The Adoration of Jenna Fox

  Stalemate. It’s true. I read it on their faces. The years and the lines I’ve added.

  ‘But you’re right. There’s more,’ she adds. ‘It doesn’t matter anymore, but weeks ago we couldn’t tell you because we weren’t sure what your mental state would be. Judgment, specifically. There are a lot of people who have laid their lives and careers on the line for you, Jenna. We had to be careful. If you slipped and told someone, you would not only jeopardize your future but theirs as well.’

  How can I argue with this? But how can I handle any more weight of being the perfect Jenna, now not just for Mother and Father, but for people I don’t even know? When does it end? I lean my forehead against the mantel and close my eyes.

  ‘And for the record,’ Father says, ‘your mother had nothing to do with your being two inches shorter. It was a decision based on mechanics, ratio, and the limitations of balance. A few inches shorter would have been even better, but two was the perfect compromise.’

  Perfect. A shorter, more perfect Jenna. How wonderful.

  Careful, Jenna.

  There’s still more. It speaks to me. Somewhere, winding inside, pieces are trying to come together, synapses trying to form, a complete story trying to connect within. Four hundred billion extra neural chips trying to put together what the old Jenna never could.

  Mother’s hand is on my shoulder. ‘Please, for all our sakes—especially yours—you mustn’t say anything to anyone.’

  I nod, unable to speak. Father reaches out. He pulls me close, squeezing, and I melt into his shoulder, letting his arms circle me like a warm, tight blanket.

  Hold On

  ‘Do you hear me, Jenna?

  I’m here. I won’t let you go.’

  I dreamed I was riding my bicycle. My first two-wheeler, the training wheels gone.

  But Father’s voice was all wrong.

  ‘Hold on, Jenna. For me, Angel. Please.’

  Tight. Desperate.

  I open my eyes. Father has turned away.

  There is no bicycle, only a hospital bed.

  He doesn’t see me watching him.

  He slumps against a wall, staring blankly at the opposite one.

  I want to get out of my bed and hold him up the way he always had for me.

  I want to wrap my arms around him tight so he can be happy again.

  But against my will, my eyelids close and shut him out.

  Denied

  Jenna Angeline Fox.

  I narrow down the possibilities.

  Plus, Accident. Boston.

  Searching for pieces with the pieces I have gained.

  The Netbook blinks, and I wait for the thousands of bits to become the few I need.

  A blink. Red.

  Access Denied.

  Denied.

  Denied.

  Shut out. No matter how many times I ask, it will not give it over. Why is Mr Bender allowed but I am not? What have they done to this Netbook?

  Keys fly in the air. My fingers reach out. Hurry, Jenna.

  The pieces speak, but there are not enough. Yet.

  An Invisible Boundary

  ‘I left the woods for as good a reason as I went there. Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more lives to live, and could not spare any more time for that one.’ Ethan pauses from his reading of Walden and looks in my direction.

  It is the second time he has paused his reading and discussion to look at me, like he is giving me an opening to interrupt him. I don’t take it, and he goes on. I am still unsure about continuing with school. It seems wrong to even be here. I am out of place. Like I am playing a game, pretending at being something I’m not. What am I? The question won’t go away. Monday morning Father had to return to Boston. It was too risky to draw attention with his absence. They both said I should resume my normal routine, too. Doesn’t a normal life go hand in hand with a normal routine?

  I am not normal.

  The group exchanges thoughts. Allys comments. Gabriel comments. Even Dane comments.

  ‘Jenna?’ Rae prompts.

  I shake my head and remain silent. Rae doesn’t pressure. It is not her style. She nods at Ethan to continue. He shifts his cross-legged position on the desktop and looks at me for much too long before he finally returns to the pages in his open book.

  ‘Even though he left after two years, Thoreau decides his time at Walden is a success if only because: I learned this, at least, by my experiment, that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours. He will put some things behind—’ He stops and looks at me again. I feel my agitation with him grow. His dark eyes drill into me and won’t turn away, waiting. ‘He will put some things behind—’ he repeats. More waiting. The silence is thunder. Dane smirks but everyone else remains quiet.

  I slam my book shut and glare at him. ‘He will put some things behind, will pass an invisible boundary; new, universal, and more liberal laws will begin to establish themselves around and within him; or the old laws will be expanded, and interpreted in his favor in a more liberal sense, and he will live with the license of a higher order of beings.’

  Ethan claps his hands three times. ‘Thanks for joining us.’

  He takes his teacher-collaborator role way too seriously. ‘Thanks for forcing me,’ I answer.

  ‘So, you’re good at memorization, but do you have an opinion? Is there any way to pass that invisible boundary besides dropping out like Thoreau did?’

  Why is he baiting me? I feel my eyes narrow, and my voice is close to a growl when I speak. ‘Nature and human life are as various as our several constitutions. Who shall say what prospect life offers to another? Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?’ Ethan’s face relaxes, his eyes soften, like he has lost his mad-dog bead of concentration. But I haven’t. ‘Although that’s just another rote memorization, isn’t it?’ I add. ‘But since you might be a higher order of some sort of being, maybe if you try really hard, you can pull an opinion from it without your head exploding.’

  I stand to leave. I’ve had enough. In Dane’s words, I’m out of here. But even as I stand, I am wondering, do I look normal? What does a normal angry person look like? Should I sit back down? What am I doing? What am I? That again.

  Another stalemate as I stand awkwardly at my desk, my hands trembling, my anger fusing with my doubts.

  ‘Short break, Rae?’ Allys suggests.

  ‘Sure,’ Rae answers, jumping on the suggestion quickly. I take it as a justified release and head for the door. Footsteps follow close behind. A trampling down the narrow hallway, past Mitch, who looks up in surprise, but we are already out the door and down the steps before she can respond.

  Ethan grabs my arm from behind and swings me around. ‘What’s your problem?’

  ‘What’s yours? You sulk when I interrupt you, and you become an ass when I don’t.’

  ‘I don’t get it. On Saturday you were kissing me like I was the last boy on the planet, and today you won’t say two words to me. Not even a hello. What did your grandmother say after I left? Stay away from the dickhead?’

  A lifetime has passed since I kissed him on Saturday. I am a different person now. Maybe a different thing. How can I explain that to him? I look at his face. I see everything. Every expression, wrinkle, twitch, doubt. More than I should. Is that the difference between a neuron and a neural chip? Can I now see deeper than the normal human perceptions? Does Father know about this? Or maybe this is normal? Was it always there for me to see, and I am only just now truly looking?

  The questions may drive me mad. Even now, he wants to kiss me. I can see that, too. Would he still want to kiss if he knew about me? Everything in the universe says it’s not right. That’s my invisible boundary. I look at his hand, still clutching my arm, and I wonder if it will be the last time we ever touch. Should I even be thinking about these things? Stay away. br />
  ‘Back off, loser.’ Dane appears behind my shoulder.

  ‘Stay out of this, Dane,’ Ethan shoots back.

  Dane pushes Ethan’s shoulder. ‘Go beat up someone else, lowlife.’

  Ethan lets go, his eyes blinking to pinpoints, his hand held in front of him like it’s on fire.

  ‘Dane, it’s not what—’ Before I can finish explaining, Ethan is already gone, headed toward his truck in the parking lot.

  Dane shakes his head. ‘You know what he did, don’t you?’

  I look after Ethan. It’s better this way. But it doesn’t feel better. ‘Yes,’ I answer.

  ‘I doubt it, or you’d stay away from him. He nearly killed a man. Beat him up so bad, he was in a hospital for a month.’

  I think of Ethan’s hand on my arm and the fear in his eyes when he let go. ‘Maybe he didn’t have a choice.’

  ‘They threw him in jail for a year. I guess they thought he had a choice.’

  I wonder.

  ‘C’mon, break’s over.’ Dane grabs my hand and pulls me back inside.

  Ethan doesn’t return, and I spend the rest of the afternoon worrying about him instead of my own problems. Will he come back?

  Dane tries to catch my attention over and over again. I watch him, the smile that twists his lips but never reaches his eyes. He’s missing something. That’s what Allys said. How does she know? Can she see something missing in me? He makes no secret of his flirtations. It is more of a game to him than any serious interest in me. Beat Ethan at something.

  I contemplate spinning my head around three times or popping my eyeballs out and setting them on his desk. Can this freakish new body do that? The possibilities could almost amuse me. Would Dane still be so cocky then?

  Probably.

  The Greenhouse

  Steamy droplets slide down the inside of the door. My fingers touch the glass. I am not invited in any sense.

  I’m compelled to push, but why invade a space where I am not welcome?

  My questions have multiplied, twisted, taken on new form. Will they ever be answered? Is ten percent enough? The most important part? Or will my questions drive me to the edge before I have the answers?

  Can a thing like me even be pushed to an edge, or will I simply crash in a puff of smoke?

  I gently ease open the door.

  Lily is at the far end of the greenhouse. Her head turns in surprise when she sees me, but her arms are full with a large palm she is wrestling into a pot and just as quickly her attention turns back to it.

  I take two more steps in. The greenhouse is at least thirty feet long. All the broken windows have now been replaced, and half the aluminum tables already hold plants. I am surprised at how warm the air inside is. Outside the sun is shining, but the February air is cool. In here, it is warm, moist, like a womb.

  Lily grunts as she lifts the palm-filled pot onto the table. She turns and goes to the corner of the greenhouse where several bags are stacked, and she begins dragging one across the floor. She pauses. ‘I could use some help here,’ she says.

  I stumble over my feet trying to reach her before she’s already finished the task. She lets go of one corner of the bag as I reach for it. We both pull the bag the rest of the way and then heave it up on the table with the potted palm. She stabs into it with some shears and draws them across. Another stab and the bag is laid open and soil spills out. I don’t remember this Lily, the one who is so quiet, intent, angry. The one who is so unpredictable. The pieces of Lily I remember, my nana, were not a mystery. A smile was a smile, and a sharp word was rare. Bits are still missing, but all the pieces in between are memories of her smiling every time she saw me. I wasn’t just Mother and Father’s North Star, but hers, too. And in many ways, I wonder if she was mine.

  My teen years with her are hazy, and more often I can hear them rather than see them. Let her be, Claire. And then, I think her hair is just fine. And still later, Give her space. I can hear her voice lifting weights off me I didn’t even know were there.

  Now she is cynical, sullen, and a deeper mystery every day. She uses a small spade to transfer soil to the pot, using her bare hands to tamp it down into the sides. I stand, silent, by her side, wondering if this is all we will ever be now, both twisted versions of who we once were. The world hasn’t changed. We’ve changed. The questions that drove me here are lost in some crippled synapse between us.

  ‘Your mother was right, you know,’ she says, interrupting my thoughts.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You couldn’t have remembered the time you almost drowned. You were only nineteen months old. You weren’t even talking yet. They say you can only remember events when you have the words to name them.’

  ‘But I do remember, don’t I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So maybe they don’t know as much as they think they do.’

  ‘No,’ she says. She sets aside her spade and examines me. ‘I don’t suppose they do.’ Our gazes rest on each other uncomfortably.

  ‘How do I go on from here?’ I blurt out. ‘Do you know?’

  She turns away. My question, it seems, came too fast and asked too much. ‘You’re the only one I can ask,’ I add. ‘The only one I know who will tell me the truth.’

  She shakes her head. ‘You’ve put me in such a position. Choosing between my daughter and—’

  ‘I’ll leave. I shouldn’t have expected—’

  ‘Jenna.’

  The sound. My name. The sound of years ago. Jenna.

  She spins back around. ‘There are things you should know,’ she says. ‘Things I swore not to tell. Claire’s my daughter. She means the world to me, and I would do almost anything for her’—she hesitates, drawing a deep breath—‘but I think you have a right to know.’

  For the first time, I am aware that I don’t have a wildly beating heart—only the memory of one. But the memory is enough. My thoughts beat out of control.

  She pulls two crates out from under the table and sits on one. She offers me the other. We sit knee to knee.

  ‘I know you don’t remember everything yet, but maybe I can refresh one memory. You were sixteen. You and your mother were having an argument. I had happened to stop by, but I was trying to stay out of it. She wouldn’t let you go to a party. She didn’t like who was giving it. The argument was going on and on, in circles, until she had finally had enough and ordered you to go to your room. Do you remember what you did?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘You laughed at her. You said you weren’t seven years old and then stomped out the front door.’

  ‘I know we had arguments but—’

  ‘That’s not my point. You didn’t go to your room.’

  I look at Lily. I don’t understand the importance of rehashing an argument. So I didn’t go to my room? It’s over and done with. It was in the past. I can’t change what happened when—

  ‘You didn’t go to your room, Jenna,’ she repeats.

  Okay. I didn’t go—

  The greenhouse spins.

  Go to your room, Jenna. And I did. Compelled … even when I had a desperate need to do something else. Go to your room, Jenna. And I did.

  Claire commands and it happens.

  I look at Lily. My mouth opens, but I can’t form any words.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘But I’m not sorry I told you. It just isn’t right.’

  Control

  Mother is sitting at the Netbook when I enter the kitchen. ‘Good morning,’ she says. ‘You’re up early.’

  I smile. A smile that I guess must not be too different from Dane’s. One that only hovers near my mouth and has no connection to anything within. ‘I didn’t want to miss Father when he calls,’ I say cheerfully.

  Lily lowers her newspaper and looks at me.

  ‘He hasn’t called yet,’ Mother says, barely looking up from what she is reading. ‘I’m glad you’ll be able to talk to him. You went to bed so early last night. I was a little worried.’

&
nbsp; ‘Because I went to my room? That’s nothing to be afraid of. Do you think it is, Lily?’

  ‘I think it’s time for me to go.’ She folds up her paper and stands, taking her coffee with her. ‘I have things I want to get an early start on.’

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ I say. ‘I’d get the hell out of here, too.’

  Mother looks up.

  I smile and tilt my head. ‘I mean, why sit around, when it’s a perfectly beautiful day?’

  Her brow wrinkles. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Another smile. ‘Let me know when Father calls,’ I say as I cross the kitchen. Lily is already out the door. Mother returns to her reading, and I open a kitchen cupboard and survey its contents. White plates, cups, bowls. I remove a stack of plates and set them on the island counter that is in full view of the Netbook. I lay them out one by one along the edge of the counter, rim to rim so they are like a giant pearl necklace.

  The Netbook buzzes and Mother clicks Father on through. They share greetings. Father calls to me.

  ‘Good morning, Father,’ I answer.

  Mother has turned and noticed the necklace of plates. I put my finger on the edge of the first plate. They both watch, confused, and before they can say anything, I press down on the lip and the plate flips and crashes to the floor.

  ‘Jenna!’ Mother says, jumping up from her chair.

  ‘Do you have something you want to say, Mother?’ I put my finger to the next plate and send it shattering to the floor as well. Father jumps in, yelling my name, and a string of other warnings that are drowned out by the third plate crashing to the floor.

  ‘What is the matter with you? Stop that!’ Mother yells. Father echoes similar warnings.

  ‘Isn’t there something else you want to say?’ My finger is poised over the fourth plate.

  I begin to bring it down, and Mother yells out, ‘Go to your room, Jenna!’

  I close my eyes. I struggle. I concentrate on every twitch within me. Every joint that wants to sweep me up the stairs. I concentrate on every word I have practiced since yesterday.