Seventeen-year-old Jenna Fox has just awoken from a year-long coma—so she’s been told—and she is still recovering from the terrible accident that caused it. But what happened before that? She’s been given home movies chronicling her entire life, which spark memories to surface. But are the memories really hers? And why won’t anyone in her family talk about the accident? Jenna is becoming more curious. But she is also afraid of what she might find out if she ever gets up the courage to ask her questions. What happened to Jenna Fox? And who is she really?

Praise

*  “Raises the ante in unexpected ways until the very last page.”—Publishers Weekly, starred review

*  “This is a beautiful blend of science fiction, medical thriller, and teen-relationship novel that melds into a seamless whole that will please fans of all three genres.”—School Library Journal, starred review

*  “Outstanding examination of identity, science and ethics.”—Kirkus Reviews, starred review

“Readers will respond eagerly to this provocative novel.”—Kirkus Reviews, Sci-Fi/Fantasy Special

“What will hold readers most are the moral issues of betrayal, loyalty, sacrifice, and survival.”—Booklist

“Fascinating and thought provoking.”—Kliatt

“This novel is truly unlike any other I have ever read and is a breath of fresh air in the often predictable world of teen literature.”—ELLEgirl

“This is an amazingly powerful, thought-provoking, just brilliant novel.”—Teen Book Review

“An extraordinarily fine novel.”—VOYA

“Gut-punch plot twists.”—The Seattle Times

About the Author(s)

Mary E. Pearson

Mary E. Pearson is the author of three other novels for teens--A Room on Lorelei Street, David v. God, and Scribbler of Dreams.  She writes full-time from her home in Carlsbad, California, where she lives with her husband and two dogs. 

Visit Mary Pearson's website!

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Who is Jenna Fox?

Excerpt

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.

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Guides

Reading Group Guide

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