, outlining the sides of Aaron’s face, so his skin appears almost to be glowing. Beautiful, distant, infuriating Aaron. The boy I would refuse to lend a pencil to, but who I would give up the world for, even after all this time.

Even after all this.

“What’s going on, Jessica?” he asks.

Not Is something going on? But What?

“If I tried to explain,” I say slowly, “would you really believe me?”

“Of course.”

“Even if it sounds ridiculous?” I press. “Even if it makes no scientific sense whatsoever, and might leave you questioning my sanity?”

The line between his brows deepens, but he nods. “Okay.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

“Okay. Then to be completely honest . . . well, I don’t really understand it myself yet but . . . the thing is that I’m—” The words push themselves up to the tip of my tongue, but for a few seconds, I hold them there. What if this is it? What if I admit it out loud to him, and the illusion is broken, the spell is shattered? My heart kicks harder against my ribs. It’s too late to back out now. He’s waiting, watching me. “I’m not . . . who you think I am.”