Page 10

As the weeks pass, I grow into Jessica’s life.

It’s like moving from a one-bedroom flat into a mansion. After the first few days of wandering in a daze around your own hallways,

tossing and turning on the king-sized mattress, getting up in the middle of the night and hitting your head while fumbling

around for the bathroom door, you adjust. You settle in. You don’t notice the scent of the magnolias first thing in the morning

anymore. You can turn off the night-light with your eyes closed. You know to avoid the creaky step at the top of the stairs

and twist the kitchen tap harder to the right.

But I’m still slightly disoriented when Celine calls me on Saturday.

“Why haven’t you been answering any of my texts?” she demands the second I pick up.

I swallow, straighten in my seat. So maybe there is something I haven’t fully adjusted to yet. “Sorry,” I tell her, rolling the chair forward to shut my bedroom door with one foot. “I’ve been really busy.” I’m not lying, exactly. When I haven’t been watching crash courses on physics, I’ve been poring over the fables I borrowed from the library, rifling through Jessica’s wardrobe and textbooks for any other mysterious messages or hints as to what terrible thing she might’ve done, and brainstorming increasingly unrealistic solutions for how I might locate my cousin’s soul. My last idea had been to buy Jessica’s favorite food—roasted duck, dipped in sweet-and-sour sauce—and leave it on the back porch like an offering at a shrine. I had gone so far as to set the plate out on the wooden planks, then rapidly aborted the plan when the ants appeared.

“But I hear you’ve been replying to Leela,” Celine is saying, her voice too casual to be convincing. “So I guess you’re not

that busy.”

Yes, well, that’s because I’m not concerned that Leela has been writing vaguely threatening notes to my cousin. But if Celine really is the one behind it all, then I shouldn’t rattle the grass and startle the snake, as my mom always

says. She can’t know that I suspect her. Not yet. Not before I figure out my next steps. “I have time now,” I say brightly.

“I promise I didn’t mean to be so, um, absent. I was just overwhelmed.”

“Well, in that case,” she says, “I take it you’re free to go horseback riding with me and Leela?”

“Like... on actual horses?” I ask, just to be clear. “Those animals people used as a primary form of transportation two

hundred years ago?”

“Yes, Jessica,” she says. “I know it’s not your favorite sport in the world, but the horse needs exercise.”

“The horse?” I repeat.

“The horse ,” Celine says. “My horse. Hello?”

“Oh. That horse,” I say. Three years ago, Charlotte Heathers had bought Celine a horse for her birthday. It was an incredibly nice, incredibly generous, and incredibly impractical gesture. Because Charlotte Heathers comes from a family where horses and twenty-thousand-dollar handbags and sports cars can be casually exchanged as gifts. Because Charlotte Heathers owns three villas and a vineyard and a literal castle that’s often rented out to be used as the set for period dramas. Because Charlotte Heathers, sweet as she is, probably doesn’t have an accurate grasp of how costly it is to own a horse.

I didn’t know either of them well enough to see how the whole thing played out, but I heard through the usual channels of

gossip that Charlotte had led the horse straight into Celine’s backyard and handed the reins over.

There weren’t many updates after that, and so I’d naturally assumed that Celine—being the less nice and more practical person—had

found a way to give the horse back or maybe donate it to whatever production team was renting Charlotte’s castle. Apparently

not.

“So you’re coming, right?” Celine asks.

“Well, I don’t know—”

“I thought you said you had time,” she says, a question in her voice.

I hesitate. If I refuse, she’ll definitely realize I’ve been avoiding her on purpose. Besides, horseback riding is one of

those upper-class hobbies I was desperate to try when I was a child, if only I had the money and the opportunity and the athletic

ability—and now I have all three. “Okay,” I say slowly. “I mean, why not?”

The doors of the stables open up to a rolling meadow and saturated blue sky and cool afternoon air.

I sink into the saddle, my heels automatically dropping lower in the stirrups, my fingers curling around the reins. Then,

mimicking Leela and Celine up ahead of me, I squeeze my horse a few times, my boots thudding dully against the great animal’s

belly. With a snort, he breaks into a fast, bumpy stride that ought to bounce me right off, but my body—or Jessica’s body—adapts

at once, rising and falling in a steady rhythm with every momentary loss of gravity.

Soon, without much effort it seems, I’ve caught up to the others.

“...did you hear that Cathy completely broke down during our chemistry test yesterday?” Celine is saying.

I turn to her in surprise. “Broke down? How?”

Celine shrugs. “Twenty minutes in, and she just started crying. Like, really bad, serious crying. The teacher had to lead

her out of the room.”

“Damn,” Leela says. “You know, now that I think of it, she has seemed pretty stressed lately.”

“Who isn’t stressed?” Celine says briskly, leaning forward to pat her horse’s neck.

“She could be under a lot of pressure,” I point out, unable to stop myself from jumping to the girl’s defense. Just thinking about her panicking halfway through the test—her wide eyes swimming with tears, her round face splotched red and helpless—makes sympathy simmer low in my stomach. Or maybe not just sympathy; if I think long enough for it to hurt, I can picture my old face superimposed on hers, like soft charcoal lines mapped over tracing paper.

“I guess I do feel bad for Cathy and all that,” Celine allows. “It must be hard when you’re smart but not the smartest. I

actually think it’s better to always come in tenth than to always be second-best in everything.”

Second to who? I’m about to ask, when I realize the obvious answer. Second to Jessica.

“No, I disagree,” Leela says. “At least being second means you get good grades, and you get more opportunities. I feel like

it’s much more depressing to be average.”

“That’s like one of Cathy’s friends,” Celine says. “I kid you not, I completely forgot this girl was even sitting behind me

until I was paired with her for a group project....”

We ride for miles like this, with Leela and Celine comparing notes on who’s smarter and who’s more suitable and who’s lacking

in this department but not that one, and I feel my skin begin to prickle uncomfortably. Surely, at some point, they must have

had a similar conversation about me. And then I realize I no longer have to guess. I can find out for myself.

I breathe in. Speak up before I can back out. “What about my cousin Jenna?”

“Your cousin?” Celine’s brows furrow, like she’s struggling to place a memory from years ago. “Oh right. Jenna.”

So at least they still remember me. They still know I exist. I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Not until Celine sighs and says—

“You’re not going to tell her this, are you? I mean, I know you won’t. But she’s always struck me as, like, the kind of person

who’s really hardworking. Just really, ridiculously hardworking in order to make up for her lack of natural talent. We can’t

blame her for that, though. At least she’s self-aware—”

“ Celine. Don’t be so mean,” Leela chides her, but she doesn’t seem to disagree either.

And my stomach is falling, my blood is freezing, my lungs are failing me. Still, I persist, like someone standing on a twisted

ankle, testing the extent of the damage. “Is that... really a bad thing?”

“Hey, being hardworking isn’t anything to be ashamed of,” Celine says, adjusting the reins with one hand. “But just hard work

isn’t going to get you very far, either. Look at all the famous athletes and screenwriters and singer-songwriters and scholars.

All the people who’ve left an actual mark on the world. That writer we were learning about in literature the other day. She

wrote her first award-winning bestseller when she was, what, sixteen years old? She showed promise when she was, like, ten.

And she said that she barely even practiced, all she did was read a lot. For people like that, do we think they worked hard

or were born as prodigies?”

It’s not an actual question.

I already know the answer, anyway. I’ve known it this whole time.

“But your family already has you, Jessica.” Celine flashes me a smile that’s probably meant to be flattering, meant to make

me feel better. I feel like I want to throw up. “One prodigy is enough. You work hard and you’re talented and everyone knows you’ll be successful. If Jenna ever needs anything, she can always ask you for it.”

Leela nudges her horse forward just to shove Celine’s shoulder. “You think everyone would leech off their relatives the way

you do?”

Celine grins. “It’s called being resourceful. And very soon, I’ll be the most successful one in my family—I’m very certain

of that. They’ll all be leeching off me.” Then she glances back at me again, her brows rising and disappearing under her helmet.

“But why do you even care about your cousin? She’s kind of just... there.”

The funny thing about time is that part of it is always at a standstill, frozen in the back of your mind, waiting to resurface at any given second. Because just those few words and I’m ten years old again, watching the other kids play together at recess, all of them laughing so loud it hurts my eardrums. I’m fumbling for the basketball in gym class because despite my best efforts I can’t get it right, and I can see the eye rolls from the sidelines, I can hear the soft snickers when I trip over my feet, my face flushing, eyes burning. I’m walking through the mall with my family and half of the girls in the year are gathered there and I almost go up to them to say hi until I realize that I wasn’t invited. I’m trying to smile through my mortification when the teacher lets everyone choose their own study groups and all my classmates are leaning over their desks, reaching for each other, making plans already, and I’m the only one left. I’m shrinking myself down, down, down, as small as physically possible when the teacher forces me to join the group of best friends in the back, like the unwanted product in a clearance sale. I’m pretending I can’t hear when one of them whispers, “God, not her,” but maybe the whole point is that I can hear them.

It was a little better when Aaron joined. The classes became bearable. I could hope to let myself hope. I tided myself over

from day to day with the promise of catching his eye in the hallways.

It wasn’t enough, though.

I needed to find a solution. So I started observing my classmates, desperate to find that mysterious, decisive quality that

separated them from me. The thing that I was lacking, that made it so I was always picked last, left out, laughed at.

And I came to the eventual conclusion that they were all good at something. Celine was beautiful and witty and intimidating

and a humanities genius. Leela was incredibly well-rounded across all her subjects and creative and could carry any conversation

with anyone. Even Cathy Liu, who’d always looked up to Jessica, was respected in her own right for her grades.

Clearly, they all thought I was worse than them.

So I had to be better. I had to be so good they couldn’t ignore me anymore. If I wanted to be loved, I had to best them all.

“Hey, isn’t that Aaron?” Celine says. “I didn’t know he could ride.”

The sound of his name yanks my thoughts back to reality.

“What?” I say sharply, twisting around—and without meaning to, I tug at the reins too hard. All I get a glimpse of is a blurry

silhouette in the distance before my horse takes one haphazard step to the left, then jerks fast to the right again, snorting

and dipping his heavy head.

Celine notices. “Whoa,” she says, dropping her own reins to hold up two hands in a placating gesture. “Easy. Hold on—”

It feels like the ground has been ripped out from under me. My body pitches forward with sickening speed.

No, no, no.

I know I’m going to fall before it even happens. I can feel myself teetering wildly off-balance, the uneasy pull between the

air and the gravity and the creature’s movements, the horrible moment when gravity wins. And instead of resisting, instead

of grabbing on to the horse’s mane or trying to slow him down, I squeeze my eyes shut, my muscles tensing, and think, Just get it over with. Just don’t make it hurt, or make it hurt less.

But nothing can prepare me for the shock of the actual fall—the terrible swooping sensation in my stomach, and the hard, jarring

impact of the ground, the dirt in my mouth. My bones quake with it, and for a second my head goes completely blank.

I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t feel anything except the bright, obliterating pain. I’m lying flat on my back, the stones

scraping against my skin, and I open my eyes in time to see the horse leap over me.

Black specks of dirt fly into my vision. My limbs are suddenly useless, too heavy. I hear the horse galloping away, each distinct,

heavy thud of its hooves like a heartbeat, sending tremors through the soil under me, before it slows to a stop. And then Celine’s yells, Leela’s frantic rush of words. Footsteps pounding closer and closer, their faces swimming before me. Celine’s eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them, and Leela is red-faced, shoving loose strands of hair back from her cheeks, her hand covering her mouth. She looks like she might start crying.

“Oh my god—”

“Jessica, are you okay?”

“Shit!”

“Can you try to move?”

Leela whips around to Celine. “What? No, have you lost your mind? Don’t make her move —”

“We need to assess if she’s broken any bones.”

The idea sends a wave of nausea rolling over me, and my fear is more overwhelming than the actual pain itself. My pulse skyrockets,

my breathing coming out high and shallow through my clenched teeth.

“If she’s broken anything, she should stay put,” Leela’s arguing, waving her arms around, her voice rising in pitch. “I read

a news story where someone broke her leg and her friend tried to get her to walk to the nurse and the shattered bone ended

up piercing her skin—”

A low, embarrassing whimper escapes my lips.

“Look, you’re scaring her, Leela,” Celine snaps, crouching down on the grass next to me. “Fine, then. Stay here. But we’re

literally in the middle of nowhere. We can’t just leave her lying on the ground—”

“What if we call the ambulance?”

“No ambulance,” I croak out. The throbbing in my arm has intensified, and I’m too terrified to look at it, too scared that I really have broken something. Beneath my panic, I feel a spasm of guilt. It’s not even my body to break.

“Then who?” Leela asks, her round face pinched with concern and urgency. “Do you want us to call your mom, Jessica?”

I’m about to nod, because I do, I want to see my mom, to have her hold me, stroke my hair, scold me for not being careful

enough. I want to cling to her the way I used to when I was a child, let her soothe my worries away with the palm of her hand.

But then I realize that Leela wouldn’t be calling my mom—she’d be calling my aunt.

“No,” I force out. “Not... her—”

The heavy horse hooves trample the rest of my words down.

“Oh,” I hear Leela say, very faintly. “Wow.”

With immense difficulty, I lift my head an inch, blinking. Aaron Cai is riding across the wild grass on a beautiful black

steed, his dark hair tousled in the wind. He looks like a figure straight out of a poem, a film, a fairy-tale kingdom. He

could be a prince. He could be the one good thing left in the world, the only person I can count on.

Then he’s swinging his leg easily over the saddle, dismounting in a single swift movement, and running toward me.

“Hey, can you hear me?” he asks.

I swallow, overwhelmed by the sudden, irrational urge to burst into tears. He’s so familiar, so reassuring. I feel so safe

around him that it terrifies me; I would follow him anywhere without protest. I want to tell him that, want to grab his hand

and say, “I’m scared.” But the only word I can get out is “Y-yes.”

He doesn’t look scared at all, though. His expression is controlled, completely focused. “Can you move your hands and feet?”

“I—I think so.” My limbs feel wooden, but I manage to lift my fingers and wriggle them, then my toes.

“Okay. Good.” The bright flashlight of a phone flicks on, almost blinding me. “Look over here,” he says quietly, raising a

finger and moving it from one side to the other. “Follow my finger.”

I try to, my eyes watering, the white flare of the light the only thing I can see. After a few seconds, he turns it off again

and nods. Then he grabs a bottle of water from the bag fastened around his waist, lifting it to my lips.

“Careful,” he tells me. “Slowly.”

The water is an immediate relief, cool on my tongue and sweeter than anything I’ve ever tasted. While I drink, he motions

for Leela to hold the bottle for me and turns his attention downward.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he says, and brings his black-gloved hand to my ankles, his touch light, barely brushing my skin, then

up higher to my wrists. I don’t feel anything except the same dull throbbing in my muscles, the stinging in my arm. “Well,

it doesn’t look like anything’s broken.”

Leela releases a loud sigh of relief. “Thank god.”

“I thought so,” Celine says, but there’s a slight tremor to her voice.

Then Aaron takes my left arm in two hands, turning it over so he can inspect the damage, and Leela makes a strangled sound. I can’t resist the morbid desire to look, either. Bile fills my mouth. Most of the skin stretching from the pit of my elbow up to my forearm has been scraped off. All that’s visible is my blood, Jessica’s blood, smeared everywhere.

“Fuck,” Celine whispers. “That... does not look good.”

I feel myself shudder. “Am I... am I going to lose this arm?” I blabber, my heart hammering inside my chest. “Will you

have to saw it off or something? Do we need to go to the ER? Am I dying?”

Aaron shoots me a look that’s half curious, half amused. “Nothing so dramatic, I promise.”

“Really?”

“Really. Just take deep breaths and let me handle it. You’re lucky I have spare bandages in my bag.”

I force myself to inhale. Exhale. He unrolls a strip of gauze, and I’m struck by a dizzying sense of déjà vu, but I’m in too

much pain to follow the memory, see where it leads. I just stay very still, as still as I can, and concentrate on my breathing.

Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale. One, two, three...

“Did you learn how to do this in Paris?” Leela asks as Aaron works, because she’s the kind of person who would strike up small

talk at someone’s funeral.

“Partially,” he replies, wrapping the gauze around my arm. “I already knew some basic techniques, but I had more opportunities

to practice.”

Inhale. Exhale.

“Did you learn to ride while you were there too? I don’t think I ever saw you at the stables before you left.”

“They encouraged extracurriculars. The sport’s grown on me, though. Helps me clear my head.” He stands up, tucking the remaining gauze away. His gloves are stained with blood, and that stirs an old memory as well, like a breeze over a still pool. “All done.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, and maybe because it’s less embarrassing when I’m speaking as Jessica, I add, “You’ll make a great

doctor, you know.”

He falters, just for the briefest moment, and frowns down at me. “Has this happened before? I mean...” He seems to be weighing

out his words, trying to select the right ones. “I don’t know why, I just have this feeling of déjà vu.”

I feel a fresh spike of pain under my breastbone, but I shake my head.

“No, I didn’t think so,” he murmurs, almost too quiet for me to hear. “Strange, then... it feels like...” But he doesn’t

finish his sentence. Just busies himself removing his gloves, his back turned to me, the sun tracing out the firm line of

his shoulders, and I can only wonder what he was going to say. What else he’s remembered.