Mother barely looks up from her list. "A what?"

I decide to rephrase Mr. Bender's question. "Did I like history? Was it my favorite subject?"

Mother smiles and looks back at her list, making a few changes. "Hardly," she answers. "I'm afraid history — and math for that matter— were tutorworthy for you." She is absorbed again in her planning. Tutorworthy? I must have had an excellent tutor.

I push my empty glass away and announce, "I'm going to school today."

Mother drops her pencil and stares at me. Lily stops beating her eggs.

"I assume I didn't graduate during the year I was in a coma, so I still need to finish, right?"

Mother hasn't spoken. Her mouth is open and her head shakes slightly, like my words are ricocheting around inside. Somehow, I find it amusing.

"There's two village charters within walking distance — I checked the directory on the Net— and the Central Academy is just a short drive."

"You can't drive!" The words shoot out of Mother, and then she says more calmly, "School is out of the question. You're still recovering — "

"I'm fine — "

Mother stands. "I said school is out of the question. Period."

I hesitate, but then stand, too. "And I say it isn't."

Mother is shocked into a marble stance. Neither of us speaks. Finally she looks away. She sits back down. She picks up her pencil. She is calm, smooth, practiced, the mother who seems to know where we are going before I do. "Go to your room, Jenna. You need to rest. Go. Now."

I am seething. Outraged. Incensed. The words. They're finally bubbling up in torrents just when I need them.

But the will. It is waning. Mother says I should go to my room. Go to your room, Jenna. Go to your room.

I do.

The rage is doubling, multiplying, filling my vision like a black cloud. I can hardly see as each step brings me closer to my room. Go to your room. Jenna. And I am. I am. I collapse on the last stair and rock back and forth silently. What world have I woken up to? What nightmare am I in? Why am I compelled to do as Mother says even when I have a desperate need to do something else? I rock in the dark hollow of the landing, feeling like I am back in the silent vacuum where my voice is never heard. If Jenna Fox was a weak-willed coward, I don't want to be her at all. I hug my arms, trying to squeeze away the world. I hear a sharp voice. It is Mother. She is angry. At me? I did as she asked. I lean near the banister to listen. Lily's voice is angry, too.

"When will you admit you made a mistake?"

"Stop it! You of all people should understand! If it weren't for in vitro, I wouldn't be here. You always called me your miracle. Why can't I have one, too? Why do you get to decide when the miracles will end?"

"It's not natural."

"Neither was I! You needed help. That's all I wanted — "

I hear a strange noise. A sob?

"Claire."

"Please," Mother says. Her voice is soft now. Almost a whisper.

"Claire, you can't keep her hidden from the world. She wants a life. Isn't that what this was all about?"

"It's not that easy. It could be dangerous."

"Walking across the street can be dangerous, but thousands of people do it every day."

"I don't mean for her. There are others to consider."

"Oh. Them." Lily's voice is mocking. Mother doesn't respond. The conversation seems to be over. I hear dishes clatter and then a chair scraping across the floor. Silence threads through the house like a lace pulling tight, and then I finally hear the scraping of another chair and the sound of Lily sighing herself into place. "You know I don't care one way or another. I said goodbye eighteen months ago. You can send her back to Boston as far as I'm concerned, but as I see it, you made a decision. Right or wrong, it's done. Now you have to move on. Are you her keeper or her mother?"

I hear a choking sound, and then an almost inaudible "I don't know."

Silence follows. No dishes. No chairs. No voices. No bending. Mother is done. So is Lily. Lily, the last person I expected to argue for me. At least I think that's what she did. But she would be just as happy if I were three thousand miles away in Boston. Probably happier. I don't understand. I only know I will not be going to school. Claire said so.

Claire.

I remember now.

I didn't call her Mother. I called her Claire. I am certain of it. finish the ascent of the stairs. I go to my room. Claire told me ). I think I hate her.

Jenna Fox / Year Ten

I know the meaning, but I check again to be sure.

hate v. 1. Intense dislike, extreme aversion or hostility. 2. To dislike passionately. 3. To detest.

There is a better word for Mother. Aggravating, maybe.

But I think Lily is wrong. She does hate me. Her aversion is extreme. She nearly shakes me with her constant sideways glances. She hasn't spoken more than four words to me in as many days, but since she's been out in the greenhouse from dawn until dusk, it has been easy to avoid me. Our worlds only intersect briefly in the morning when the three of us sit at the kitchen table and in the evening when we return there. I have been in my room watching discs. Mother asked me to. Her desperation for me to be who I was has intensified. As the Cotswold sees improvement, workers coming and going and restoring, it is like she expects to see the same measure of improvement in me. Restored shingles. Restored flooring. Restored Jenna.