The Adoration of Jenna Fox (12 page)

"Aren't you going to ask why?" he
says.

I close the space between us. My lips on his,
wondering if the old Jenna knew how to kiss and if the new one remembers, but
judging by the way his lips feel against mine, the answer to both of my
questions is yes. I finally pull back.

"Sorry," I say. "I should have
asked."

He pulls my face back to his and kisses me
again, both of his hands soft against my cheeks.

Our kisses grow heated, and everything that is
curious and odd and funny and wrong about me disappears and I am no longer
thinking about me, but everything about Ethan, because the warmth of Ethan, the
scent of Ethan, the touch of Ethan, is all about who I am
now,
and only
when he pushes me away because Lily is yelling in the distance for me to come
back to the house do I want to answer his question.

"I already know why. Because sometimes
there is just no choice."

Choice

I needed it like I needed air.

But no one could hear me.

No one could listen.

No words. No sound.

No voice.

I couldn't even dream myself away.

Choices were made.

None of them mine.

At first I wondered if it was hell.

And then I knew it was.

Message

I slam the kitchen drawer.

"It's not necessary to slam it. I already
got the message that you're angry."

I pull the drawer out and slam it again. I do
it four more times. "No!
Now
I think you got the message!"

"It
is
time for your
nutrients."

"Like you ever cared about that
before!" I pull the bottle of nutrients from the refrigerator and pour the
measured amount into a glass. When I put the nutrient bottle back in the
refrigerator, I grab a container of mustard. I squeeze half of its contents on
top of my prescribed beige brew. I glare at Lily, daring her to stop me, and I
swig it all down. "There! Done!" I slam the glass down on the
counter, half expecting it to break.

"You shouldn't have done that. It might
not ... go down well." She sighs like she is tired, and that makes me
angrier.

"Why couldn't you just butt out like you
always do?"

"It's not right, Jenna."

"Says who?"

"Says everything in the universe."

"I think he was enjoying it."

"For now, maybe."

I want to cry. I want to sob loudly. I want to
beat something. Anything. I want to pound on her chest and say,
Please love
me.
I want that minute back when I was kissing Ethan and now was all there
was. I want someone in the world to answer why.

Why me?

And suddenly I feel weak, like every question
in my head has collided against another and won't let me think.
Now
is
the only word that comes out, and I know it makes no sense, but I say it again.
"Now."

Lily's face wrinkles for a moment and then I
see her hands stiffen, and the stiffness travels all the way to her mouth. She
stands there staring at me like I have just recited a speech instead of one
simple word. "It's better this way," she finally says. "For
Ethan and for you." She leaves, and I hear her walk down the hallway to
her room and close the door, and I wonder if she will even notice the
down-turned picture or her out-of-place shoes.

Mustard and Kisses

It is only half past twelve, and I am already
back in my room. My insides are shivery. I'm not sure if it is the half bottle
of mustard I just swallowed or thinking about Ethan kissing me.

I don't care if the mustard goes down well or
not. It was worth watching Lily stand there helplessly. She knew she couldn't
stop me, and the little click of power that ran through me did go down well.

I scan my empty, no-personality room, and my
gaze stops at my
Netbook
. I should watch another year
of Jenna. Or learn more about my neighbors the way Mr. Bender does. I feel like
I should be doing something else.
Hurry, Jenna.
But instead I sit at my
desk and lay my head down, wishing I could sleep and wake up a new me.

Sleep doesn't come. Neither does a new me. I
stare at my awkward monster fingers and feel my clumsy funny feet sliding back
and forth on the floor beneath me, listening to the creaks and ticks of the
house, and the heaves and sighs of restoration.

Jenna Fox / Year Sixteen

I place the last recorded disc of Jenna's life
into the
Netbook
. What is there left to learn? I have
more holes than substance, but I've pieced together a girl with the scatter of
memories that have come back to me, and a life recorded beyond reason. I was
treasured. Adored. Smothered with hopes. I was everything three babies could
have been. I danced as hard as I could. Studied as hard. Played as hard.
Practiced as hard. I pushed to be everything they dreamed I could be.

But with all the scenes, the birthdays, the
lessons, the practices, the ordinary events that should have been left alone,
what I remember most are Jenna's eyes, flickering, hesitation, an urgent
trying. That's what I remember most from the discs, a desperation to stay on
the pedestal. I see that in her eyes as much as I see their color. And now, in
the passing of just a few weeks, I see things in faces I didn't see before. I
see Jenna, smiling, laughing, chattering. And falling. When you are perfect, is
there anywhere else to go? I ache for her like she is someone else. She is. I
am not the perfect Jenna Fox anymore.

 Like all the previous discs, this one
begins with her birthday party, a lavish private affair somewhere in Scotland.
Mother, Father, and I all wear kilts, and "Happy Birthday" is played
by a legion of bagpipers. The disc moves on to a school outing on a schooner. I
scan the faces, looking for Kara or Locke. A few faces are familiar,
schoolmates I remember, but not my friends, not the faces of my dreams. Where
are they? Jenna's hair whips across her cheeks. She glances at the camera and
for a moment becomes rigid, forcefully tilting her head sideways, silently
pleading for space. Instead the camera zooms in. I can almost see her cave.
Surrender. And then suddenly she runs. Weaving herself through the crowds of
classmates. Away. And the camera shuts off.

Another scene begins. Jenna in pink tights, her
hair pulled into a glittered bun.

"Give me a twirl, Jenna," Father
calls.

Claire comes into the room. "Got
everything? Shoes? Costume?"

"Yes," Jenna says.

"What about that makeup?" Claire
asks. "A little overdone, don't you think?"

Jenna's eyes are heavy with eyeliner, dark
smears that don't match her baby-pink tights. "What difference does it
make?"

"It might not please your ballet
teacher."

"I don't care if I please her. I told you,
this is my last performance."

Claire smiles. "Of course it's not your
last. You love to dance, Jenna."

Jenna grabs Claire by both shoulders and looks
down at her. "Look at me, Mother. I'm five-nine and still growing. I'm not
prima ballerina material."

"But there are companies
—"

Jenna throws her hands up. "Why don't
you
be a ballerina! You're five foot seven, the perfect height! Go for it,
Claire." I see Mother's face change. The hurt. I almost have to look away.
Was that the first time I called her Claire?

"Ladies," Father says. And the camera
shuts off. That's it. The last recording of pre-coma Jenna Fox. A small
argument with voices barely raised. Why would Lily suggest that this was the
most important disc to watch? What was her point? The last disc is a nonevent.
Anticlimactic. Why did I think it would be something big? Or maybe she was just
trying to save me hours of boredom? Cut to the end? See what a dickhead I was
and get on with it. Move on. Maybe that's the something I feel. The something I
should be doing. Moving on.

I've hurt Claire. I know that. I remember
trying to tell her how sorry I was. When my whole world was frozen and sorry
couldn't get past my lips. Sorry for what? The accident? All the harsh ways I
treated her? Sorry for calling her Claire when she only wanted to be called
Mom? Maybe that's why Lily won't have much to do with me, because of everything
I've put Claire through. Move on. The something I should be doing.

Deep

Claire walks through the front door just as I
reach the last stair. Her arms are loaded with rings of fabric swatches and
catalogs.

"Need some help . . . Mom?"

She is transformed. One simple word has wiped
five years from her face. I always thought it was Claire who held all the
power. I was wrong.

I am taken with how beautiful she is and feel
shame that I have withheld a treasured word for so long. She sets her armful
down on the hall table. "I can get it. . . Jenna." Her voice is soft,
my name sounding like a question mark.

I step down from the last stair. We stare, our
eyes on an even plane, like we are holding something carefully between us.
Something.
Suddenly I feel dizzy, like I'm stumbling. Is this what moving on feels
like? I back away. I can't do this. Something is not right. But I owe her. I
know I owe her. My hands shake. My vision flashes. I try to steady myself. I
shove my hands into my jeans.
The key.
It is still there. It is hot
against my fingers.

"Do you mind then, if I go for a walk?
I've been inside all day."

She hesitates, then nods. "But don't go
far," she says as she walks to the kitchen.

When she is out of sight, I open the front
door, then close it again, loudly, so she will think that I left. I concentrate
on my feet trying to step as lightly as I can, and I creep down the hallway to
her room. I will put the key back before she misses it.

I begin to fold back the spread from the corner
of the mattress, but a thought stops me.
Hurry, Jenna.

There might be time.

If I hurry.

I turn toward the closet and listen for sounds
coming down the hallway.

None.

I pull the key from my pocket. It slides into
the lock with a soft rasp, and I hear the tumbler turn. I ease the door open
slowly, willing the old hinges not to squeak. The room is cold,
dark,
barely
illuminated with a faint green glow. I feel for a switch but can't find one. My
eyes adjust quickly to the dim light, and I see the source of the hum.
Computers. Three of them. They sit on a narrow table in the small dark room.
They are oddly shaped, each a six-inch square block, much larger than a home
computer, and each is connected to its own battery dock. Why not just run them
off house power? I step closer and I see a small white label on the middle one.

JENNA ANGELINE FOX.

I rub my hand across the label, soaking the
name in through my skin. Jenna
Angeline
Fox. I should have asked long
ago. It makes me feel whole. A beginning, an end,
and
a middle. Why is
it that the unknown is always so frightening?
Angeline.
I close my eyes in
the darkness and whisper the name. I feel my feet on the floor, my place in the
world. I belong here. I deserve to be here. How can a middle name do all that?
Are the details of our lives who we are, or is it owning those details that
makes the difference?

I open my eyes and examine my computer. I
wonder what's on it. Schoolwork? Letters to friends? I feel a surge, like a
jolt of energy has shot through me. History.
My history.
It should be in
my
room. I try to lift it from the table, but it is secured with a metal
bracket. I work to pull it loose. One rivet pops out, but the rest stay secure.
I pound at the bracket with the heel of my hand, throwing the full force of my
weight behind it, but my hand slips and slices into the sharp edge. Pain rips
up my hand and I fall back, but just as quickly the pain is gone. I hug my hand
to my stomach, afraid to look. I know the slash is deep. If Mother had a
meltdown over the tiny cut on my knee, I can't imagine what she will do when
she sees this one.

A trickle of blood oozes through my fingers. I
will have to retrieve my computer later. I step out of the closet, lock it, and
hurry to my room, trying to slip silently upstairs. I go to my bathroom and
lock the door behind me.

How bad could it be? It was only a little piece
of metal. I hold my hand over the sink to spare the floor, but thankfully the
blood has already stopped flowing. A three-inch gash runs from the fleshy part
of my thumb to my wrist. I am surprised that it no longer hurts. Will I need
stitches? I pull the flesh apart to see how deep the wound goes.

It is deep.