Page 7

In my old life, when everything was terrible and nothing I did felt meaningful, I would always torment myself by imagining

Jessica’s daily routine. But for the past two weeks, I no longer had to imagine; I could directly compare my routine to hers.

My mornings as myself: wake up to the hostile blare of the alarm. Bury my head in my blankets and press snooze. Repeat until

the snooze button gets tired of me. Eventually, find the inner strength to stagger like a resurrected corpse into the bathroom.

My mornings as Jessica: wake up to bright golden air, the open sky beyond the window, somehow already energized. Hum under

my breath as I slip into my satin bathrobe and silk slippers. Admire my perfect reflection in the mirror and wonder how it’s

scientifically possible for a person to not have pores.

Lunch, as myself: wolf down a soggy chicken sandwich and retreat into the shadows of the bike shed, my sketchbook hugged to

my chest. Watch Jessica and Leela and Celine from a distance as they laugh together on the lawn, swallow the lump in my throat.

Lunch, as Jessica: lie down in the very center of the school lawn, soaking up the sun, while people like Cathy watch from a distance, desperate to be closer. Catch up with Leela and Celine on the latest gossip. Catch the eye of some beautiful boy passing by.

My evenings as myself: take a hasty shower before collapsing on the couch next to my parents with a bowl of sliced apples,

squinting at the light from my phone. Flick through photos and videos of strangers having the best night of their lives, showing

off their six-figure brand deals, their shiny new cars, their prestigious art awards, their friends’ yachts.

My evenings as Jessica: take a hot bath infused with roses and expensive oils. Wander around the mansion, where every room

smells like the magnolias lining the front yard, sweet and clean. Slide into bed and marvel at how different two lives can

be.

But Jessica Chen’s routine isn’t just different from mine—it’s also utterly overwhelming. I’d thought that my schedule was

already intense, but Jessica’s chosen the hardest subjects the school has to offer, and her interests just happen to lean

in the opposite direction of mine; instead of history, geography, and art, she’s taking chemistry, college-level statistics,

and computer science. I find myself rushing from class to unfamiliar class, my anxiety climbing in steady increments with

each assignment introduced and each test announced, the work piling up in impossible amounts. It’s just one thing after another

after another; it feels like I’m being chased. I can’t slow down, I can only go faster. By the time I get home, the pressure

in my skull is so intense I’m gripped by the very real fear that my brain might explode.

Then there are my self-assigned readings.

In the limited spare moments I can squeeze out of my day, I slip into the library, past the filling tables, to the shadowed corners at the very back, where you can find rare, leather-bound books from decades ago, though few students ever try. I haven’t received any new mysterious messages since last week, but the sick, paranoid feeling in my stomach hasn’t abated—it’s only spread. Every time I catch a classmate’s eye, bump into someone in the corridor, I have to suppress a flinch. Do you know? The question bubbles up in my mind like bile. Was it you? Can you tell that I’m not her?

But in the absence of any real answers, I need to find my cousin now more than ever. There are no reliable answers online,

and I don’t have either the faith or the intelligence to look into scientific theory, so I turn to lore. Legend. Fairy tales

from fallen kingdoms.

Tiny motes of dusts swirl in the air, catching the silver sunlight as I pull out another collection of fantasy stories from

the nineteenth century. It’s so heavy that I have to set down the stack of books I’m already holding and balance it against

the shelf. My fingers drift over the title. The Strange and Fantastical Journey of Charles Collins.

Like most of the other titles I’ve browsed through, the pages are yellow and thinning, as if the edges had been dipped in

water, and flecked with brown, like sunspots. The detailed illustrations curling around the text have started to fade in color

too, the dark strokes of ink vanishing with time. But there’s a chapter about Charles transforming into the charming, handsome

knight he envies....

My heart ricochets inside my rib cage.

I read four pages before my pulse slows its pace again. Nothing happens to Charles’s soul, or the knight’s. Instead, Charles learns a forbidden spell that only works if he steals the knight’s face—which he does in a horrific manner, slicing off the knight’s nose and lips, then gouging out his eyeballs, then peeling off the knight’s skin. The accompanying drawings are just as vividly gruesome, depicting the two men, one gloating, grinning, his hands crusted crimson, and the other faceless, doubled over in agony, his ruined mouth a gaping abyss. I shove the book back with a violent shudder, the delicate skin on my face crawling with goose bumps.

“I thought it was you.”

I jump at the voice, my knees buckling. My first thought of pure black dread is that it’s the anonymous student, that they’ve

caught me and everything’s over and they’ll all know I’m an imposter. But when I spin around, it’s Aaron standing in the aisle,

a bemused expression on his face.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.

I can still hear the blood slamming against my eardrums. “I... no,” I manage, my throat tight. “No, you didn’t scare me.

I was just... surprised. There, um, usually aren’t a lot of people here.”

“I’m looking for a doctor’s memoir,” he says, then glances over at the thick volumes lying by my feet. “And you’re looking

for... fairy tales.” The faintest lift of his eyebrows. “I didn’t think that was your area of interest.”

I wince. “It’s not. I only... I was only looking for inspiration,” I say, stringing the lie together as I go, “for my next

English project. I thought it might be good to get some, um, unique perspectives from the novelists of the nineteenth century.”

“I see.” His eyes are too dark for me to tell if he’s convinced. “Well, if you want to read those, you should probably go check them out now. Old Keller might forgive you for being late if you tell him how dedicated you are to your English project, though.”

I stare at him blankly.

“Debate.” His brows rise higher. “Don’t you have the meeting at lunch? I saw them getting ready on my way over.”

Right. Debate. Because aside from her intensive academics, Jessica has also signed up for every extracurricular under the sun. Student council.

The school magazine. Peer mentoring. The English club. Academic decathlon. Yearbook committee. The Chinese Club. And of course

the club considered most competitive and elite at Havenwood: speech and debate.

I curse inwardly. “Of course... thank you,” I babble to Aaron. “I should definitely go—I’ll go right now. Nice seeing you...

as usual.” I crouch down, trying and failing to gather all the books in my arms.

Aaron’s voice hovers over my shoulder. “Do you need help with—”

“No,” I say quickly, using my chin to stabilize the wobbling pile of books. “I’m fine. Really. Thanks again, Cai Anran.”

It’s not until I’ve brushed past him that I remember I’m the only one who ever calls him by his Chinese name.

Speech and debate meetings are held in what used to be the world literature classroom. The air tastes bitter, like old coffee

and plastic, and the lone window at the back appears to be stuck closed. Two rows of tables have been arranged on opposite

ends of the room, facing each other.

“Jessica, you’re finally here,” Old Keller says when I rush in, and for a confused moment I almost look around to find my cousin. I give my head a quick shake, try to catch my breath, get my bearings. Everything is starting to blur together, my life and Jessica’s. “I was just about to announce the topic for today.”

I do a quick assessment of the teams, sizing them up instinctively.

On one side is Tracey Davis, Liam Phillip, and Lachlan Robertson. They don’t smile at me; they don’t seem to notice anyone

around them at all. Instead, their heads are bent together and they’re joking loudly about something, or someone, a name that

sounds familiar but I don’t fully recognize. I chew the inside of my cheek, my gaze flickering between them.

Liam is the smartest of the three, without a doubt. Broad shouldered and naturally intimidating, he attended a special debate

camp last year and won best speaker at a recent national competition. Tracey is intelligent, sharp-tongued when she wants

to be, but not particularly confident. Lachlan is confident, but not very intelligent.

On the other side—my side—is Charlotte Heathers and a girl from Jessica’s physics class.

“Hey, Jessica,” Charlotte says with a wide, genuine smile. She’s one of the only girls in our year who hasn’t had her braces

taken off yet, and the smattering of freckles across her nose looks more prominent than ever under the harsh fluorescent lights.

It’s a look that not many can pull off, but she makes it seem cute, even stylish.

“Okay, debaters, please find the topic on the board,” Old Keller announces. “Tracey, Liam, and Lachlan—you’ll be arguing for the topic. Jessica’s team—you’ll be arguing against.”

I slide into the only seat available, on Charlotte’s left, and stare ahead. The topic has been written out with a dying blue

marker and circled twice for emphasis.

It reads:

Imperialism is a justifiable means of spreading knowledge and new technologies to weaker nations.

“What?” I hiss out loud, blinking at the board. “Are we being serious? Is this... is this a legitimate topic for debate?”

Charlotte shoots me a look that’s half infuriated on my behalf and half apologetic. “Maybe we can ask the teacher to change

it,” she says. “This is only for a mock debate, anyway.”

I feel a low twisting in my gut, but I ignore it. It is possible that the teacher would change the topic—but then I’d have to try and explain myself to the room, beg them to understand

it from my point of view, and that thought only makes my stomach tighten further. “No, it’s fine,” I say. “Not a big deal.”

Across the room, the other members have already started brainstorming, Liam speaking low and fast with his hand covering his

mouth, while Tracey nods enthusiastically and takes notes, her pen flying across the page.

“Wow, they were really prepared for this one, weren’t they?” I mutter. “It’s great that they can think of so many reasons

right away. Not concerning at all.”

“We’ll win,” Charlotte reassures me. “We can come up with better points.”

I nod, even though that’s not what I’m worried about.

The official debate begins fifteen minutes later. Liam goes first. He stands up slowly, pushing the chair back with an unpleasant,

drawn-out screech, and clears his throat twice. His limbs are loose and relaxed, his mouse-brown hair gelled back, his expression

smug, as though they’ve already won.

“I would like to first clarify what the topic is addressing,” he says, “in that the real question posed here is: Do the benefits

of imperialism outweigh any potential harm? Ultimately, we believe the answer is yes.”

It’s all I can do to keep my eyebrows from ascending up my forehead.

“What is imperialism?” he continues, now walking around the room as he talks. He isn’t holding any cue cards, so his hands

move freely about in distracting, elaborate gestures that mean nothing. “Simply put, it is the spread and extension of power,

culture, and influence. Let’s look throughout history, toward the Opium War, as an example....”

I’m forced to sit there and chew my own tongue as he goes on and on about the economic benefits of opium sales, about the

modernizing effects of war, the stimulation of global trade, before arriving at his next point. “We believe that the weaker

nations are the ones benefiting the most from imperialism. Look at our education system, our resources, our research—it’s universally acknowledged that a Western education is superior. Today, hundreds of thousands of immigrants flock to our country in hopes of attaining exactly that. Those people will spend their whole lives fighting to be recognized by institutions like Harvard.” His eyes land deliberately on me, his point clear.

I look away, coldness spreading through my fingertips, unable to think of a response. Because haven’t I spent my whole life longing for Harvard’s approval?

Charlotte goes next. She delivers a calm but scathing rebuttal, which is then countered by Tracey, and then it’s my turn.

I rise to my feet. The notes I’ve prepared shake so violently in my hands that I almost can’t read them. I swallow, open my

mouth to speak, even though it feels like there are stones lodged inside my throat. “The second argument in favor of our position

is...”

The other team looks straight ahead at me. Looks straight through me. Their expressions are totally unbothered, cool, bored.

Liam’s brows rise higher and higher as I make my points.

“We shouldn’t ignore the social ramifications... the devastation caused to—” My voice cracks.

Charlotte immediately offers me a bottle of water. I take it, cupping it in my trembling fingers.

“Take your time, Jessica,” Old Keller tells me.

I can feel myself growing more and more flustered, an unpleasant heat spreading over my face, my neck, my palms.

“The devastation caused to the local populace,” I continue, but it’s like I’m not even here. It’s like I’m hovering outside Jessica’s body, watching everything progress from above. It’s all futile. A doomed match. Of course the members of the other team are able to rationalize and intellectualize their way through this argument; they can express their opinions clearly, succinctly, without any personal feelings on the matter, without having to sift through their trauma for evidence, and they’ll be rewarded for it.

But here I am, trying to verbalize my own pain, to justify my own existence, breaking it down into digestible points. Every

word comes out a double-edged knife. This isn’t just a debate for me. This is my history, my life.

Then, finally, it’s over. The other team wins.

There’s a low sinking sensation in my stomach, but it’s more than defeat.

“Good job,” Liam says when we’re all getting up and shaking hands because we have to. His fingers are ice-cold; mine are warm,

clammy. “And just to put it out there, I’m not, like, personally a massive fan of imperialism.”

“Right,” I say. “Sure.”

“It’s debating, you know?” he continues. “You can argue things you don’t believe in. That’s what makes a good debater.”

I give him a stiff smile. “I understand.”

“Well.” He already looks done with the conversation. “Better luck next time.”

I watch him as he ambles out of the classroom, his hands in his blazer pockets, Tracey and Lachlan following close behind

him. Maybe he’ll brag about his win at dinner tonight, recount his finishing statement, and everyone will tell him how smart

and eloquent he is. Or maybe he won’t, maybe this whole thing will have slipped his mind by the time he reaches his next class.

That’s how little it matters to him.

But I’m still fuming over the debate when I slide into my seat in politics. I feel strangely shaken, like someone’s flipped my skin inside out, left a bitter, stale taste in my mouth. The more I think about it, the more my body recoils from the memory.

“Have you heard already?” Leela whispers, misreading the look on my face. She’s drumming both fingers on the table in a rapid,

erratic rhythm, like a quickening heartbeat. I try to ignore it.

“Heard what?”

“Our tests have been marked,” Celine says, with the somber tone of a doctor delivering a medical report. “She’s going to hand

them back this class.”

She’s not the only one nervous. All around the sunlit classroom, people’s faces are drawn, pinched, turned toward Ms. Lewis

at the front of the classroom. Or, more accurately, the test papers stacked beside her.

When the last student has shuffled inside, she closes the door and rests her hands on her hips. She’s wearing a darker shade

of lipstick today; it bleeds into the fine wrinkles around her lips when she speaks. “I appreciate that this was a difficult

test for many of you,” she begins.

“Shit,” Celine hisses under her breath. “That means we’re screwed.”

Leela lets out a hysterical sort of laugh.

“We will review it together,” Ms. Lewis says. “I’ll call your names out one at a time. Whether you’re satisfied or not with your score, I suggest you keep your reactions... subdued.” She shoots a pointed look at Charlotte Heathers, who once famously leapt up onto the desk in joy when she got a ninety-five percent.

I squirm in my seat as the teacher reaches for the first test paper with what can only be deliberate slowness. She lifts it

all the way up to her face, then lowers it, adjusts her reading glasses, and squints at the name. Not mine, this time. It’s

like the moments before we headed into the test, but worse in many ways. Now there’s nothing we can do except wait.

And despite the teacher’s warning about subduing our reactions, I still can’t help assessing everyone’s expressions as they

head up to retrieve their test. A few people’s faces crumple in relief, their tension cracking into a wide beam. They make

their way back to their desks happily, patting their chests. Others aren’t so lucky.

Only Aaron’s face doesn’t change at all when he sees his score. As he passes me, I crane my neck and catch the one hundred

percent scribbled at the top next to his name.

Typical.

Then a small shock goes through my body, a silent pressure, jolting me from my thoughts. I look up instinctively, and meet

his gaze. He’s caught me staring. He tilts his head, spelling out a half question I don’t know how to answer. Jessica would

have simply kept her eyes on her own paper.

“Jessica.”

I twist my head, my heart already beating in a frenzy. Ms. Lewis is holding out my test. Every possibility runs through my

head, the greatest success and the most crushing failure. I suck in a deep breath and stand up to take it, flipping it over

quickly to the first page, the sharp edge of it slicing my thumb.

Ninety-one percent.

My chest inflates, relief flushing through me, the corners of my lips leaping up. Ninety-one. I repeat the number inside my head, relishing it. It’s so much better than I would have expected. In the past, I had been

getting consistent seventies and eighties in my politics tests. Maybe I’m not so bad at this subject. Maybe I could even be

good at it, and I just didn’t have the right notes or study technique—

But then I see the look on the teacher’s face, and her eyes are heavy with such obvious concern you’d think I was dying right

in front of her.

“Is everything okay at home, Jessica?” she whispers.

I blink, my smile faltering. “Um. Yes?”

At this, her concern only deepens. “Are you certain? Were you sick during the test?” She sounds almost hopeful, like nothing

would put her mind at ease more than the idea of me taking this test with a high fever.

“No?” I say. By now I’ve been standing up here too long, and people are starting to stare.

“Well then, this isn’t up to your usual standards, Jessica,” Ms. Lewis says, keeping her voice low. “I know some students

like to let themselves go toward the end of their final semester....” She peers sternly down at me over her glasses, and

out of nowhere, I remember the story my mother used to tell me about Sun Wukong, the monkey king from the myths, crushed under

the weight of mountains for centuries. It’s hard to breathe. “That’s not what’s happening here, is it?”

“Of course not,” I whisper.

“I certainly hope not,” she tells me, patting my arm. “You’re the best student I have, Jessica. I would hate to be disappointed.”

I can’t muster a response, so I just nod and turn back to my desk. As I do, a terrible thought dawns on me: that failure is

permanent, but success is always fleeting, it always happens in the past tense.

Jessica’s Harvard acceptance only came in last week. In the test before this one, and the one before that, she had received

a perfect score. But already I can feel the significance of it fading, the light winking out like a passing comet, there and

then gone behind the trees, lost to obscurity. It’s not enough to be perfect at one precise moment in time—to stun those around

you, to grasp the lightning when it strikes, to move across a stage and gather all the accolades in your arms like fresh roses.

You have to prove yourself over and over, and when the glory for your most recent achievement expires, as it must, as it always

will, you have to start again, but with more eyes trained on you, more people waiting for the day when your talent withers,

and your discipline weakens, and your charm wears away. Success is only meant to be rented out, borrowed in small doses at

a time, never to be owned completely, no matter what price you’re willing to pay for it.

Suddenly I feel suffocated, as though I really am trapped beneath mountains, struck down by the gods. I want to escape this

classroom, this school. I want to leave this town behind me in the dust and run for miles and miles.

I want to paint, to smear oils over a canvas, but I haven’t held a brush since my last night as Jenna Chen.

The second I’m seated, someone taps my shoulder. It’s Cathy.

“How did you do?” she asks me.

I manage to smile. “All right.”

“Just all right? I’m sure you did great.”

She wants the actual score. Of course she does; I don’t think Cathy Liu is physically capable of restraining herself from

asking about other people’s scores, no matter how unwilling they are to share. There was a rumor going around that she keeps

a secret spreadsheet on everyone’s grades across all her subjects, and that it’s more comprehensive than what some teachers

have.

I make sure my test paper is fully face down on my desk, so she can’t see, and flatten my hands over my lap. Suppress the

violent urge to shred my test into pieces. “It was okay,” I tell her.

“So, like, ninety-nine percent, then?” she guesses.

I say nothing.

“Ninety-eight?” Her dark brown eyes search my face with anticipation. “Ninety-seven? It must be above ninety-six at the very

least—”

“Hey, could you give my friend some space?” Celine interrupts, throwing her a look so disdainful even I feel like withering

under it. It’s a look that says Know your place.

And Cathy does. She shrivels up at once and retreats back to her desk without another word.

“I swear, that girl cannot go a day without trying to cozy up to you,” Celine mutters to me under her breath. “I bet she was planning to start bragging about her own score next. It’s literally embarrassing how eager she is to impress.”

Despite myself, I feel a faint jolt of pity. I wonder if that’s how Celine saw me, when I was myself: always on the sidelines,

trying to cling to Leela and Jessica, to climb higher than I deserved to be. But before I can decide whether to thank Celine

or defend Cathy, I’m distracted by the soft creak and click of the door. Leela’s slipped out of the classroom.

Nobody else seems to have noticed; they’re all busy fussing over their scores, complaining over the questions they misread,

the half point they shouldn’t have lost. But something’s wrong. It’s a feeling more than a knowing.

“Where’s Leela headed off to?” I ask Celine.

“Probably the bathroom.” She shrugs. “She always goes to the bathroom at this time of the day on the dot. Her biological cycle

is like a robot’s.”

That might be true, but I still feel a pang of unease in my stomach. “Well, I’m going too,” I say.

“Be quick,” Celine calls after me. “We’re looking over the answers soon.”

The hallway is quiet when I step out. It doesn’t take long for me to spot Leela standing alone at the very end of it, her

head bowed, her paper crumpled in one hand. Her shoulders are trembling.

Then she seems to hear me approaching, and stiffens. Wipes furiously at her cheeks. Hides the test behind her back like it’s

something criminal.

“I was just getting some fresh air,” she tells me, her voice scratchy even as she shoots me an almost-convincing smile.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She nods, nods so quickly her ponytail whips around. “Yeah. Of course, silly.”

I pause, confused by her reluctance, the wariness in her gaze. As if I’m someone to be guarded against, rather than someone

to confide in. No matter what it was, Leela Patel would always find me first when something went wrong. I’ve listened to her

sob uncontrollably over the phone after breaking up with her first boyfriend, after fighting with her mother, after missing

the last entry spot for the computer science camp she’d had her eyes on for years. In comparison, this should be nothing.

“You can tell me, you know,” I say slowly. “I’m here for you. Whatever it is.”

Surprise flashes through her features.

“Really,” I continue. Jessica would probably say something much more eloquent and profound, but I can only talk to her the

way I know how. “I mean, I bet it can’t be that bad. You haven’t lost a million dollars, have you? Or murdered people? Or crashed a car through the principal’s office? Or

led a donkey up to the school roof, like those guys did last year?”

She lets out a small snort. “No.”

“Then?”

“You... wouldn’t understand,” she murmurs, but her stance is softer, her hands lowering themselves to her sides.

“Try me,” I say gently. “I might understand more than you think.”

“It’s just...” She hesitates again. “It’s just... this test. I bombed it, as expected. Well, even more than expected, if you can believe it.”

You couldn’t have, is what I want to say, but I stop myself. I’ve had that line used on me enough times to realize it cuts more than it comforts.

It’s such a familiar line of conversation I have it memorized. “I did so badly,” I would tell someone, to which they’d say, with a flippant air, “I’m sure it wasn’t bad—it’s not like it was below ninety,”

which would render me humiliated and speechless, because it very often was.

So instead I just reply, “It’s only this one test. Mathematically speaking, it’s not enough to affect your average. Plus,

we’ve all bombed at least one test before—it’s basically a rite of passage.”

There it is again: the surprise on her face, even more pronounced than before.

“Have you bombed a test before?” she asks with some skepticism.

“I...” I trail off. I want to tell her the truth, but I don’t want to lie as Jessica. “I’m familiar enough with disappointment”

is what I settle on.

“But you’ve never felt this way, have you?”

“Felt what?”

“Like you’re constantly struggling.” She’s so quiet I have to read her lips to understand the words. “Like everyone is racing

far ahead of you and you’re stuck in the same place, or worse—”

“Or slowing down?” I finish for her. “Trust me, I know the feeling.”

She stares up at me. “Really?”

I’ve never known anything else except this. “I told you.” I shrug. “Rite of passage. I’ll bet half the people in our class are thinking the same thing right now.”

“I doubt it. They’re all so smart—”

“You’re smart as well,” I cut in. Sometimes it seems like being called smart is the only compliment that matters at Havenwood.

“Everyone knows it. Including the teacher. Remember the presentation you did last month? You literally got a standing ovation

at the end like it was a film festival. I don’t think that ever happens, but it happened for you.”

“Okay, you’re just flattering me now,” she says, but she’s smiling a little, her eyes brighter, clearer. This feels so much

closer to what I remember, to the way Leela acted around me, laid-back and honest and never afraid to be too sappy. I’ve missed

it.

“You know what we should do?” I say, eager to make the moment last, to have my best friend back. “Let’s head down to the Owl

after school.” I’m certain this will cheer her up—it’s the café where we would spend countless afternoons, racing to reserve

the rose-patterned couches in the corner, ordering lemon teas so cold you could see our breath condensed against the glass

and platters of fries the size of our head, dipping them in melted cheese and licking the salt and chicken grease from our

fingers.

The tables were always decorated with antiques and misshapen mugs and glazed vases, and we’d bring our sketchbooks with us and draw until all the other customers had left. It was one of the few places where I could truly relax, where time didn’t seem to shrink, but to stretch out around us.

“The Owl?” Leela looks confused. “I thought you said it was too crowded. And the fries were too oily.”

I falter. “Oh. I mean, yeah, but...”

To my relief, the classroom door creaks open again, and Cathy skips down the hall toward us.

“What are you two doing out here?” she asks. Then she looks over at me, at Leela’s expression, the test she’s still holding,

and seems to understand at once. “Ah. Didn’t get the score you wanted on the test?”

Before either of us can reply, Cathy addresses only Leela. “It’s okay if Jessica beat you.”

Leela’s smile drops completely.

“We should all be used to it by now, right?” Cathy goes on in a matter-of-fact tone. “Jessica is, like, on her own level.

She’s basically a god, and gods don’t have any competition except themselves. It’s useless to get upset over it. My best tip?

Just accept that she’s better than everyone and move on with your life. None of us can be her.”

This, I suppose, is a twisted form of praise. Yet all I can focus on is how Leela shuts down, shifts back, her fingers curling

over the paper. All I feel is the slosh of ice water in my stomach, the sense that something is slipping away from me.

“None of us can be her,” Leela echoes. “You’re right. How could I forget?”

“Leela,” I try. “That’s not—”

“No, no, it’s true,” she says, and my gut sinks further. She doesn’t sound angry. It’s hard to detect any emotion in her voice at all. “I’ll meet you inside, Jessica. I actually did have to go to the bathroom, so.”

“I... okay.”

I let her go and walk back to the classroom alone, in a daze. Everyone is still obsessing over their test papers, comparing

answers, and for a few seconds, standing there in the doorway, the whole thing strikes me as entirely ridiculous. Nonsensical.

All this trouble, all this scheming and grieving and competing, for what? A number that will shed its meaning in less than

a year?

But when I glance over at my desk, my blood skips in my veins. My test paper has been flipped around, the score exposed. When

I go to pick it up, a handwritten note falls out from inside the pages, fluttering onto the desk like the severed wing of

a moth.

Not so perfect, are you?