I Am Not Jessica Chen(71)

“Oh!” Celine makes a squeaking sound so high in pitch I’m scared I’ve stepped on a mouse. “Oh my god, I think it’s—No.” Her tone sours. “No, it’s just that cursed student feedback survey. What do they even want us to answer? ‘How’s your mental health?’ Terrible, thanks. ‘Would you feel comfortable speaking to staff members if any issues were to come up in your personal life?’ I barely feel comfortable asking Old Keller if I can go to the bathroom in the middle of class. ‘Do you know what is expected of you in your subjects?’ Yeah, I’d say the issue is that I’m too aware of the expectations . . . Hang on, I got it,” she says suddenly, her mouth splitting into a grin as her eyes move over the screen. “I got it. I mean, I obviously knew I would. But it’s nice to have the confirmation—and to finish the year on a good note.”

“Same here,” Leela says, smiling at her screen too, her shoulders sagging with relief.

Celine turns to me. “What about you, Jessica?”

“Oh, um . . . let me check.” I pull out my phone and refresh Jessica’s inbox. Sure enough, it’s there: an email from the principal congratulating me on winning not just the academic award, but also the STEM award, the humanities award, and the Betty Robertson Award.

“Wow.” Celine peers over at my screen. She falters for a moment, but the smile that rises to her lips is genuine. “Figures that you’d win all of them.”

“All of them?” Leela says, craning her neck as well. “Oh my god. Jessica. That’s incredible. You don’t understand—that’s like, ridiculous. No one scoops up an award in every single category.” She stops reading and scans my face. “Why aren’t you happy?”

Why aren’t I happy?

Is this how Jessica felt when she got accepted into Harvard? Empty, instead of ecstatic?

“Probably because she’s already used to it,” Celine says.

“No, no, it’s definitely not that,” I say in a hurry. “I am happy. I think I just need to process it.”

“Well, we need to head to class,” Leela tells me, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “But enjoy your success. I hope you know this means you’re treating us to a very nice dinner.”

“Sure,” I say weakly. “You got it.”

The two of them head out the doors together, already deep in conversation—most likely speculating who else received the academic awards and who didn’t and why and whether they’ll be upset about it. It’s a sadistic little game all Havenwood students hate but participate in anyway. We’re so invested in each other’s successes and failures, so insecure that we need to repeatedly compile and update all the evidence we can find that we’re doing well in comparison to everyone else.

But I’m suddenly not so sure I want to keep playing.



I manage to study for about twenty minutes after Leela and Celine leave. And by study, I mean I attempt to do a practice test with the answers lying wide open next to me.

“Hey! Jessica Chen!”

I startle and look up to see Lachlan Robertson marching across the library toward me.

This in itself is shocking enough that the students sitting near me have also swiveled around to stare. Aside from the debate, I’ve probably spoken to Lachlan a total of three times before—we operate in such different social circles. He’s a legacy kid, the youngest son in a family of entertainment attorneys and chief financial officers; his world is one of trust funds and lavish pool parties and holiday houses off the coast of Italy. Whenever I catch sight of him around campus, he’s always laughing with the other guys in the halls, tossing a basketball around on the court, or making loud, obnoxious phone calls in the parking lot.

“Yes?” I say, tentative, half convinced he’s looking for the wrong person. I can’t imagine a single reason why he’d want to talk to me.

He doesn’t slow his steps until he’s towering right over my desk. It’s not a particularly flattering angle.

“That award was meant for me,” he says, not bothering to keep his voice down. The words echo in the vast space, and suddenly all the muted activity in the background dies down. More heads turn toward us. It’s so quiet I can hear my own sharp breath of surprise.

“What award?” I stare at him. “What are you talking about?”

He makes an impatient gesture with his hands. “The Betty Robertson Award. It was created by my grandmother. It wouldn’t even exist if it wasn’t because of her.”

Slowly, understanding trickles in. “Um, thank you? To her?”

“The award is meant to go to someone who embodies the school spirit. She wouldn’t want it to go to someone like you,” he says, his pale eyes narrowing.

“Well, if that’s the case,” I say irritably, “then maybe you should go talk to your grandmother instead of me. You can complain about it together.”

Somebody snorts from the desk behind me, and his face flushes.

“But you have to agree that it’s wrong,” he says, like this is a fact. “I mean, listen, you can take all the academic awards you want, all right?”

“What do you mean? They’re already mine.”

He continues on as if he hasn’t heard me. “I just think you should stay in your lane, is what I’m saying. Stick to the math tournaments or whatever. That’s what you’re most suited for, you know?” He pauses and offers a smile closer to a sneer, his mouth twisting at the sides.