I Am Not Jessica Chen(75)

“Then? If I’m going to cover for you, I need to at least have a few details.”

“I . . . I want to undo it.” It’s not until the words surface in the air between us that I realize what my intention has been all along. More firmly, I continue, “I have to go back to myself—my own body, my life, whatever it is. You were right. I really, truly believe it this time. They were never going to accept me. I can’t live for the recognition or the applause or the illusion of a dream life. I—I have to live for myself. I want to live for myself.”

His frown deepens. “What are you talking about?”

“I know you’re still mad at me,” I say. Try to smile. Try to ignore the gnawing, sick sensation in my gut. “And I’m really sorry. I’m sorry about everything—”

“Why would I be mad at you?” He doesn’t sound like he’s taunting me. The truly horrifying thing is that he sounds serious.

“Because of . . . because of what I said,” I stammer. “Yesterday, in the car. You wanted me to undo it and I couldn’t and—”

“Undo what?”

I feel as if I’ve been shoved. My ears ring. “The wish,” I repeat slowly, because maybe he hadn’t heard me. Maybe I’d spoken too fast. That’s all. “The wish. About being Jessica Chen.”

I wait for understanding to wash over his face. But he merely stares at me as if I might be joking. Suspicion sneaks under my skin, grabs hold of me. I don’t want to even consider it. Please. Anything but this. Anyone but him.

“Aaron,” I say. It sounds like I’m begging. “Aaron. Who am I?”

“What kind of question is that?” He lets out a breath of laughter.

“Tell me,” I insist. “You have to tell me. Who do you . . . think I am?”

“You’re Jessica Chen, of course.”

No.

No.

The moment seems to crawl to a standstill. There’s Aaron, gazing at me without really seeing me, confusion growing over his features. The sun, close to disappearing behind the clouds. The eastern wing of the school building looms behind him, turrets touching the sky, ivy spreading over smooth white walls, the bronze hand of the clock tower suspended in place. Everything like a dream from another life, a memory from a nightmare.

“Aaron, please,” I choke out. I really am begging him now, desperate. Dread threatens to strangle me. “You can’t do this. You can’t forget.”

“Can’t forget what?”

“I’m Jenna,” I say. “I’m Jenna Chen.”

For the barest second, the mist in his eyes seems to clear. He stiffens. Opens his mouth. “Je—” But then the clarity is gone, as if his mind has been wiped clean of it by a violent hand. “Jessica,” he says instead.

“No.” I stamp my foot hard in frustration. “You have to . . . you have to remember. We went to school together every single day for years. You would walk home with me. You’d open any bottle for me without asking and then hide it behind your back to annoy me.” I’m shaking; I can barely keep track of what I’m saying. I just need to keep talking. I need him to come back to me, I need him to help me.

“Please. It’s me. I’m Jenna. I—I’m not the best student, but I’m a good painter and I’m a good friend and I’m my parents’ only daughter and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for the ones I love. I’m messy and disorganized and I can’t memorize all the dates in history class but I’ve never forgotten a birthday before. I keep a jewelry box of every card anyone has given me, and I hand-paint every single card I send out. When I set my mind to something, I always go through with it. I would get into heated debates with you over the most ridiculous topics, like . . . like whether a vampire apocalypse was more deadly than a zombie one, or whether death from heartbreak was a real phenomenon. I’ve always wanted to visit Tianjin because I love the sea and you said there was a steamed bun restaurant you went to as a kid. . . .” I trail off at the look on his face.

His expression is carefully controlled, a deliberate mask of neutrality. He only looks like that when he’s assessing something, deciding his next move. He doesn’t remember me.

Pain of a sort I’d never imagined before, never experienced—not even when he left without warning—wrenches its way through my heart. It feels like someone’s prying my ribs apart.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Jessica.”

“Stop calling me that.” Tears scald my eyes. I wipe them angrily with my blazer sleeve. “You can’t do this to me. You can’t, you can’t. . . .” I’m a child throwing a tantrum, crying incoherently just to be heard. I’m a person drowning, waving my hand in the air, right before the currents drag me under again.

He looks mildly alarmed. “Don’t cry. Whatever it is, I’m sure somebody can help you. . . .”

But that’s how I know. It’s too late; the damage is irreversible. He never would have spoken to me like that if he knew I was Jenna. I draw in a harsh, rattling breath that sounds like my body is cracking from the inside out, and think back to the afternoon after our final exam scores had come out. I’d been crying then as well, almost as hard as I am now. I had stuffed the test in my bag and run out of class to hide in the back of the parking lot, but Aaron had sensed something was wrong. He’d followed me, and when he found me, he didn’t ask what had happened, didn’t tell me to stop. He’d merely covered my eyes with his hands—gentle, always so gentle—and said, You can cry as much as you want. Nobody else will see you.