I Am Not Jessica Chen(7)
“I’m fine,” I say, trying at a laugh, though the sound dies halfway, dissolves into the frigid blue air. “I mean, I only applied as a joke. Harvard’s lucky to have you, though,” I tell her. “You must be thrilled.”
At this, she turns away, the shadows of an overgrown oak cloaking her face. “Yeah. I am. Thrilled.”
I glance back at the lit-up house, the vast Victorian-style structure looming larger than ever against the night sky. Through the thin screen doors, I can make out my parents’ silhouettes, both deep in conversation. Auntie’s rubbing slow, consoling circles over my mom’s back, while my dad has his head in his hands, as if warding off a severe migraine. My chest tightens. Somehow I know they’re talking about me. My future. My failures.
“It’s really nice out here,” Aaron says, leaning back, both his hands propped against the wood. “I’ve missed this place.”
It is nice out here, in a way. A cicada chirps from a nearby tree, and the dew-damp grass bends beneath a breeze, and the air feels the way it does after fresh rain: cool and crisp and almost sweet with the scent of earth, ripe with possibility. If I were someone else, I would enjoy this moment, take it, rest my bones in it. But instead, scenes from that better, alternative universe keep unspooling in the back of my mind, one in which I’m laughing with Jessica, both of us giddy over the prospect of Harvard, one where I am whole, convinced at last of my worth.
Then Jessica nudges me, her voice breaking through my thoughts. “Oh my god—look!”
She’s pointing at something high above us, and I look up just in time to see it: an astonishing streak of silver, a bright needle of light piercing the sky’s black canvas, soaring over the tree skeletons in the woods, over our heads, over everything. I’ve only ever seen shooting stars in movies before, never like this. It’s even more beautiful than I’d imagined.
“Quick, you guys,” Jessica says, clasping her hands together. “Make a wish.”
Aaron huffs out a soft, skeptical laugh and rolls his eyes, but follows suit after a beat.
I’m skeptical too. The universe has never listened to me before. Then again, I have nothing to lose; everything that could go wrong already has. So I squeeze my eyes shut, the light of stars flickering behind my eyelids. Goose bumps crawl down my arms as the quiet moment expands, takes on a strangely surreal quality, and I can’t shake the sensation that something or someone really is listening, shifting closer, their ear pressed against the wall of my thoughts.
My parents’ low, concerned voices drift through the cracks in the door behind me, and the cicadas stop singing, and the breeze picks up into a great, billowing wind, shaking the loose wooden boards like a haunting and slashing at my cheeks. The light also grows brighter, glowing a brilliant, pure silver, the kind of color that could belong to another world.
My stomach dips. I feel all of a sudden as if I’m standing on some high precipice, staring down at the sheer drop below. It’s like the moment before the fall, before gravity finds me, when everything is sheer potential, the air humming around me.
In the end, I don’t even have to decide what my wish is before making it.
I wish I was Jessica Chen.
Two
The drive back home is awfully quiet.
I can tell, from the way Mom and Dad look at each other when we enter the house, pause in our tiny kitchen, all but communicating through charades, that they’re working out some sort of script for this. Sure enough, Mom clears her throat and goes first, her voice careful, her words rehearsed.
“We know this might be disappointing news to everyone, Jenna, but it’s too late to do anything now. We can’t change the past; what’s important is for us to look ahead at our options. You still haven’t heard back from your safety schools. . . .”
I nod along, just to show I’m listening. Just to stop myself from screaming. The dissonance of coming back to our house straight from Jessica’s semi-mansion is jarring. Here, the lights are dimmer, the colors duller, the furniture sparse rather than luxurious, and also completely mismatched, with a traditional Chinese-style chair sitting next to an old Victorian antique table. My dad’s work overalls have been draped over the chair to dry, and his toolbox has been crammed into the bottom of the bookshelf, under all the heavy volumes on financial planning and the award-winning nonfiction titles Dad only pretends to read because my uncle recommended them. A stack of dirty plates awaits us on the kitchen counter, neglected from last night, an unopened bag of goji berries lying beside it.
“I did tell you to sign up for the cross-country team,” Dad is saying, which earns him a pointed glare from Mom. He’s going off-script.
I lean against the kitchen counter. Try to swallow the bitter lump in my throat. “Cross-country?”
“It’s meaningless to talk about this now,” Mom says hastily, stepping between us. “Let’s not—”
“It could have helped you look more well-rounded,” Dad presses. “Maybe if you exercised more . . .”
Even though I’d been determined to keep my emotions in check, accept whatever they threw my way, this is so unreasonable that I can only stare at him. It seems to be a defining trait of many parents that they’ll pick one incredibly specific thing and treat it as the source or solution of all your problems. For my dad, it’s always been exercise. Have a fever? Too little exercise. In a foul mood? Go exercise. A bad acne flare-up? Not enough exercise. Existential crisis? Exercise will help. Find yourself kidnapped and stranded on a remote island? It could’ve been avoided if only you’d run a little more in your free time.