I Am Not Jessica Chen(73)
This manages to top all of that?
But already I can imagine the answer. To them, violence doesn’t look like blood and broken bones. Violence looks like the disruption of power.
“What were you thinking, Jessica?” Ms. Lewis asks sharply. “You could have hit Lachlan.”
A few feet away from me, Lachlan slides into one of the seats by the open window, his long legs sprawled out. He hasn’t uttered a word since we left the library.
“Well?” Ms. Lewis presses.
I swallow and try to think of how Jessica would respond, except of course Jessica would never be in this situation in the first place. So when I speak, I speak as myself. “Did you hear what he said to me?”
She blinks. “What he said? Are you honestly making excuses for your actions?”
“Fine,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. Suddenly all my anger has wilted, and all that’s left is heavy, bone-crushing exhaustion. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to explain my hurt, dissect it in a way that’ll make them understand. “So maybe I scared him a little.”
“Maybe—”
“But what else was I meant to do? Just stand there and take it? Ignore him? Walk away and be the better person?”
Her eyes flash. “Yes, Jessica. I’m frankly appalled that I even have to answer that question. Yes, that’s exactly what you should have done. That’s what we would expect of a model student like yourself.”
I clench my teeth and face her fully. She stares back, her disappointment palpable. A sharp, twisting pain tears through my chest. I remember all the times I watched Ms. Lewis stop Jessica after class to compliment her, just to tell her she was doing a great job. I think of all her kind smiles, her words of encouragement, her subtle nods of approval from the front of the room. Jessica Chen has always been one of her favorites—everyone knows it.
But now, within a matter of moments, because of one mistake, it’s like everything has been erased.
And I realize, with a deeper pain, that this is the difference between being accepted and being tolerated. Even Jessica isn’t an exception. None of us are.
“What exactly is your definition of a model student?” I ask her.
She falters, but I already know what she’s thinking.
A model student causes no trouble. A model student makes no noise. A model student gives everything they have and asks for nothing. They simply keep their head down and study and get the best scores on behalf of the school, and then they graduate as valedictorian, with their perfect winning streak, and they head to the best universities in the world to train even harder to become a model citizen, so they can continue to be good. They’re so good that nobody bothers to notice when something’s wrong. They’re so good they’re an afterthought. They’re so good they might as well not exist, except to be used as evidence that success is possible, that the system is perfectly sound, that anyone who struggles can only blame themselves.
“Well,” Ms. Lewis says at last, with a sniff. “For one, they would never resort to violence.” She turns her attention to Lachlan, and her voice instantly grows softer, the way you’d speak to a young, defenseless child. “How are you feeling, Lachlan?”
Lachlan makes a low grumbling sound. “I think . . . I think I might need some time to recover—”
“From the notebook sailing over your shoulder?” I demand incredulously.
He glowers at me. “It could have hit me. It could have killed me.”
“Yes, sure. It’s entirely likely that the notebook would have ricocheted off the library wall twenty-five feet behind you at a perfect hundred-degree angle, shot back through the air with the speed and force of an arrow, and hit you perfectly in the back of the neck with the corner of the soft cover, hence shattering a bone near an artery—”
“Exactly. It could have,” he says, sniffling. Either he is incapable of comprehending the sheer absurdity of his accusation, or he’s so shameless as to not care if his claims are ridiculous, because he believes everyone will side with him anyway.
“If that’s your understanding of physics,” I say sweetly, “I’d suggest paying more attention to the teacher instead of ranking the hottest girls in the class with your friends.”
“Jessica,” Ms. Lewis snaps. “Seriously, what’s gotten into you?”
“I didn’t hurt him,” I say, because if she believes I’m guilty either way, I might as well speak up for myself. “I didn’t even touch him. I threw a notebook—”
“I want to call my father,” Lachlan says, straining his voice to be heard over mine. “I’m going to tell him that I don’t feel safe at this school anymore.”
An audible snort escapes my lips, but beneath my incredulity, I feel the first prickling of fear. If Lachlan refuses to let this go, the school will have to step in. Maybe they’ll message my aunt and uncle. Maybe they’ll tell Harvard, and they’ll rescind my acceptance. Jessica’s acceptance. The thought makes my stomach contract. I’ve always envied Jessica for being better, but I’ve never wanted to make her life worse.
Ms. Lewis visibly freezes. I can almost see the mental calculations she’s doing, her need to protect Lachlan’s feelings warring against her need to protect the school brand—and, ultimately, losing.