I Am Not Jessica Chen(74)

“Now, Lachlan,” she says, her tone softening, changing tactics in an instant. “Jessica has a point. I can see no signs of physical harm, and in accordance with our school guidelines, this would only count toward a warning strike.”

Lachlan slouches back in his seat, his brows furrowed. Behind him, the window opens out to a sweeping view of the manicured school oval, half of it bathed in golden light, the other half cast in shadow. Clusters of friends are spread out over it, blazers sliding off their shoulders or cushioned beneath them like rugs, whispering and falling back on the grass, laughing hard. I wonder if news of the incident has already spread. It must have.

“There’s really no need to turn this into a big . . . event,” Ms. Lewis continues carefully. “I understand you’re upset, of course, and Jessica will apologize.”

“I will?” I ask.

Ms. Lewis pinches the bridge of her nose. “Will you . . . not?”

My heartbeat picks up. How far can I push this before it completely blows up in my face? “I’ll apologize only if he apologizes first for insulting me.”

Her hands flatten over the desk, her lips moving soundlessly—no doubt cursing me for making her life difficult. “Lachlan?”

Lachlan shrugs. “Sure, sure, sorry.”

Ms. Lewis breathes out and twists her head back to me. “And Jessica?” There’s a note of warning in her tone, a weight to the hardness of her gaze. “Can you apologize now? I really shouldn’t be asking twice.”

The words crawl up my throat like bile.

“I’m sorry,” I grit out, and Lachlan’s sulk immediately vanishes. This is all he’s after, really. To feel like he’s won, to feel like he has power. To him, this is the balance of the universe restored.

“For?” Ms. Lewis prompts.

“For throwing an extremely thin notebook at the wall,” I say.

“And what else?” she asks.

Lachlan waits, visibly gloating.

My next word turns to dust between my teeth. It feels like someone’s struck a match, set my blood on fire. I clench my jaw so hard I imagine my bones fissuring, the pressure spreading down through my neck, my stomach, my arms.

And I think: screw it. Screw all of it.

“I’m also sorry,” I say, before I can stop myself, “that your very fragile feelings were hurt.”

Lachlan frowns. “Wait—”

“And I’m sorry for not protecting your precious ego, the way everyone else has your whole life. I’m sorry you’re secretly ashamed,” I say, “because you know, deep, deep down, that you aren’t as great as you’ve been led to believe.”

His face has turned a shade of crimson so unnaturally bright it could make the news. “My father will—”

“Actually, yeah, go right ahead and tell your father,” I say. It’s not something I imagine would ever come out of Jessica’s mouth, but maybe that’s just it. I am not Jessica Chen. And maybe Jessica Chen herself isn’t either. Maybe nobody is. The very idea of her is a construct, a myth, a distraction, the dream we’re forever reaching toward but can never quite grasp. “The bigger deal you make of this, the more people will find out that it all started because you didn’t get an award, so do with that what you like. Can I go now?” I ask Ms. Lewis, though I’m not really asking. “I still have class to get to.”

Before she can reply, I smooth out my skirt. Tighten my ponytail. Turn around and walk away, without so much as glancing back to see their reactions.





Eighteen




The second I step outside, I start running.

I don’t know where I’m running to, or what I’m running from. I don’t care. All I know is that I want to get out of here. I have to escape; I have to put as much distance between myself and the campus and the memory as possible. My feet pound over polished wood, then steep cement steps, then faded cobblestones. The cold air hits my face, stings my throat when I swallow. My breaths come out in sharp, frantic bursts. My blazer flies behind me, my skirt rippling in the wind. I tear the buttons loose, freeing up space for my arms to move.

I’m already at the gates when somebody calls me by the wrong name.

“Jessica.”

It’s the voice, rather than the name, that makes me freeze. It’s the only voice I care about now, the only thing that could stop me mid-step, that could stop the whole world in its tracks.

Aaron strides up to me calmly, as if this is our usual way of greeting each other. Only his brows are faintly furrowed. “Where are you going?” he asks in a light voice. “I heard that you—” He pauses to make exaggerated air quotes. “Got into a violent fight with Lachlan?”

“I didn’t even touch him,” I snap. My anger is misguided, but I can’t control myself. “And he was the one who came up to me.”

Aaron doesn’t react with shock or disapproval. He just nods, like he’d been expecting as much. “A sore loser, isn’t he?”

“Y-yes,” I say, overcome by a sudden, bursting feeling in my chest, like my own emotions might overflow and drown me. “Yes. You could say that.”

“So why are you trying to run away from class?” he asks, tilting his head now.

“I’m not,” I tell him. “Not from class.”