I Am Not Jessica Chen(66)

My heart is pounding fast, so fast.

“And you’re always showing up at the right time and place. Like speech night in tenth grade,” he continues. He’s twisted around slightly in the driver’s seat, even though he keeps his eyes on the road ahead of us. “Do you remember? We all had to get there early for rehearsal, and when everyone else was waiting for their parents to arrive, and my father couldn’t make it that night . . . you came over and stood next to me. And suddenly—suddenly I didn’t feel alone. I realized I would never have to be alone again, if you were there.”

Speech night. Tenth grade.

I remember Jessica Chen getting all the awards she was eligible for. Top achiever and the academic award for every subject she took and the Diana Bagshaw Award for contributions to the school.

I remember the teachers organizing the seating according to the awards we’d received. Those who had one or more were seated at the front. Jessica sat first. Those who had none—those like me—were ushered to the very back.

I remember Aaron sitting with her. I remember watching them from behind, the bright, glaring lights of the stage limning their silhouettes. They look so perfect together, I’d thought to myself. And I’d made sure I congratulated them both. I’d been the first to tell them how happy I was for them, and I’d helped them hold their bags while my uncle and auntie took pictures, proud and beaming ever so wide.

But I don’t remember this part at all. That scares me. It makes me wonder what else I’ve forgotten, what else has slipped through the cracks. If I’m forgetting myself too, like everyone else has. Except him.

“That was ages ago,” I finally manage. “It doesn’t even matter—”

“It does matter. You matter,” he interrupts, jaw tight. “And maybe . . . maybe there’s a selfish part of me that just wants to see you again. I want to do all the things I used to mock from the movies. I want to have picnics by the lakes with you and walk down the corridors with your hand in mine and call you up late at night.” His eyes darken, deepen. “I want to kiss you—”

The car lurches sharply over a bump in the road, but even after it’s behind us, my stomach still feels like it’s forgotten gravity. “No,” I say. “No. Don’t do that. You’re not playing fair.”

“I’m not playing fair? You’re literally defying the known laws of physics.”

“You know it’s my weakness,” I breathe out. “You know you’re my weakness.”

“Then come back to me,” he says, softer, his voice pained now, pleading. I’m unprepared for how quickly it unravels me. I had been braced for a war; I had entered the car with my armor on, my weapons sharpened. I can do that. I can fight him if I have to. But not this. Not him with his guard lowered, his sword dropped to his feet, his palms open, empty, searching.

And he senses it.

Always so observant. He’s always known me so well.

“I can help you, really,” he says. “I can figure it out. You said it yourself—I’m a genius. Just say the word, Jenna, and I’ll do anything. Please, I’m begging. If you don’t really believe in the wish, I’ll come up with an entire list of reasons your old life could be good. I’ll remind you of it every single day until you can make the wish and mean it. Everything will be fine.”

Just say the word.

My lips part, but the word won’t form. Not the right one, the one he’s hoping for.

“Jenna?”

“No,” I whisper, even though it physically hurts me to say it.

“Do you realize what you’re saying?” he demands. “You can’t stay like this forever. And what about Jessica? It’s her life—if you don’t make the wish, she won’t be able to return.”

“I know that,” I cut in, tears of frustration prickling my eyes. “I know the consequences. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, Aaron. It’s how I feel; it’s beyond my control. I wish I could brainwash myself. I wish I didn’t have these thoughts at all. I wish I was kinder, and selfless, and convinced that I could be happy back in my life, with you. But there’s no point pretending it’s all I want when it’s not. It’s just not enough for me.” I swallow. “It’s not enough.”

The silence in the car is terrible.

“Nothing is ever enough for you,” Aaron says, gazing over at me.

I’m not sure what I would have replied then. Maybe I would have admitted that he was right. That I don’t know how to do anything except crave what I don’t have. I don’t know how to be content, to sit with myself and my life and let it wash over me like daylight. But before I can say anything at all, a dark blur appears in my peripheral vision, approaching fast, heading straight toward us—

I gasp. “Watch out!”

Aaron’s eyes snap back to the road.

He yanks the wheel hard to the left.

For a moment the ground seems to drop out from under me, the car swerving so fast the world spins, tires shrieking against asphalt, and I would scream except my head hasn’t even caught up to what’s happening.

We jolt to a stop against the curb just as the other vehicle whizzes past us, honking twice.

I don’t think I’m breathing.

My heart is hammering so hard I’m terrified it might break my ribs or tire and stop altogether. I’m gripping the door handle so tight the joints in my fingers ache but I can’t let go. Finally I manage to unfreeze just enough to glimpse Aaron’s face. He’s shaken as well, and doing his best to hide it. He wipes a hand over his forehead. Licks his lips.