The Adoration of Jenna Fox

by Mary E. Pearson

‘A car accident.’

  A car accident? Why did I think it was something else? Something more terrible? There are thousands of car accidents every day. It is practically common. A car accident. I can almost say it out loud. Except I wasn’t expected to survive—and I did. That is not common.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The article was more about your dad. Anything he does is news, and he was taking a leave of absence from his work because of your condition. Since you were underage, a lot of information was unavailable, but the Boston Globe managed to find out that the nurses thought your condition was pretty grave.’ He pauses. Is he retrieving information or planning a lie? I watch his eyes carefully. His pupils dart to the left and then back to me. ‘That was about all the article said, Jenna.’

  A lie.

  Does he know I have no memory? What else? But curiously, he still seems to want to be my friend, so I drop it. For now. ‘Did I pass?’ I ask.

  ‘Pass?’

  ‘The Bender Neighbor Investigation?’

  He smiles. ‘You passed the day I met you, Jenna. You gave me honesty and attitude. I liked that.’

  ‘I don’t remember giving you anything.’

  ‘Attitude, Jenna. You walked right up to me. Told me what you thought of my work. You weren’t afraid of anything.’

  But I’m afraid of everything. Myself. Mother. Lily. Friends who haunt me in the night. Even going to school, which is something I asked for. If I have attitude, it is hiding somewhere deep, someplace I’m afraid I may never find.

  Jenna Fox / Year Twelve

  Jenna is at the shore. A pitchfork is in her hands. Cords of hair whip from her ponytail across her face. She smiles at the camera and says, ‘Come on, Mom, put it down and help me!’ At twelve years old, I still called her Mom. When did I begin calling her Claire? I can’t recall, but I feel the hardness of the word on my lips. The camera wobbles, and Claire’s voice is loud. ‘In a minute. Let me get a little more first.’

  Was this a family getaway? A day at the beach? Every aspect of Jenna’s life is recorded. Father comes into view with a silver pail in hand, and he waves it in front of my face. ‘All mine,’ he teases. ‘I won’t go hungry! Can’t say the same for you two.’

  Jenna laughs, this person that is me, and calls, ‘He has a hundred quahogs, Mom! Put that down, or we’ll starve!’ Jenna thrusts her pitchfork into the sand and the camera zooms in on her sandy feet, then glides up the length of her body, like every inch is being adored. It finally stops on my face. It rests there. Caressing. Watching. Watching what? The enthusiasm? The ruddy cheeks? The anticipation? Watching all the breaths, heartbeats, and hopes of Matthew and Claire Fox? For a moment, I can see the weight of it in Jenna’s face. My face. ‘Mom!’ Jenna pleads. The camera wobbles, is turned off, and a new scene appears, focusing on a campfire—

  ‘Stop!’ The disc obeys. A blanket. A blue one. A canteen.

  I think I know what comes next.

  A flutter runs through me. I know. I picture a scene, fully formed. Jenna, cross-legged on a blue plaid blanket on the sand. A mug of steaming hot chocolate in my hands. Hot chocolate with three fat marshmallows. I loved hot chocolate. Taste! I am shocked at my first memory of taste. How could I forget taste? Chunk after chunk pieces together. It is like a window has been opened and memories are breezing through it. Days. Weeks. Three weeks of details collect and run through my mind, every one remembered and sharp.

  I pull myself closer to the screen on my desk. My head vibrates. ‘Play,’ I command. The scene shifts from the campfire to me. I’m sitting on a blue blanket. I lift a mug of hot chocolate to my lips and offer a frothy, chocolate-mustached grin.

  ‘Stop.’ I lay my head on my desk. I close my eyes and soak in what it means.

  I knew. A whole chunk of my life is mine again.

  Three whole weeks’ worth. It seems like a lifetime.

  My eyes blink open. ‘Mother!’ I call. I race from my room and down the stairs to the kitchen. ‘Lily!’

  No one answers. I see Mother out the window, talking with a workman and pointing to panes in the greenhouse. Lily is no doubt somewhere within. I run to the pantry and search for ingredients. I pull cocoa and then sugar from the shelves. Marshmallows! Lily has marshmallows, too! I tuck the bag beneath my arm and let them all tumble onto the kitchen counter. Milk! A sauce pot! I remember! I pour. I stir. I make sense of a stove I have never used before. I feel full, powerful, like I haven’t felt since I woke up. I’m making hot chocolate. I love hot chocolate! I search the cupboards for a mug. I pull the largest one I can find from the shelf and pour the steaming mixture in. I rip open the bag of marshmallows, and just as I plop them in, Lily and Mother come in through the back door. They stop and stare at me and the helter-skelter mess I have made.

  ‘I remember! I love hot chocolate!’

  I raise the mug like a toast to celebrate this new memory. I expect a smile—at least from Mother—but instead, as I bring the mug to my lips, her face wrinkles in horror and she yells, ‘No!’

  Taste

  Maybe I don’t like hot chocolate.

  And maybe the three weeks’ worth of memories aren’t real at all.

  Maybe I don’t remember sneaking on makeup in the bathroom at school.

  Or completing a double pirouette and finishing as gracefully as if I really did have wings.

  Or snuggling on the sofa with a golden dog I named Hunter.

  The hot chocolate was tasteless.

  Just like my nutrients.

  I know you can forget a lot of things,

  but how can you forget taste?

  When the mug slipped from my fingers,

  Lily caught it.

  And hardly any spilled on the floor.

  School

  I’m certain it is Claire’s fault. Everything. Why does she whimper and cower so? Is she guilty? She cried when I dropped the mug. I wanted to hit her. It’s mine, dammit. Mine. But it must be hers, too, with the way she takes it on. It is like she owns every shortcoming I have. Maybe she just plain owns me. She tried to explain it away. It’s temporary. Your taste will return. You shouldn’t have food anyway. I spent the next hour locked in my bathroom, staring at my tongue. It’s normal. Rough and pink and fleshy. What’s wrong is somewhere else inside. Something that is disconnected within me. I don’t trust her. She hovers, smiles, cries, and controls. Too much of everything. I need to get away from her.

  I open the car door. She opens hers, too.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m seventeen. I can do this on my own.’

  ‘But, Jenna—’

  I’ve learned how to smile in the space of just a few short weeks. I’m learning how to control, too. ‘Claire,’ I say, to hold her to the seat.

  She shuts her door. ‘That again?’ she says, looking straight ahead. She is hurt. Everything backs up inside me. School, control, distrust, and doubt, they all get shoved behind the hurt on her face.

  I hear words, words from long ago that were snarled inside me. I’m sorry. So sorry. Words that were trapped in my head and couldn’t be said, frozen behind lips that wouldn’t move. And that made me want to say them more.

  It’s okay, darling. It’s all right. Shhh. Everything will be fine. Claire answering over and over again when I hadn’t even spoken, looking into my eyes and reflecting all the pain she saw.

  I get out of the car and lean down, looking at her through the window. Claire forces a smile. Her eyes cling to me. I’m so sorry. She rolls down the window. I say a dozen more redundant things—things we have already discussed—just to keep her from talking. I will take my afternoon nutrients. I will not discuss the accident. I will be outside at three o’clock. I will call if I need her.

  I’m afraid she will have a last-minute change of heart, will control me in that way she does and force me back into the car just by saying my name. It is like we are both fighting for control of Jenna Fox.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I finally say, and thankfully, like a miracle, she le
aves without saying another word.

  I turn and face the village charter. School. It is nothing more than an abandoned real estate office. I see the defunct sign dismantled and leaning against the side, almost obscured by overgrown weeds. Dusty blinds hang in the windows. A pale coat of yellow paint makes a faint attempt at sprucing it up. It looks more like an old farmhouse. Maybe it once was. Their emphasis is ecosystems? I went to a central academy in Boston—Claire told me—but even before she confirmed it, I knew. I remember when Kara, Locke, and I ditched a seminar. We were afraid but hoped we wouldn’t be missed among the hundreds of students who were in our class. I don’t know what a charter is like except that it is small. Hundreds, maybe thousands of students smaller than an academy. They go to school only a few days a week. What kind of students choose to go to such a small, run-down school when they could attend an academy with everyone else? It is different in every way, but since I can’t remember too much about the old ways, it shouldn’t matter to me. Why did I want to go to school again?

  I walk up the steps and go inside.

  Dane

  ‘You must be Jenna.’

  The room is small. I could almost spread my arms out and touch each wall. It holds a desk and a large round woman, who is smiling at me. She already knows my name. I stare at her shocking orange hair.

  I want to leave and flag down Claire.

  ‘It is Jenna, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Mitch.’ She remains seated but holds out her hand. I take it. It is puffy and hot and amazingly strong as she squeezes my fingers tight. ‘I’m the facilitator, which means I do about everything around here.’

  ‘Except pull weeds?’

  She hesitates for a moment and then laughs. ‘You’re going to fit right in around here, Jenna.’ She reaches behind her and hands me a small Netbook. ‘I just need you to fill out a questionnaire and then I’ll take you back with the others.’

  I am relieved that the questions are basic, mostly wanting to know my interests and what I see as my strengths and weaknesses. Strengths? Easy. I don’t hold grudges. It’s difficult to hold a grudge when you can’t remember what they are. Weaknesses? Would forgetful be understating it? I go for something easier to interpret. Strength: history buff. Weakness: none. The last question makes me pause: why did you choose a school with an ecosystem emphasis?

  I didn’t. Claire did.

  ‘Finished?’ Mitch asks.

  Close enough. ‘Yes.’ I close the Netbook and hand it back to her. I remember why I wanted to come to school. I need friends. Not questions. I have enough of those already.

  ‘Fine then, let’s go meet the other students—and Dr Rae. She’s your principal teacher. Director, really. Most of the curriculum is self-guided, and each of you takes on the role of collaborator-teacher. But she will tell you all about that.’ She slides the Netbook into a file with four others, stands, and guides me through a doorway and down a hall that creaks under her heavy footsteps.

  She opens the last door, and I follow her in. It is a large room with modern furnishings. At one end are chairs and three long library desks. At the other end of the room are a half dozen Net stations. In the center, taking up most of the room, are two worn leather couches and four sling chairs. I note that the chairs’ fabric matches Mitch’s cheddar-cheese hair. Two boys and one girl occupy them. None of them look like they could be a Dr Rae.

  ‘Where’s Rae?’ Mitch asks.

  ‘She’s conferencing,’ the girl offers.

  Mitch raises her eyebrows. ‘With Mr Collins, I presume?’

  No one answers. I conclude it wasn’t a question, because Mitch appears satisfied and moves on. ‘Let me introduce Jenna. She’s going to be joining your group.’

  The boy whose back is to me stands up, turns, and I recognize him. He is the boy from the mission with the dirty hands and black hair. ‘Ethan,’ he says. He doesn’t offer a smile or a hand, but his eyes are clearly focused on mine.

  The girl struggles to get up. She has a brace in each hand. ‘I hope to lose these soon,’ she says. She tucks one brace under her arm and reaches out her other hand. ‘I’m Allys.’ Her hand is stiff and cool.

  Mitch turns, not waiting for the rest of the introductions. ‘Rae will be in soon, I’m sure. Carry on,’ she says as she leaves.

  The other boy steps forward, wipes his palms on his jeans, and then stuffs them in his pockets, apparently deciding not to offer one after all. He is thin and small. ‘I’m Gabriel. Hi.’

  ‘Hello,’ I say to them all. ‘Where’s the rest of your class?’

  ‘This is it, cupcake. Welcome to Freaks Unlimited.’

  I spin around. A young man fills the doorway.

  ‘Shut up, Dane.’

  Dane ignores Ethan and smiles at me. ‘So this is our latest addition. Very nice. Ethan’s right for once—nothing freakish about you.’ He carefully looks me over, like he is trying to decide something. ‘We’ve met?’

  ‘A couple of days ago. I was outside—’

  ‘My house. Yes. I remember. So you’re Jenna Fox.’

  I never told him my last name. Did Mitch?

  Dane saunters past me and plops onto the couch. He is full of smiles. He seems to be the happiest of the group.

  ‘You can put your stuff in there, if you like,’ Allys tells me, pointing to a cabinet behind the library tables. All I have is a small knapsack containing my vial of nutrients, but I go ahead and walk to the other end of the room to put it away.

  ‘Wrong!’ Dane calls out. ‘I stand corrected. You are one of us.’

  I turn back to him. ‘Pardon me?’ I say.

  ‘Your feet?’

  ‘Leave it, Dane.’

  ‘What? We’re supposed to pretend she doesn’t walk funny? Right, Allys. And you’ve got all your digits, and Ethan has a magnetic personality.’

  ‘Eat it,’ Ethan says and falls back into one of the sling chairs.

  Gabriel slinks into the corner and sits at a Net station, looking small and thankful to be under the radar.

  Allys works her way back to her chair. ‘Learn to ignore him, Jenna. The rest of us do.’

  I walk funny?

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I had an—’ Don’t discuss the accident. ‘—an illness. I’ll be better soon.’

  ‘That’s what we all say,’ Dane answers.

  Dr Rae breezes into the room. ‘Jenna, you’re here. Welcome! And you’ve all been getting acquainted. That’s nice.’

  Nice.

  I need to look that word up again.

  Ethan

  I get a turn at ‘conferencing’ with Rae. She doesn’t like to be called doctor. She says we are all ‘learning colleagues’. She tells me details of her life. Since we are colleagues, she says, I should know as much about her as she knows about me. She is forty-eight, older than Claire, but she looks about ten years younger. I wonder what has aged Claire so. She says she moved here from Ohio when she was a teenager. It was hard for her to move at that age.

  ‘Was your move from New York difficult for you?’ she asks.

  New York. Right. Mother says not to tell we are from Boston. Reporters are always bothering Father, and she wants peace and quiet.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I slept right through it.’

  She smiles. ‘It sounds like you’re flexible, Jenna—and have a sense of humor. That will take you far.’

  I let her think what she wants.

  She tells me that the three days a week we meet, teacher-collaborators will instruct on core subjects. State requirements are modified as much as possible to complement the ecosystems emphasis. This morning while she and I conference, Ethan is leading a discussion with the others on Walden. Apparently, literature is Ethan’s strength. Gabriel is teacher-collaborator for problem-solving and logic. Allys leads science and ethics. Dane leads art explorations. Rae fills in the holes.

  ‘Would you be interested in leading us in historical explorations? We’re just about to beg
in a discussion of Easter Island and the—’

  ‘Easter Island was settled approximately A.D.300 by the Rapa Nui. By A.D.1000 deforestation was under way to satisfy the islanders’ demand for moai construction. The loss of forest resulted in erosion, which in turn accelerated the rapid decline of trees on the island. By 1600, the failing resources of the island could no longer support the population, and as a result, cannibalism—’

  I notice Rae’s peculiar expression, so I stop.

  ‘Uh, yes, I guess you do know your history,’ she says.

  ‘I’m familiar with Walden, too, if Ethan needs help.’ I’m more than familiar—I could recite it word for word, but I don’t tell her that. I’m startled at this revelation myself. Until she mentioned it, I had no recollection of Walden. I must have loved literature, too.

  ‘I see.’ She looks back at my questionnaire. I know what she is going to say before the words leave her mouth. Weaknesses? You have no weaknesses? It skips through me. Catches. Weakness. Please, Jenna. We need you. Why do I see Kara’s and Locke’s faces? They couldn’t have been my weaknesses. They feel more like my strengths.

  ‘And no weaknesses?’

  ‘I didn’t write them down.’

  ‘Would you like to share?’

  Share?

  I’m afraid.

  I’m lost.

  I have no friends. It keeps coming back to that. Why does it bother me so?

  I have no friends.

  Which weakness shall I tell her?

  ‘I walk funny,’ I say, and she is satisfied with that.

  Morning collaborations continue until eleven. I correct Ethan twice in his evaluations of Walden. I want to be his friend. Friends help friends.

  It is my second time that prompts him to raise his voice. ‘But it was his rejection of materialism and the Industrial Revolution that was the point of his move to Walden Pond and the strength of the entire—’

  ‘Not true,’ I tell him. ‘It was a private journey as much as a public one. He was searching for his personal essence as much as he was making a political statement.’