The Adoration of Jenna Fox - Softcover

Mary Pearson

  • 3.69 out of 5 stars
    52,969 ratings by Goodreads
 
9781406323016: The Adoration of Jenna Fox

Synopsis

This is a chilling, page-turning psychological thriller set in a clinical future that may be closer than we think. A seventeen-year-old girl wakes from a year-long coma and is told her name is Jenna Fox. She doesn't remember the accident; she doesn't remember her life; she doesn't remember herself. Her parents show her home movies of her past, but is she really the same girl she sees on the screen? When the memories start to come, they come with questions - questions no one wants to answer. How did the accident happen? Why does her own grandmother hate her so? And why does she feel her parents are hiding her away? Who is Jenna Fox? Feature-film rights of this title are sold to Fox 2000 and translation rights sold around the world. This is the holder of a Golden Kite Honor Award, nominated for the 2009 Nebula Andre Norton Award. 'Expert plotting and complex questions raised about ethics and the nature of the soul' - "Publishers Weekly", Starred Review. 'This novel is truly unlike any other I have read and is a breath of fresh air in the often predictable world of teen literature' - "ELLEgirl".

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About the Author

Mary E. Pearson is the author of several books for teens, including A Room on Lorelei Street and her latest novel The Miles Between. Her books have received many honours, including the Jhunt Award for YA Fiction and the South Carolina YA Book Award; The Adoration of Jenna Fox is the holder of a Golden Kite Award and was nominated for the 2009 Nebula Andre Norton Award. Mary writes full-time from her home in California, USA. www.marypearson.com

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

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.

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