The Adoration of Jenna Fox (Jenna Fox Chronicles 1)

Dane surprises me from behind. I haven’t talked to him much since that first day. He’s been out. Rae didn’t say why, and Mitch only groaned when Allys asked.

‘How are things going?’ His voice is warm and eager and I like the sound of it, but I also remember what Ethan said about him.

‘Good,’ I answer.

‘Like your project?’

‘Yes.’

‘Need a ride?’

‘No.’

He blows out a heavy breath, obviously annoyed at my short responses. He swings around in front of me and grabs my hand. ‘C’mon. Has Ethan been saying bad things about me? You’re not going to listen to him, are you?’

His hand is warm, firmly clasped around mine. I look up and am surprised at how closely his eyes match the color of the sky behind him. ‘I have a problem,’ he says. ‘I admit it. I’m honest. Like when I said you walked funny. I don’t think any less of you because you do, and I didn’t mean anything bad by it. You’re not going to hold that against me, are you?’

‘No.’

He loosens his grip on my hand, but I notice he doesn’t let go. ‘We all have our problems, and Ethan’s is he can’t deal with the truth. He can’t even tell the truth. I’d stay away from him if I were you, but I guess you’ll figure that out on your own. You’re obviously smart.’ He smiles, but it doesn’t mesmerize me like the day I first saw him at his house. I’m changing daily. I can see things in faces that I couldn’t see just a few days ago. Things that I think other people can’t even see. And what I see in Dane’s perfectly beautiful face disturbs me. Emptiness. The word is strong in my head, and yet I wonder if it could be the wrong one.

‘Friends?’ he asks.

Friends. That’s why I wanted to come to school in the first place. Maybe Dane had friends like I once did, friends who are gone now, and he misses them the way I miss Kara and Locke.

‘Friends,’ I repeat, because I know it would be rude not to. And because I think maybe. Maybe.

‘Then I’ll stop by sometime, since I just live down the street?’ he says as he walks away.

‘Sure.’

‘Thanks for the invite, neighbor,’ he calls over his shoulder.

Did I invite him?

Contents

Empty adj. 1. Containing nothing, having none of the usual or appropriate contents. 2. Vacant, unoccupied. 3. Destitute of some quality or qualities.

Now, a day later, I wonder what friends means to Dane. I wonder at his voice that is so different from his eyes. I wonder if I know anything at all. But I do know this: the word I felt when I looked into his face was the right word.

Home

The house is empty. Saturdays are empty, I decide. There is no banging. No restoration. No school. No anything. Mother left early in the morning. She didn’t tell me where she was going but asked me to stay close by. I wanted to say no. But I didn’t.

Lily’s been out in her greenhouse all morning. She didn’t invite me to join her. I wouldn’t want to anyway. I’ve looked out my bedroom window twice, trying to see what she is doing, but most of the inside of the greenhouse is out of view. I don’t care what she is doing.

I lie back on my bed and look at the ceiling. A Cotswold ceiling is fairly uneventful. It matches me.

Mother and Lily don’t know, but Father was right. My memory is coming back.

It is curious how it comes. Each day, a rush of pieces, loosely connected, unimportant bits, snake through me. They click, click, click into my brain, like links being snapped together. And then they are done. A small chain of memories that fill in one tiny part of my life. They come out of nowhere, and most are not important.

I remember shopping for socks, feeling the socks, paying for the socks, looking at the receipt for the socks. Every detail of a sock-shopping outing that happened five years ago. Who cares about socks?

But then others … those come out of nowhere, too. Last night in the hallway, I was dizzy with the rush of this memory. I had to lean against the wall in the dark and close my eyes. It was so clear. I was sobbing. Screaming for Mother. I saw her crying. A tear, briefly, before she walked away. I cried for her to come back. I tried to reach out for her, but Father held me back. No. He held me. I was a toddler. Maybe eighteen months old.

I wore a bright red coat; Father, a black one. He kissed my cheek. Wiped my tears. Promised she would return. I kicked my feet. He held me tighter. I remember it like it was yesterday. How can I remember this?