Fourteen
The waiting is always the worst part.
I do not absorb a single thing in our world politics class the following morning. It’s excruciating enough not to glance every
second in the direction of the suspect, not to push my chair back and march up to her and demand answers. Looking at it now,
it all seems so obvious. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it sooner.
The clock moves so slowly above the whiteboard I have to wonder if it’s broken, the minute hand stuck. My stomach heaves and
twists around nothing; I had skipped breakfast, unable to shove down even a morsel of bread through my chattering teeth. My
legs cross and uncross themselves so many times that eventually Celine elbows me in the ribs.
“What’s up with you today?” she whispers while Ms. Lewis drones on and on at the front of the classroom. “You’ve been fidgeting
all class.”
“Sorry,” I croak out. “Had too much coffee.”
The fifty-five minutes before my next move are almost as painful as the wait before the Harvard email.
My anxiety accumulates steadily over the course of the lesson. When the bell rings, I nearly jump out of my seat, my heartbeat ticking like a bomb. Still, I don’t look at her. Not yet. I glance back over my shoulder and lock eyes with Aaron instead, who gives me the faintest nod.
“I’ll see you two after the break,” I tell Celine and Leela as I fumble for my books. “I’m, um, meeting the physics teacher
to go over a few questions.”
“Do you want us to buy you a snack?” Leela asks.
“No, no. All good.” My smile takes so much effort it hurts my cheeks. “I’m not really hungry.”
I hurry to the library alone, my footsteps echoing up the spiral staircase to where the bookshelves fan out into polished
panels and private rooms. The walls here are thicker, soundproof, built for the language orals students take at the end of
each year and all the practice sessions leading up to it. Whenever a door opens a sliver, you can hear fragments of French,
German, Mandarin floating out from within.
Sunlight falls drowsily through the stained-glass windows when I enter one of the last empty rooms, casting a latticework
of shadows over the plywood desk. It reminds me of the art project Leela did last spring, when we were asked to experiment
with mediums. She had chosen watercolor on shattered mirrors, a painting that changed the composition of whatever was reflected
within it.
I breathe in sawdust and spearmint, and brace myself. The closer you get to the end, the harder the waiting becomes, every possible distraction chiseling away until you’re left only with the apprehension pumping thick through your blood. I run my finger over the broken nail of my thumb, catching on the jagged edge. Aaron should be leading her up here any minute now.
My mind falls away to imagined scenes: him, approaching her after class, asking so politely and sweetly for her opinion on
his oral presentation. She would be proud enough to agree, since the school’s star student rarely asks for help for anything.
He accompanies her up those creaking steps, past the seated, sleepy students, chatting aimlessly the whole way about the weather,
which is pleasant, or the topic for our next essay, which isn’t, then down the aisle, until he slows just outside the room
and—
The doorknob turns.
Cathy Liu’s face is blank at first, confused. Then her eyes focus on me, and comprehension flares to life behind them.
The waiting is always the worst part. Now that it’s over, I feel a strange clarity settle within me. I motion for Aaron to
wait outside, returning his concerned look with a light shake of my head. Then I step around Cathy and close the door.
“I know it was you,” I tell her. “I understand that your preferred way of communication seems to be through vaguely threatening
cryptic messages, but I thought maybe we could talk. What are you after?”
“What am I after?” she echoes, her expression twisting with incredulity. “I mean, isn’t that obvious? I want you to confess.”
“Confess to what ?”
“Oh my god, seriously, Jessica?” She leans back against the wall. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize my own thesis? You’re the only one I told it to—I showed you my entire essay outline. I guess that was my bad; I was naive enough to think I could impress you with how smart I was, as if you’re ever impressed by anyone else. But then, how was I supposed to predict you would copy my thesis? You stole it, Jessica. You stole it from me, and you don’t even have the guts to admit it. Or maybe you just don’t care. Maybe you think
it’s hilarious . What was it that you said in the interview again?” Her lips curl, revealing the white knife of her teeth. “Copy and paste
is your friend?”
I blink, stunned.
It can’t be true. Of course I’d assumed it was something terrible, something shameful, or else Jessica would never have written
that journal entry. I had even contemplated the possibility of manslaughter. Yet it hadn’t crossed my mind to think of this:
Jessica, cheating . Plagiarizing someone else’s ideas. If I’d found this out before I made the wish, I wouldn’t have believed it, even if someone
was holding the evidence right in front of me. Why would Jessica Chen feel the need to cheat when she’s never even failed
before?
But then my memory hooks around the disappointment creasing my aunt’s face, the way Ms. Lewis had held me back after my test
results came out, the shocked glances from my classmates when I gave the wrong answer in physics class, the unspoken question
What happened to you? screaming through the silence, and I think I know why.
“Why didn’t you just tell the teacher then?” I ask Cathy.
She lets out a short, shrill laugh. “You think I had a chance to? Mr. Keller kept me back after class to lecture me about
the striking resemblance between my essay and yours. But of course he assumed that I had copied you, because how could someone like you cheat? Smart, perfect Jessica, the model student who can do no wrong.
What is that like, by the way?” she adds, the bitterness in her voice changing to something almost akin to wonder, to awe,
and I’m gripped by the absurd terror that she’s going to lunge across the space, shake me by the shoulders, sink her nails
into my face. “What is it like to just go around knowing that everyone loves you, and believes in you, and wants to be you?”
I smother my surprise before it can show. Her words are too familiar, shooting and landing with lethal, uncomfortable precision;
I’ve wondered the exact same thing to myself countless times.
“It doesn’t always feel like that,” I say, as honestly as I can.
She falters, but only for a moment. “You know, it’s kind of insulting it took you so long to figure out it was me,” she says,
stuffing her hands in her blazer pockets. “When someone’s out to get you, you should suspect your competition before anyone
else. I guess that’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s the worst part.” Her dark eyes flash. “You never considered me a threat.
I always had a clear view of you ; you were always first, and I was always second. But you didn’t even see me coming, because you never thought to turn around.
I’ll never know what it’s like to be you, and you’ll never know what it’s like to be me. To want something so deeply, so desperately
that it hurts you.”
I do, I reply silently. I know all too well.
Because to me, wanting has always been indistinguishable from pain.
A clenched fist around my heart. A blunt dagger through my stomach. Cold hands around my throat. Whenever I saw the news about the sixteen-year-old who already had everything I’d ever wanted, the fifteen-year-old who had her whole life paved in gold. It was like that with Aaron as well. Whenever he was next to me, so beautiful it ached, his hair falling perfectly into place, his face like that of a young god, smooth and tragic and made for eternity. Whenever he smiled at me and I had to keep my hands fastened to my sides, had to stop myself from saying what I truly felt. Whenever I imagined the impossible, of us together.
Living Jessica’s life has dulled that pain slightly, blurred out that particular part of my memory—similar, maybe, to how
quickly you forget the stuffy discomfort of a fever once you recover. Because it is no longer relevant. Because your body
believes the terrible thing is behind you.
But now it all comes rushing in again, like floodwater, rising instantly to my lips. The pain of insignificance.
“It’s just not fair,” she whispers, dragging her sleeve roughly across her eyes. “It’s not fair. You cheated and you’re still heading off to Harvard, and I’ve done everything right, and I was waitlisted .”
I stare at her. In a flash of clarity, it all makes sense. “But in class, you acted like you’d gotten in... I saw you nod—”
“Yeah, well, obviously.” Her voice cracks. “What else was I meant to do? Announce to the whole class that I had failed ? I mean, do you know how embarrassing it is? I was supposed to be the gifted one. I was so talented , so special — that’s what they all told me, when I was still playing with dolls and didn’t know what an Ivy League was. I didn’t even want to skip two grades, but the teachers said it’d help me realize my full potential faster, and my moms believed them. So then I was thrown into your classes, and I wasn’t special anymore, even though I studied harder than I ever had before, and after all that, you’re the one who made it. You’re headed off to my dream school, and the really funny thing is, Jessica, that you don’t even...
you don’t even need it.”
If she had been clinging to any last ounce of composure before, it crumbles away now. Tears slip between her fingers and drip
from the tip of her nose. I’m struck suddenly by how very young she looks. How much younger she is than we are. “You got into
every Ivy you applied to. Your family has money. You could simply choose to go to another school and then there’d be room
for me—they’d let me off the waitlist. This would be an absolutely incredible, life-changing thing if it happened to me. But
for you? It’s just another accomplishment, isn’t it?”
I swallow. I don’t know what to say—not because I can’t fathom her logic, but because I can. It’s the mantra we’ve all been
fed since we were kids: study hard, get into a good school, be better than everyone else, and you’ll have a better life . Because a school like Havenwood might be a cage, but at the end of the day, a cage is still a shelter, and we all want to
be valued, to be protected, to be safe, to prove that we deserve to be here. Because the chances of success are so suffocatingly
small, and the pressure to succeed is so overwhelmingly great, and there are only a handful of people, distant as deities
from the rest of us, who hold all the power.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” I tell her eventually.
She sniffs. “Yes. It does. You shouldn’t be going to Harvard—it should be me .”
“If you’re waitlisted, you might still get in, whether or not I’m going to Harvard too,” I say, my voice even. I should be
angrier; her messages have kept me up countless nights, filled my lungs with dread and terror, made me flinch at the shadows.
But as I watch her wipe her nose, her body shaking, I realize that she hadn’t acted out of malice so much as desperation,
a need to convince herself that there was still an opportunity to alter her future. Softer, I say, “And even if—”
“Don’t.” Her fists clench, and I take an automatic step back. “Don’t pity me .”
“I don’t pity you. I only...” I hesitate. “I’ve been in a similar position before, that’s all. So I... I get it, I really
do. It’s so easy to fall into the assumption that anything someone else gains is something you lose. To think of success as
some lavish party with only a limited number of invites. To convince yourself that if you could only make it to a certain
point in the distance, you’ll finally find a place to rest. To feel like there’s always more that you can do. But I mean,
look what’s being done to us —to our self-esteem, to our pride, to our bodies. We’re all exhausted and on the verge of breaking down at any second and
somehow... somehow we’re expected to just keep going.
“Even if you don’t get into Harvard,” I tell her, as gently as I would speak to a younger version of myself, the words seeming to float up from somewhere deep inside me, “you can still be happy. You can still live your life. But I also know... I know I shouldn’t have copied your idea. It’s just—there have been a lot of bizarre, unexpected things happening recently, so I’m not in the best position to give you an answer. If I could have more time... I promise,” I say, praying she can hear the sincerity in my voice, “I’ll figure out how to make this right.”
And maybe she does. She slowly unfolds her arms and frowns. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you comforting me?”
I offer her a small smile. “Because if we don’t try to understand each other, then who will?”
There’s no reply at first. I’m not sure if she’s even heard me. But when I gather up my books and turn toward the door, she
says, so low I almost miss it, “A week. I’ll give you one more week.” She doesn’t look at me; she simply remains standing
in the shifting, blue-tinted light of the library, her eyes on the sky.
“How did it go?” Aaron asks as soon as he sees me, pushing off from the railings, his brows drawn with worry.
“As well as it could’ve,” I tell him. I feel shaken, like I’ve just stumbled down a flight of steps. “She was... upset.
Kind of rightly so. My cousin... she...” I hesitate. I want to tell Aaron everything, but it’s still Jessica’s secret.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to give me the full story,” Aaron says. “I just need to know if you’re safe.”
“I mean, she didn’t try to hurt me or anything. And she agreed to drop it—at least for one more week.”
He doesn’t relax. “Are you certain—”
But before he can continue, the familiar sound of Ms. Lewis’s heels clack up the staircase. “I was just looking for you, Jessica,”
she says, waving me over.
I quickly rearrange my expression as I walk toward her, Aaron following behind me. “Hi, Ms. Lewis. What did you need me for?”
“You know the art exhibition happening tomorrow evening?”
“Yes,” I say slowly. My self-portraits were meant to be displayed at the exhibit, but I’m not sure what that has to do with
Jessica.
“Havenwood’s school director, Mr. Howard, will be attending.” Ms. Lewis’s smile is huge, her eyes shining with excitement.
“You know how rare his visits are, and well, he’s asked to meet you.”
“Meet me?” I repeat.
“Yes, he’s heard all about your achievements, and he wanted to congratulate you in person . It’s a real honor, one that few students will ever get to experience,” Ms. Lewis gushes. “You should be so proud.”
I do my best to inject the same enthusiasm into my voice. “Oh, yes, I’m definitely honored. I’d love to go.” I really am honored, or I know I should be. It’s an opportunity I would have killed for, if only to hear others talk about it
afterward. Did you know the school director personally requested to see her? No, really. That’s how successful she is!
“Perfect,” Ms. Lewis says, and nods at Aaron. “Guests are encouraged to come as well, by the way.”
“I’ll be there,” he replies right away, his gaze locking on mine. And I’m certain in this very moment that if I had to walk deep into the woods, into a burning house, down into the depths of hell itself, he would still accompany me, just to make sure I don’t leave his sight.
But I’m less worried about what Cathy will do now than what will happen if I still haven’t found my cousin’s soul by the end
of the week.