I Am Not Jessica Chen(61)
Sunlight falls drowsily through the stained-glass windows when I enter one of the last empty rooms, casting a latticework of shadows over the plywood desk. It reminds me of the art project Leela did last spring, when we were asked to experiment with mediums. She had chosen watercolor on shattered mirrors, a painting that changed the composition of whatever was reflected within it.
I breathe in sawdust and spearmint, and brace myself. The closer you get to the end, the harder the waiting becomes, every possible distraction chiseling away until you’re left only with the apprehension pumping thick through your blood. I run my finger over the broken nail of my thumb, catching on the jagged edge. Aaron should be leading her up here any minute now.
My mind falls away to imagined scenes: him, approaching her after class, asking so politely and sweetly for her opinion on his oral presentation. She would be proud enough to agree, since the school’s star student rarely asks for help for anything. He accompanies her up those creaking steps, past the seated, sleepy students, chatting aimlessly the whole way about the weather, which is pleasant, or the topic for our next essay, which isn’t, then down the aisle, until he slows just outside the room and—
The doorknob turns.
Cathy Liu’s face is blank at first, confused. Then her eyes focus on me, and comprehension flares to life behind them.
The waiting is always the worst part. Now that it’s over, I feel a strange clarity settle within me. I motion for Aaron to wait outside, returning his concerned look with a light shake of my head. Then I step around Cathy and close the door.
“I know it was you,” I tell her. “I understand that your preferred way of communication seems to be through vaguely threatening cryptic messages, but I thought maybe we could talk. What are you after?”
“What am I after?” she echoes, her expression twisting with incredulity. “I mean, isn’t that obvious? I want you to confess.”
“Confess to what?”
“Oh my god, seriously, Jessica?” She leans back against the wall. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize my own thesis? You’re the only one I told it to—I showed you my entire essay outline. I guess that was my bad; I was naive enough to think I could impress you with how smart I was, as if you’re ever impressed by anyone else. But then, how was I supposed to predict you would copy my thesis? You stole it, Jessica. You stole it from me, and you don’t even have the guts to admit it. Or maybe you just don’t care. Maybe you think it’s hilarious. What was it that you said in the interview again?” Her lips curl, revealing the white knife of her teeth. “Copy and paste is your friend?”
I blink, stunned.
It can’t be true. Of course I’d assumed it was something terrible, something shameful, or else Jessica would never have written that journal entry. I had even contemplated the possibility of manslaughter. Yet it hadn’t crossed my mind to think of this:
Jessica, cheating. Plagiarizing someone else’s ideas. If I’d found this out before I made the wish, I wouldn’t have believed it, even if someone was holding the evidence right in front of me. Why would Jessica Chen feel the need to cheat when she’s never even failed before?
But then my memory hooks around the disappointment creasing my aunt’s face, the way Ms. Lewis had held me back after my test results came out, the shocked glances from my classmates when I gave the wrong answer in physics class, the unspoken question What happened to you? screaming through the silence, and I think I know why.
“Why didn’t you just tell the teacher then?” I ask Cathy.
She lets out a short, shrill laugh. “You think I had a chance to? Mr. Keller kept me back after class to lecture me about the striking resemblance between my essay and yours. But of course he assumed that I had copied you, because how could someone like you cheat? Smart, perfect Jessica, the model student who can do no wrong. What is that like, by the way?” she adds, the bitterness in her voice changing to something almost akin to wonder, to awe, and I’m gripped by the absurd terror that she’s going to lunge across the space, shake me by the shoulders, sink her nails into my face. “What is it like to just go around knowing that everyone loves you, and believes in you, and wants to be you?”
I smother my surprise before it can show. Her words are too familiar, shooting and landing with lethal, uncomfortable precision; I’ve wondered the exact same thing to myself countless times.
“It doesn’t always feel like that,” I say, as honestly as I can.
She falters, but only for a moment. “You know, it’s kind of insulting it took you so long to figure out it was me,” she says, stuffing her hands in her blazer pockets. “When someone’s out to get you, you should suspect your competition before anyone else. I guess that’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s the worst part.” Her dark eyes flash. “You never considered me a threat. I always had a clear view of you; you were always first, and I was always second. But you didn’t even see me coming, because you never thought to turn around. I’ll never know what it’s like to be you, and you’ll never know what it’s like to be me. To want something so deeply, so desperately that it hurts you.”
I do, I reply silently. I know all too well.
Because to me, wanting has always been indistinguishable from pain.
A clenched fist around my heart. A blunt dagger through my stomach. Cold hands around my throat. Whenever I saw the news about the sixteen-year-old who already had everything I’d ever wanted, the fifteen-year-old who had her whole life paved in gold. It was like that with Aaron as well. Whenever he was next to me, so beautiful it ached, his hair falling perfectly into place, his face like that of a young god, smooth and tragic and made for eternity. Whenever he smiled at me and I had to keep my hands fastened to my sides, had to stop myself from saying what I truly felt. Whenever I imagined the impossible, of us together.