The Adoration of Jenna Fox (16 page)

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.

"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 the wonder of knowing if ten percent is enough
—the most important part—ever be answered, or will it drive me to the
edge before that can happen?

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
it across. Another stab and the bag is laid open and soil spills out. I don't
remember this Lily, the o
ne
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
h
ear
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 s
ide,
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."

"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.