I Am Not Jessica Chen(8)

“Whatever,” I bite out, knowing there’s no way to reason with him, to explain that the issue isn’t my lack of participation in Havenwood’s sports teams. It’s that even if I did join the cross-country team and ran six hours a day until my legs failed and my lungs collapsed, I still wouldn’t be half as fast as Jessica, who moves with the athletic grace of a gazelle, who finishes entire marathons for fun, breaks records without effort. “I just . . . I don’t want to talk about this—”

“You can’t avoid the subject,” Dad says, his forehead scrunching. “We need to evaluate where you went wrong so you can improve in the future.”

“Could we please not?”

His frown deepens. “What kind of attitude is that? Just look at your cousin Jessica,” he says, shaking his head hard. “You two came from the same family, attend the same school, are the same age. She’s managed to get into Harvard—and what is it, five other Ivy Leagues? Maybe you should learn from her—”

“Laogong,” my mom interrupts him with a warning glance. “I don’t think that’s very fair—”

“Only children talk about fairness,” he persists, waving his hands about, his gestures increasingly agitated, the way they are whenever he goes into full lecture mode. “Do you think the world is a fair place? If you’re too weak, you’ll be eliminated. Look what happened to the Roman Empire—”

If I didn’t feel like crying, I’d probably laugh. “First you’re comparing me to Jessica, and now you’re comparing me to Rome?”

He flings a Chinese phrase at me then, one of those four-character idioms I’m not cultured enough to understand, but the sentiment is clear.

I fix my eyes on the window behind him. Outside, the night sky is a somber violet, the silhouette of the Ethermist Mountains curving over the horizon. All the little houses are lined up one by one down our narrow street, made of the same cheap materials, with the same faded redbrick designs. From a distance it looks like the image of the idyllic suburban life, but instead of white picket fences and pretty lawns, we only have wild grass and dark cypress trees, tiny garages taken up by secondhand cars. Barely bourgeoisie, I always like to describe it in my head.

Not great. Not terrible. Just suffocatingly average.

We could have lived somewhere better. Somewhere with space to run around in the summer, with modern glass walls and large sunlit bedrooms. But my parents had insisted on staying here, where it costs more for less, so we could be closer to my school, thinking it would boost my chances of success. They’ve bet everything on me—their time and energy and savings—and this is what I have to show for it. Sunk costs. A failed investment.

“Dad. Please.” I take a deep breath. “Listen—”

“No, you listen first. I’m telling you that if you’d followed Jessica’s example—”

“I tried to.” I can barely form the words. I grip the counter, my nails digging into the stone. This feels like a murder scene, all my worst fears, my insecurities, sprawled out and bleeding over the tiles before me. “I tried, I swear. I’m always trying. But I—” My voice catches. “I’m just not that good.”

He doesn’t agree. But he doesn’t deny it either. His eyes are lined with some heavy, weary emotion. Disappointment, most likely.

The back of my throat aches. Don’t cry, don’t you dare cry. Not here. So I leave without another word. Neither of them follows me as I scramble up the stairs, into my bedroom, locking the door behind me. Everything’s a blur. I blink, blink harder, catch my heart before it can fall out of my chest. Then, in the dark, deafening quiet, I stare around me.

My latest painting is still sitting in the center of the room, right where I left it. It’s the self-portrait I’d been working on earlier this morning, when I was trying to distract myself from college applications, trying not to let my hope consume me. I remember being proud of it, admiring the smooth blend of moss greens and cream whites and smoky pinks in the background, the sharp angles and shadows lining my nose and pursed lips, the bold black brushstrokes layering my hair. In it, my eyes are focused on some distant point beyond the frame, magnolias blooming from the edge of the painting, their petals brushing my cheek. I have one hand lifted, as if I’m waiting for something. Reaching for something.

But now, staring at the portrait, I feel a vicious stab of self-loathing.

I seize the closest acrylic tin and fling it at the canvas, watching the paint drip until my eyes are obscured and the portrait could be of anyone, any sad, nameless girl who yearns for the world. Then, with the violet paint still wet on my fingers, its sharp acid smell burning my nostrils, I bury myself in my blankets and wait for sleep to wash over me.



I wake the next morning with the sun in my eyes.

Strange, I think sleepily, blinking into the bright orange glare of the window. My bedroom is always dark, with its thick curtains and dull view of the brick house next to ours. Then I lift my arms to stretch, and the sense of strangeness digs deeper into my gut. The blankets draped over my stomach are too soft, too light, the pillows stacked higher than I’m used to. Even the air smells different when I inhale: it’s oddly sweet, like strawberries, some scent I know but can’t place.

I rub my eyes, hoping to wipe away the mist of confusion. But when I squint up at my raised hand, my skin appears . . . smoother. The spilled paint from yesterday is gone, even though acrylic takes ages to wash off. Then I notice something that throws me off-balance, makes everything in my head go fuzzy. There’s a birthmark between my fingers, no bigger than a coin and shaped like a flower.