I Am Not Jessica Chen(9)

That was never there before.

What the hell?

I sit up slowly, mind spinning, and the strangeness only grows. The sheets are printed with a pastel floral pattern. Definitely not the ones I slept in yesterday. Then the bedroom sharpens into focus, the details registering in pieces. A glass bookshelf close to toppling beneath the weight of medals and certificates and textbooks. A schoolbag set neatly on a desk overlooking the gardens below, a shiny MacBook already placed within it. The Havenwood uniform hanging from the closet doors, the navy plaid skirt longer than mine, the front blazer pocket adorned with so many school badges there’s more gold and silver than actual fabric. I’ve seen those badges before, stared at them during long, monotonous assemblies, marveling at the way they gleamed beneath the spotlight.

Understanding slides into place, offset immediately by more confusion.

I’m in Jessica Chen’s room. But . . . how?

I try to recount yesterday’s events, searching for clues, an explanation. No, I’m certain I’d fallen asleep in my own bedroom. Did I sleepwalk? Except I’ve never sleepwalked once in my life. And Jessica’s house is at least a fifteen-minute drive from mine, too far to travel on foot in the dead of night. So then . . . then what? Maybe someone moved me here? But that doesn’t make sense either. I distinctly remember locking my bedroom door. The only way to unlock it is from the inside.

The creak of a cabinet closing downstairs sends my thoughts bolting like a startled hare in another direction. Would my aunt and uncle know that I’d slept in Jessica’s room? How am I supposed to explain this to them? The skin on my face feels stretched full with blood, panic, and mortification taking turns kicking my gut. Had I been so sad that I’d gotten drunk at some point last night? Is that why I don’t remember anything?

Out of habit, I reach for my phone on the bedside table. But the wallpaper that glows over the screen is a photo of Jessica from last year’s prom, flanked on both sides by Leela and Celine, her other best friend. All three of them look gorgeous—they were the only ones who had worn full-fledged gowns, and the only ones who would be admired instead of ridiculed for it—but Jessica is clearly the center of attention. She’s smiling straight at the camera, while the others are smiling at her.

I chew the flesh of my cheek, a third, ugly emotion squeezing its way through my insides. I had skipped prom, because all the dresses that I could afford looked awful, and all the dresses that looked good were too expensive. And because there was no point going, if Aaron wasn’t there.

“Focus. Find your phone first,” I whisper out loud—

And freeze.

The words are my words; I’m aware of my lips moving in the shape of them. I can feel the vibrations in my throat. But the voice is not my voice. It’s higher, gentler, strange, and terribly familiar. I had heard it only yesterday.

A sudden bizarre thought grips me.

Impossible. This can’t actually be happening. Not by the laws of physics, or biology, or anything. But I let Jessica’s phone fall onto the bed—her phone, a voice inside my head notes with new significance, her bed—and sprint into the adjoining bathroom, flinging open the doors. I crash to a halt before the mirror, my heart threatening to beat out of my rib cage, my eyes wide.

No, Jessica’s eyes. The person reflected in the mirror is Jessica Chen. Her glossy jet-black hair. Her long lashes and slender neck and perfectly proportioned body. And yet the expression on her face isn’t anything I’ve seen her show before—it’s raw bewilderment. Utter disbelief.

I’m not just in Jessica’s room.

I am her.

“Jessica!” Auntie’s voice cuts through the air, and it takes me another moment to pick my jaw up off the floor, to realize she’s technically calling me. Or the body I’m inhabiting.

I’m dreaming.

It’s the first possibility that pops into my mind. It must be a hyperrealistic dream of sorts. So instead of screaming, I stare at the single toothbrush propped up on the bathroom counter, hesitate, and search around for a spare, unused one instead, acting as I would after any sleepover. It helps that I’ve stayed at Jessica’s place plenty of times before, when my parents were too busy working late shifts and couldn’t pick me up, or when both our parents insisted on getting us together for a study session. Then I put on the uniform already laid out for me, noticing as I do that it’s free of wrinkles, and has the same faint strawberry scent as the sheets. That’s where I know it from. It’s Jessica’s signature scent.

“This can’t be real,” I mutter, watching the face in the mirror move as well. I run an agitated hand through her hair, but every strand falls perfectly back into place. Frowning, I repeat the motion with more force, and only end up creating a stunning windswept look, as if a magical beach breeze has fluffed out her hair.

Somehow, it’s this ridiculous, unfair detail that pushes aside my initial shock, making room for other possibilities. Maybe I’d inhaled too much of the paint fumes last night. Maybe I’m in a coma, and my damaged brain has decided to conjure up this entire fantasy, weaving the scenes together based on my preexisting knowledge of Jessica and her family. We’d studied something like this in our psychology class. Of course I’d forgotten most of the details as soon as I finished the end-of-semester test, but the general principles still applied.

I’m feeling a little calmer by the time I head downstairs for breakfast, Jessica’s phone in my pocket, her bag slung around my shoulders.