The Adoration of Jenna Fox

The Jenna Fox Chronicles (Volume 1 of 3)

Mary E. Pearson

Henry Holt and Co.

I look at my fingers again, the ones that trembled and shook just a few days ago at Mr. Bender’s kitchen table.  I bring them together, fingertip to fingertip, like a steeple.  Each one perfect by appearance. But something is not . . . right.  Something that I still have no word for.  It is a dull twisting that snakes through me.  Is this a tangled feeling that everyone my age feels?  Or is it different?  Am I different?  I slide my steepled fingers, slowly, watching them interlace. Trying to interlace, like a clutched desperate prayer, but again, I feel like the hands I am lacing are not my own, like I have borrowed them from a twelve-fingered monster.  And yet, when I count them, yes, there are ten.  Ten exquisitely perfect, beautiful fingers.