Read The Adoration of Jenna Fox for Free Online Page B

massive Tudor,
is dark and quiet. Same with the next house. But at the sprawling Craftsman I
see activity. A small white dog barks at me through the bars of a gate. I stop
and watch him. A woman calls to me, and I turn my head toward the front drive,
where she sweeps the litter of the storm.

    "Sorry," she says. "He thinks
he's a guard dog. Don't worry, though. He's all bark. Wouldn't hurt a
flea."
    I nod. I never thought he would hurt me. He's a
dog. He barks. Should I have been afraid? Is this what all neighbors do? Warn
you about things? The way Mr. Bender warned me about the white house at the end
of my street? Is it a nicety that means nothing, but one of the many other
subtleties that has become muddled inside of me? Am I missing something, or are
they?
    The woman lifts her hand, holds it there, and
then waves. A smile follows. "You okay?" she asks.
    "Are you?" I ask. Maybe I need to be
concerned about my neighbors, too? She returns abruptly to her sweeping and I
leave.
    Even though it is morning, the sky is still
dark with clouds and there are lights on in the next house. The white house. As
I get closer, I can see a glowing chandelier through a large window over the
door. More lights shine behind other curtained windows. The pillars on either
side of the door are cracked, lines running the length of them, bits of
concrete missing. I imagine they are bits that fell away with the last
earthquake and were never repaired, but still, the house looks to be well cared
for. Better than ours. It is not a frightening house, at least not what lies
outside. The front door opens, catching me. I try to resume my walk before I am
noticed, but it is too late. A shadowed figure reaches for a paper on the porch
but then stops and straightens without retrieving it. He steps out. It is a boy.
Like the boy I saw at the mission, he is tall and pleasant looking, but his
hair is as white as the other boy's hair was black. It is short and uncombed, a
scuffle of waves pointing in different directions.
    "Hello," he calls. His voice is
pleasant, too.
    "Hello."
    "You new in the neighborhood?"
    "Yes."
    "Welcome. I'm Dane." He smiles. Even
from the street I can see the whiteness of his teeth.
    "Hello," I say again.
    I want to leave, but my feet seem stapled to
the ground. He is bare-chested and his pajama bottoms hang dangerously low. He
pulls them up and shrugs. Was I staring?
    "I better go," he says. "Nice
meeting you."
    "Bye, Dane," I answer, and
miraculously my feet are released and I continue on my walk.
     
    When your life has had few events to occupy it,
it's amazing how a simple encounter can seem like an entire three-act play. I
replay it over and over in my head while I continue on my way to Mr. Bender's
house. Dane. White house. White pajamas. White teeth. There was nothing
frightening about it, except the way I was frozen on the street.
     
    Persona
    Finding his house is easy. Left. Left. Left. A
ten-minute walk at most. He is surprised to see me but invites me in.
    "Coffee?"

    "I can't drink. I mean I don't
drink coffee," I say.

    Mr. Bender stirs cream into his. He
offers me juice, milk, bagels, and muffins. I say no to them all. "I'm on
a special diet," I tell him.

    "Allergies?"

    "No. Just special."

    He nods. It is a nod that says, yes, I
know. What does he know? He says there isn't a thing you can't find out
about your neighbors on the Net. Has he found out something about me?

    "Did you get your pictures of the
pine serpent?" I ask.

    "Yes. Dozens. I'm trying to choose
the best ones to send to my agent."

    "Did you get some pictures with the
birds?"

    "A few. But the few were fairly
amazing. I got lucky."

    "May I see them?"

    "The pictures?"

    "No. The birds."

     
    Our footsteps make whooshing sounds on
the rain-soaked ground. Puddles spot the pathway into the garden. With his long
stride, Mr. Bender steps over them, but I step in them. "I don't know how
many there'll be," he says, "with the storm and all."

    All I want is