The Adoration of Jenna Fox (Jenna Fox Chronicles 1)

‘Jenna.’ He stands and holds my shoulders. ‘I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I know it’s been difficult. Believe me, no one knows as well as I do how hard it is to start over. I think that’s why I wanted to help you from the beginning, maybe even when I shouldn’t have. I saw the frightened teen I once was when I looked at you.’

He lets go of my shoulders, but I keep looking into his face. Mr Bender is as old as my father, but I see something in him that is as young as me. Do certain events in our lives leave a permanent mark, freezing a piece of us in time, and that becomes a touchstone that we measure the rest of our lives against?

I feel my fists relax, my joints loosen. ‘I think it was good luck that you were my first friend, Mr Bender.’

‘First?’

‘That’s right. Jenna’s first friend, AD.’

His eyebrows raise.

‘After Disaster.’

He laughs, his curious Mr Bender laugh, and then suggests a walk in his garden.

We reach the circular clearing where he feeds the birds. ‘Here,’ he says as he removes his jacket. ‘I’ve been borrowing Clayton Bender’s identity for thirty years. Let me share it with you for a few minutes.’ He places his jacket on my shoulders and then takes my palm and rubs it with his own. ‘Turns out that birds have a better sense of smell than most people think.’

We sit on the log bench and he fills my palm with seed, and even though it is only for the briefest moment, a sparrow lands and flies away with a beak full.

‘See? They’re used to you now. Next time you won’t need me.’

I decide that sometimes definitions are wrong. Even if they’re written in a dictionary. Identities aren’t always separate and distinct. Sometimes they are wrapped up with others. Sometimes, for a few minutes, maybe they can even be shared. And if I am ever fortunate enough to return to Mr Bender’s garden, I wonder if the birds will see that piece of him that is wrapped up in me.

Listening

The silence

darkness

nothing

please

let us go

Help us

Jenna.

We need you.

Hurry, Jenna.

We need you.

Screaming. I hear screaming. My own screams. Theirs.

But no one can hear. A place so dark no one can hear. Except me. ‘Help! Please! Somebody!’

‘Jenna! Wake up!’

Father is holding me. Mother sits at the end of my bed. I am in a place of light and touch again. ‘You were dreaming,’ Father says, squeezing me.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I was …’ Impossible. Father’s face is lined, tired. Fear. Mother is perched, waiting, her hair a bird’s nest.

‘You were what, Jenna?’

‘I was listening.’