I Am Not Jessica Chen(67)

“We could have died,” he says, more in disbelief than anything.

“But—but we didn’t,” I say shakily.

“I . . . probably shouldn’t be driving like this.” He rubs his eyes and reaches for the door. “We’re better off walking the rest of the way.”

“Aaron . . .”

He pauses and glances back at me, his gaze gentle, despite everything. “Yes?”

“You’re not leaving me here?” I whisper. “I mean . . . aren’t you angry?”

The look in his eyes changes, hardening to resolve. “You think you can get rid of me so easily?” He steps out and walks around to open the door for me. The cold air rushes in, surrounding me like a frozen embrace. “Come on. Let’s go.”





Sixteen




Silver balloons and banners guide the way to the art center, in typical Havenwood fashion. It’s hard to decide whether the decorations are impressive or just overly pretentious. Teachers wait by the entrance in stiff suits, fake-friendly smiles glued to their faces, no doubt waiting just to greet Mr. Howard when he arrives and then retire for the evening. Professional photographers weave their way through the students with their heavy equipment, taking pictures of everything except the actual art on display, most likely so the school can use the photos for future advertisements and promotional newsletters.

And then there is the exhibit itself.

Art on every white wall, every surface, every stand. Oil paintings and sculptures and charcoal sketches.

“Surely you miss it?” Aaron murmurs under his breath as we make our way around the room.

“Miss what?”

“Doing this,” he says, gesturing to a framed painting I recognize instantly as Leela’s. It’s of her mother, brushing her little sister’s hair. The colors are subdued, the background drawn in simple strokes. But golden sunlight streams in from a window just beyond the frame, and I have to marvel at how she’s done it. How she’s found the exact shade and color of the sun itself and captured the precise way it changes fabric and marble and illuminates every strand of glossy black hair. Her mother is focused, not necessarily smiling, but one look and you can tell how gently she’s holding the brush. There is something so peaceful about the piece, a quiet, tender quality I’ve come to observe in Leela herself. Like dawn air, or lake water.

I wish I could do that, but I’ve never known how to paint from a place of happiness. I only paint what I want to change or what I don’t already have.

“I can still paint,” I say quietly, and hope he can’t hear my voice falter.

“The way you used to?”

“Sure.”

“Have you tried?” he challenges.

“Well, who cares if I can’t? Painting isn’t a useful skill,” I continue forcefully, repeating the same words people have flung at me a thousand times before. “The only way to be valued as a painter is by being the very best there is, and I simply can’t be, even if I were to spend the rest of my life trying.”

The girl admiring the painting next to us shoots me an offended look.

“Sorry,” I stutter. “Not talking about you—I’m sure your skills are very useful. . . .”

Aaron scoffs.

I spin back to face him, my face heating. “What?”

“I just find it incredibly fascinating,” he says. “How you can say something you don’t believe in with such conviction. Were you always such a good liar?”

“I’m not lying,” I insist, stepping past Leela’s painting to a still life of a broken porcelain vase. Instinctively, I find myself assessing the brushstrokes, noting how the artist has layered the shadows. What appears to be plain black at first glance is in fact a collection of colors: midnight blue and navy and lavender. “Art can’t give me the kind of validation I want. It’s too subjective, too unstable, too temporary. Even if someone likes your art, they’ll inevitably move on.”

“I would never move on,” Aaron says softly. “I would never take your paintings down.”

I pause, and almost lose my next thought in the depths of his eyes. Aaron, as my first and final audience. Aaron, as my muse. It sounds so tempting, but—

“There’s no point,” I say, “if my paintings are not known and loved by everyone.”

“I see,” he says, without judgment, but without agreement. Then he catches sight of someone in the entrance, and his brows rise, just as a burst of high-pitched laughter travels toward us, cutting through the lukewarm chatter. “Looks like Mr. Howard is here.”

I’ve only seen Mr. Howard in formal photos and that painting of him they’ve hung outside the assembly hall, which always gives the misleading impression that he’s dead. He’s much shorter in real life than I would have thought, with a jovial face and uneven brows, and unlike the teachers, he hasn’t bothered to dress up for the event at all. He could have dropped by the school on his way back from the local pub.

That doesn’t stop my muscles from tensing when Ms. Lewis leads him inside and waves me and Aaron over.

Because even if Mr. Howard came here dressed in a garbage bag, it wouldn’t change the fact that he’s important. His approval matters.

“. . . our best student,” Ms. Lewis is saying excitedly. “Just got accepted into Harvard not too long ago, had to turn down a bunch of Ivy Leagues—they all wanted her, you see. She’s won a bunch of awards too; I lose count of them all, honestly.” She points to Aaron next. “And this is another one of our best students. He was chosen for a very selective medical program in Paris—you know the one—and came back recently. The very pride of our school, these two. Both will go on to do incredible things, we’re all sure of it.”