I Am Not Jessica Chen(63)
“As well as it could’ve,” I tell him. I feel shaken, like I’ve just stumbled down a flight of steps. “She was . . . upset. Kind of rightly so. My cousin . . . she . . .” I hesitate. I want to tell Aaron everything, but it’s still Jessica’s secret.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to give me the full story,” Aaron says. “I just need to know if you’re safe.”
“I mean, she didn’t try to hurt me or anything. And she agreed to drop it—at least for one more week.”
He doesn’t relax. “Are you certain—”
But before he can continue, the familiar sound of Ms. Lewis’s heels clack up the staircase. “I was just looking for you, Jessica,” she says, waving me over.
I quickly rearrange my expression as I walk toward her, Aaron following behind me. “Hi, Ms. Lewis. What did you need me for?”
“You know the art exhibition happening tomorrow evening?”
“Yes,” I say slowly. My self-portraits were meant to be displayed at the exhibit, but I’m not sure what that has to do with Jessica.
“Havenwood’s school director, Mr. Howard, will be attending.” Ms. Lewis’s smile is huge, her eyes shining with excitement. “You know how rare his visits are, and well, he’s asked to meet you.”
“Meet me?” I repeat.
“Yes, he’s heard all about your achievements, and he wanted to congratulate you in person. It’s a real honor, one that few students will ever get to experience,” Ms. Lewis gushes. “You should be so proud.”
I do my best to inject the same enthusiasm into my voice. “Oh, yes, I’m definitely honored. I’d love to go.” I really am honored, or I know I should be. It’s an opportunity I would have killed for, if only to hear others talk about it afterward. Did you know the school director personally requested to see her? No, really. That’s how successful she is!
“Perfect,” Ms. Lewis says, and nods at Aaron. “Guests are encouraged to come as well, by the way.”
“I’ll be there,” he replies right away, his gaze locking on mine. And I’m certain in this very moment that if I had to walk deep into the woods, into a burning house, down into the depths of hell itself, he would still accompany me, just to make sure I don’t leave his sight.
But I’m less worried about what Cathy will do now than what will happen if I still haven’t found my cousin’s soul by the end of the week.
Fifteen
On the night of the art exhibition, I stand before Jessica’s wardrobe, considering my options.
There are plenty, when it comes to clothes and accessories. The prettiest dresses in silk, satin, cashmere, with delicate floral lace patterns and puff sleeves and ribbons wrapping around the waist. Ironed tweed jackets and sleek leather coats that look like something models might wear on the runway. Twenty different kinds of bags in twenty different sizes, the smallest one so tiny it can hold only mascara and lipstick, the largest one big enough to contain an entire folder and textbook. Three dozen pairs of earrings glittering from inside a glass display, laid out on crimson velvet, designed in the image of the sun and the moon, two broken hearts, studded with real pearls and emeralds and what might be real, actual diamonds. Stilettos and platform shoes and thigh-high boots.
I feel spoiled, greedy, almost guilty to be able to afford such luxury. The act of choosing what to wear always used to be an exercise in self-criticism, a reminder of my own inadequacies. Sorting through the old, lumpy sweaters and ill-fitting skirts to find something that didn’t look too terrible. I was almost always in a worse mood afterward, and too busy scrutinizing the way the clothes looked on me to enjoy whatever event I went to.
That’s no longer a problem.
Now, anything I try on looks incredible, and it’s not only genetics; I have this other theory that accomplished people instantly become more attractive.
No moisturizer in the world can compare to the sheen of success, the glow of glory. No contacts or eyelash extensions can make the eyes glow brighter than immediate validation. No rouge can ever replicate the flush of victory.
Don’t get too attached, I remind myself. Now that I’ve spoken to Cathy, the most urgent matter is finding Jessica’s soul.
“Jenna,” Aaron calls from below. “Are you ready yet?”
I fluff out my hair and hurry downstairs as fast as I can in two-inch heels, nearly tripping over myself. “You can’t call me that,” I warn him.
He’s waiting by the front door, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed over his chest. “The house is empty. Nobody is around to overhear. And,” he adds, his eyes bright, “it shouldn’t be a problem soon.”
I pause. “What do you mean?”
“I think I’ve figured it out,” he says. I’ve never seen him so hopeful before. “How to undo everything before the one week is over. It’s actually so simple that we’d overlooked it.”
“I . . . what?”
“You said you made a wish that night,” he tells me, so patient, so gentle, so sure of himself. “Maybe that’s all there is to it. Maybe you just have to close your eyes and wish for yourself to change back. Ask for your old life. For Jessica to return.”
“Right now?” I ask. Those are the only words I can produce. My mind feels empty, slowed down, like the world has split off into two timelines and I’m stuck in the one that’s running behind. Right now? Before the art exhibition?