Fox Forever (Jenna Fox Chronicles 3)

The pod makes a series of turns and we are speeding in the opposite direction. When we are almost there, Livvy lets me try redirecting the pod. “New Destination PAT: Faneuil Hall.” The pod spins and we head back in the other direction.

When we’re almost there I try to make another request, but Livvy stops me. “Third strike and you’re out. You can only redirect three times without exiting. They don’t want kids tying up pods for joyrides.” I forgot, kids aren’t supposed to have fun here.

We exit and walk up the stairs to Congress Street and then over to Quincy Market, just behind Faneuil Hall. I’m excited when I first see it, feeling a familiar rush, remembering all the times Jenna, Kara, and I ate ourselves from one end to the other and then I sat in the food court with packages and my cell phone while Kara and Jenna continued to shop, but as soon as we near the front steps, I stop.

It’s almost as though I’ve run into an invisible force field. I stare at the crowds, the carts, the kiosks, the entire world that has shifted from the one I knew. It’s all slightly off, like I’m watching a slow-motion movie of a sister city, one that’s trying to imitate the place where I used to live, like every person walking past is an actor on a set. Everything is a degree off, even the smell of the salty air. A chill crawls up my spine.

It’s not that things have changed—I expected that—but even what I thought would be familiar is foreign now. The people walking in front of me aren’t the ones who are actors. It’s me. I’m the actor. A visitor. Worse, an alien. Is there anyplace left in this world now where I truly belong?

“Locke?”

I look at Livvy. She’s turned, waiting for me to follow her. I do. I need to get this Favor over with. The sooner the better. We spend the next two hours walking through the market. She’s friendly with shopkeepers, even those who are Bots, dropping our names, making sure they know I’m her “son.” We walk from one end to the other, and then back down the other side again. We take the free offerings of samples, roasted squab on a stick, candied carrots, spiced curly protein strips, but we don’t buy anything. I have a money card in my pocket that Miesha gave me, but it’s clear that money is in short supply so I don’t waste it on market trinkets or snacks.

After Quincy Market we walk back to the PAT. Livvy is quiet, occupied with other thoughts, perhaps wondering how she got stuck with the job of being my mother. She’s a small, thin woman, her dark brown hair clipped short, a razor-straight line of bangs cutting across the top of her forehead. She’s articulate, driven, and focused, and seems like she should be carrying a briefcase into a courtroom instead of hanging out in basements with the likes of Xavier.

“I know the answer’s probably obvious, but I have to ask, are you a Non-pact?”

She stops walking and looks at me. It’s apparent from her expression that she’s insulted. “Obvious? There’s no good way to take that question, Locke. It’s obvious because I clearly look and act like a Non-pact? Or obvious that I’m not because I don’t look or act like one? Just how do Non-pacts act and look to you?”

I sigh. “I was led by a Non-pact to a dark basement, where I met you, Livvy. You appear to be working for the Resistance. That’s what I meant by obvious. Why are you all so knee-jerk defensive?” I shake my head and continue walking.

She keeps step with my long stride, like a frothing Jack Russell trying to sink its teeth into me. “Knee-jerk?” she says. “You’ve lived life as a citizen, Locke. Maybe it was another era, but you know what that freedom feels like. I’m a fifth-generation Non-pact. It’s been 125 years since the Civil Division. My great-great-grandfather was an engineer. He built bridges and buildings that touched the sky. He had ancestors that reached back to the Mayflower. He chose not to become part of the Division. He didn’t believe in it.” She grabs at my arm. “Stop walking, dammit! I’m talking to you!”

I stop. Defensive doesn’t even begin to describe what I’ve unleashed.

“You’ve been back for what, a year? Most of that time you were coddled on a luxurious estate. Wait until you taste thirty-eight years of being a Non-pact like I have. Wait until you have to tell your children that they can’t play in a public park because you might all be arrested. Wait until you’ve known someone who has violated public space and they’re sent off to the desert and you never see them again. Wait another thirty-eight years and then you can lecture me on being defensive.”

I stare at her, her nostrils flared, her chest rising in heated breaths. Is she going to bite my leg?

“Why don’t you tell me what you really think, Livvy?”

She looks at me, her brows pulling together like she’s confused.

“It’s a joke, Livvy. Trust me, you don’t need to say another word. I get it. You do joke, don’t you?”

She reluctantly pulls the corners of her mouth back in an embarrassed smile. “Okay, maybe I overreacted a bit.” She tucks her chin to her chest.

I roll my eyes. “A bit.”

“Knee-jerk. Is that a curse word from your time?”

I look sideways at her to see if she’s playing with me. She isn’t. “Yeah. One of the really bad ones. Sorry. Don’t know what came over me.”

Her reluctant smile and my stab at levity don’t erase the tension between us. Words have been said that can’t be taken back, and I learned a long time ago that words have longe

r lives than people.

We walk the rest of the way to the PAT station in silence. Thirty-eight years of being held back. Yeah, tough. But I had 260 years without a voice at all. You can’t even compare the two. We’re not even in the same stratosphere. Coddled? I’d trade places with her anytime. At least she still has family. I can never get mine back no matter how many laws are swept away. But what I’m mostly thinking is I’m not waiting around another thirty-eight years for the world to change. I’ve already done too much waiting.

When we finally return to the apartment, Carver is gone and Xavier is just leaving.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Home.”

It seems an odd thing to say. Like he’s clocking out from a typical day of work. It didn’t occur to me that he even had a home, unless he calls that abandoned basement where we met home.

“Me too,” Livvy chimes in. “I’m late.” She grabs her coat and heads for the door.