“Have you been to Japan?” I asked him.
“Not since I was maybe five or six. I remember riding a very fast train into this huge station. Mom and I got lost. When we finally emerged outside, we were in a sea of people all trying to cross the street at once.”
“That must have been Shibuya Station.” I showed him a pic of the massive pedestrian crossing out front.
“Yeah. I’d never seen so many people. And there were older kids dressed like old-timey rock stars. Oh, I remember a dog statue.”
I scrolled through another few pics until I got to Hachiko, the dog immortalized outside the station.
“On the train, Mom told me the story about how the dog waited faithfully every day at the station for his master to come home. Except one day, he didn’t get off the train—the master, that is. He died. The dog kept waiting for him—until he died. The dog’s body is in a museum nearby. Mom wouldn’t take me to see the body.”
I had a far better picture of Japan from Aiden’s sketchy six-year-old memory than I’d gotten from two grown people who’d lived in the city for three years. Something didn’t add up.
“How was Switzerland?” I asked. Aiden had been there the same length of time my parents had been in Japan.
“Oh, I worked. I shopped. Didn’t see a thing.”
“Shut up,” I said, laughing.
“School was okay. Bern’s a beautiful place—if you like Gothic cathedrals and medieval castles and snowcapped Alps—but it’s kinda boring compared to Zurich. Not too much to do on the weekends except study and ski and drink.” Aiden described the clock tower, a sculpture he’d seen in Lucerne that reminded him of my garden, plus a few places he’d explored. Underground tunnels. Crypts. Clock towers. The whole hacker, adventurer, rattle-on-doors thing he loves.
Then we talked about Tamarind Bay, the school here, and how I was going to miss my friends and my grandfather. I didn’t mention Jet. She’s the lead tattoo artist at Grandfather’s main shop downtown. I have a crush on her.
“I don’t think I’ll really miss anyone—except my mom. And maybe she’ll come to the States more often now.” Aiden’s voice sounded far away.
“Do you remember when my parents left for Japan?”
“No, not really. I think I was already at Bern Academy by then.”
“I remember that now. It was about a week or so before my parents disapp—went away. Right in the middle of a semester.”
“Mom said she wanted me close to her for a while. I thought it meant they were getting divorced or something. The next thing I heard was that you were at Mr. Yamada’s. Mom said not to bring up your folks’ trip if I talked to you, because you were really freaked out about it. And you never brought it up.”
“Why don’t I remember them leaving or ever calling or visiting?”
“My dad hardly ever called me. Do you think your grandfather took you to TFC after they left?”
I shook my head. It sounded plausible, but Grandfather hates TFC. He always says that memories, good or bad, are part of who we are. Besides, I had other memories that didn’t quite fit with that explanation. “I remember being angry and scared about them being gone. But I wasn’t mad at them. And I remember Grandfather hiring lawyers and going to court to get them out of the Big D.” I said the last part quietly.
Aiden’s face looked like there was a tug-of-war going on in his brain.
“Okay, give. What did they tell you about me?”
“Truth? Mom said you were having paranoid delusions about your parents being gone. Crazy shit about the government taking them. That’s why you went to the hospital. That’s why Uncle Brian and Aunt Spring came home.”
And why Aiden came home.
Maybe I was crazy, but the whole Japan thing didn’t add up.
I needed to hear it from Mom and Dad. I needed to hear it from my Sasuke-san, but Mom was still too mad at him to let me talk to him. Or any of my friends, for that matter. Micah would know if I was crazy. Velvet would, too, but this is more the kind of thing I would have told Micah. He does serious better than Velvet. But someone had blocked my calls to anyone who might have been able to back me up. So Mom and Dad would have to do.
Aiden caught my hand as I pushed away from the table. “Winter, why did you send me that book?” he asked in a hushed tone.
That snapped me out my spiraling thoughts.
“What book? I don’t remember sending you anything.”
Aiden glanced at the security cams hanging over the food court. I hadn’t really noticed them before.
“Come to the car with me,” he whispered. “I’ll give you a ride home,” he added more loudly.
The hummingbirds fluttered in my brain.
12.0
AN ENIGMA WRAPPED IN A LIBRARY BOOK
AIDEN
“You’re as bad as Micah,” Winter said as we walked through the security checkpoint into the parking garage. “Paranoid,” she clarified when I raised my eyebrow Dad-style.
Maybe she was right, but I couldn’t take the chance that the security cams would pick us up.
The universe muttered its agreement as a camera swiveled and followed us to the waiting car.
We slipped into the back of the limo, and I flicked on the privacy screen between us and Jao before taking out the book.
“Nice.” Winter grabbed the book from my hands. It was a book on kinetic sculpture, after all. She flipped through the first few pages, devouring the pictures as if she’d never seen them before.
“I sent you this?” she asked.
“Keep going,” I told her.
She flipped through a few more pages before she gasped. She’d found the secret stash.
“Recognize them?”
She pulled out the Mementos and studied them. “No,” she said. She pressed one of the pages to her nose and inhaled. “Uh, I don’t think so, at least.”
But I could see she was scanning that hard-drive brain of hers, looking for some lost bit of data. I could almost hear the clicking.
“The work definitely looks like Micah’s, though,” Winter finally said.
She reminded me that Micah is her homeless skater friend who draws. And who is evidently paranoid. Maybe rightly so.
“He’s good,” I said.
She nodded, flipping through the comics again. “These must be new. I don’t remember them, and he shows me everything. I mean everything.”
“But you sent them to me.” I said it slowly so it would sink in.
She shrugged helplessly. “Sorry.” She pulled out her mobile and showed me a pic of a curly-headed kid with glasses and a scruffy goatee. Micah Wallenberg, her contact list said. “His number is blocked on my mobile. Same with Velvet and the rest of my friends.” She sounded angry now. Aunt Spring must have done that in her motherly zeal to keep Winter safe. From what, I don’t know.
“Let me try.” I spoke Micah’s name and number into my mobile. I got a weird message saying this person was unavailable.
Then I tried Velvet. It connected, and I handed my mobile to Winter.
“Velvet? I’m so glad to hear your voice! My mobile’s blocked. Hmm? This is Aiden’s. You know, my cousin. I’m okay. No, I’m restricted to the compound—” They chatted for several minutes at an even higher rate of speed. Then Winter abruptly handed the mobile back to me. “She wants to talk to you.”
It wasn’t much of a two-way conversation. I did a lot of agreeing, including agreeing to come by the store where she worked so I could tell her in person how Winter really was.
That was fine with me. I had some things I wanted to ask her.
13.0
WAITING FOR THE BRAVE NEW WORLD TO CHANGE
VELVET
Huxley’s was deader than usual—and I really couldn’t afford to keep recycling my paycheck through the shop’s antiquated till. Mrs. Huxley is against a lot of the same things as my mom—like gridded technology. They’re friends. And, yes, that’s how I got the job.
Still, I had nothing
better to do than browse the new vintage jackets and play dress-up until Winter’s cousin got here or a customer popped in. The latter wasn’t likely at this time of day. “Business” would pick up later after we closed, during the unspoken, unadvertised Hour Exchange hours. Mrs. H. worked those herself.
I didn’t like deciding on barters, anyway. How many dresses does four hours of free legal service or five loaves of French bread equal? Only Mrs. H. could judge that.
“Nothing Ever Happens” by the Lo-Fi Strangers roared over the store’s old-fashioned stereo system, while I slipped on a black leather jacket. I modeled it with my current ensemble. Too biker chick.
Spike called while I was trying on the vintage Chanel suit with my black lace tights.
Ignore. Don’t talk to fools when you’re still mad at them. Or yourself. Book of Velvet. Yada, yada, yada.
I was modeling the peasant skirt with combat boots when Aiden came in. The effect was sort of punk little-house-on-the-prairie. Not my best work.
“Velvet?” he asked. I could feel him staring, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him.
I held up my hand. “I’ll be right with you.” I ducked into the dressing room again and changed back into my jeans.
Now it was my turn to stare.
Aiden Nomura looked like he’d stepped out of a J. Crew catalog. Not bad on the eyes, but nothing like Winter. If I hadn’t been expecting him, I would’ve directed him to the mega-Gap three blocks away.
“I’m Aiden.” He reached out his hand and launched into this full-charm initiative, with just the right smile and tilt of his head. “Nice shop—”
I put the counter between us.
He kept talking some crap about liking the store, yada, yada, yada. I stopped listening. Never listen to BS wrapped in a polo shirt and $300 shoes. Finally, he came up for air.
“You’re Winter’s cousin?” I let the incredulity sink in.
“Um, yeah,” he said, put off his game, whatever it was.
“Velvet Kowalcyk,” I said. I made a show of appraising his outfit.
“What is it with you and Winter?” He chuckled. “I have to look the part, you know.”
I guess we all do. Corporate prince. Wannabe rock star. Vintage store screw-up. Everybody except maybe Winter. She doesn’t care.
“How is our girl? Really,” I asked.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he said earnestly. The Prince Charming façade fell away like an ill-fitting prom dress.
Now I could see the resemblance. In the eyes. He had Winter’s intensity.
Aiden Nomura slung his backpack on the counter and glanced around before he pulled out a large coffee-table art book. “She doesn’t remember sending me these.” He slipped out a set of cartoons—which were obviously drawn by Micah. No doubt.
Winter (and Micah) always had art books like this around, but I didn’t remember seeing the comics—and I think I would because they were disturbingly good.
“Definitely Micah’s,” I said to Aiden’s unasked question.
“We got a weird message when we called him.”
I put the drawings back into their hidey hole and closed up the book tightly. Aiden watched.
“Micah’s in juvie.” And now I know why.
“When did that happen?” Aiden shoved the book into his pack.
“Right before the cops raided Black Dog Village and found ‘suspicious’ materials there. Bomb-making stuff, they said.” I explained to Aiden that BDV was a homeless village where Micah used to live. And that the raid happened in mid-May, about the time school let out. “Luckily, his mom got one of those new TFC-sponsored apartments on Norfolk Avenue right before the raid.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Now that I’d said it out loud, I wondered: How did I know all this? I strained to remember. I hadn’t talked to his mom. Or to Winter’s mom for that matter. I’d just gotten the weird messages when I called. How did I know about the hospital? And that Nora James moved to Los Palamos? Like I care about her?
“Are you okay?” Aiden asked. I hadn’t noticed him coming around the counter, but there he stood, leaning against it, looking all concerned into my face.
I studied his. He seemed a lot like Winter now, in the ways that counted, only glossier on the outside. And harder to get a handle on. Could I tell him? About the chip? About what I just realized I don’t remember?
Not in those clothes.
“We need to do something about all this.” I waved my hand over his perfectly put together ensemble. But I really meant something else. I think.
9:42 AM. SOMEWHERE IN THE CITY OF HAMILTON…
Good morning, citizens. Today let’s talk about things you might not hear about on Action 5—or the national Action News ’cast. Or any newscast in this country.
Yesterday the French government closed down TFCs in Paris after a riot broke out in front of a clinic near the Sorbonne. The crowd, mostly students from the university, was heard shouting “Memento!” as they turned over a black van.
A similar incident happened in Athens this morning.
French and Greek authorities are investigating.
Next up: The Silence’s version of “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised.”
14.0
STUCK IN A MOMENT
WINTER
Over dinner that night, which Mom ordered in from some Thai place, she and Dad talked work.
“The ID chip interface isn’t going to be ready in time if Ichiro keeps micromanaging the whole project,” Dad said, shoveling Pad Thai into his mouth.
“He’s just stressed because the client bumped up the schedule so much.”
“Well, he could trust some of us to do our jobs.” Dad stabbed his chopsticks into the pile of noodles.
Mom passed the curry.
I didn’t care about family or company politics (which were the same thing); I had only one thing on my mind: Japan. I was stuck on it.
“Did you guys see the Anya Reismuller exhibit at the Watari last year?” I asked.
“The what at the what?” Dad said, his mouth full.
“The Watari Museum of Contemporary Art. It’s between Shibuya station and Nomura headquarters. The artist does these amazing robotic sculptures.”
Dad shook his head as if I’d suggested they might have gone deep-sea diving for sponges or something. Dad’s idea of art is an engineering blueprint or a fast car. He likes things that do what they’re supposed to do—well.
“No, I’m afraid we didn’t, dear,” Mom said. She writes code for a living, but her idea of art is hanging in her closet. Actually, that’s not true. She doesn’t really care about fashion; she just wants to fit in.
“The artist used to work for the company. I thought maybe you would’ve gone to support her. A little company loyalty. Like Hachiko.”
“Who?” Mom asked.
“You know, the famous dog statue right outside the train station you used every day for the past three years.”
“Enough.” Dad slammed his chopsticks on the table. Mom was beginning to tear up.
I’d struck something here.
“Can’t you just leave it alone?” he asked.
“No.” I stared at my dad, looking for that missing piece of the puzzle rattling around in his brain. “I don’t think you were in Tokyo at all.”
“What? You think because we don’t know some touristy stuff you looked up online that we weren’t really in Japan?”
He had me there. I shook my head. “No, but something just doesn’t make sense.”
“Look, Winnie,” Mom said. I cringed at the name. “Our memory is a little hazy because of a special project we worked on there. One Ichiro didn’t want leaked. So—”
“So you brain-bleached yourself?” That was just as crazy as what I had been thinking. “Okay, so then why don’t I remember you going to Japan in the first place? Or you ever calling me in three years? And don’t say Grandfather TFC’d me. He’d never.”
Mom glared at me, bu
t I wouldn’t let it go.
“And why did he spend all that time and money on lawyers to get you out of Detention?” I’d said it. The D word. They were in the Big D, not the Big J.
“Oh, Winnie.” My father sighed and looked at Mom, who was crying now. “Look what you’ve done.”
“Honey, I’m sure your grandfather was having his own legal problems.” Mom sniffed. “I hope he wasn’t contributing to your—”
“Delusions?” I finished for her. “I’d like to hear all this from him.”
“That’s not a good idea. We’re making an appointment for you with the doctor Ichiro recommended.”
“Winnie,” my dad said. “We’re home. Everything is okay. We can get on with our lives. Forget about the past. You need to work hard. Go to school. A good school. Work for the company.”
Where had I heard that before?
15.0
BREAKFAST IN AMERICA
AIDEN
The clock blinked seven AM at me, and for a brief sleepy moment, I wondered why on Earth I’d set the alarm. It was way too early for summer. Then it came to me.
My internship started today. Groan.
I rolled out of bed.
The skinny black jeans and red pseudo-western shirt Velvet had picked out for me hung over the closet door. I hoped she was kidding.
Mom called while I was in the shower to tell me to behave myself at the office.
I ought to wear this cowboy punkware to work.
I didn’t.
White shirt. Check. Khakis. Check. Tie. Check.
Dad was eating breakfast when I came downstairs. I suspected he’d waited to make sure I was actually presentable and on time.
He gave me one of his arched eyebrow looks but didn’t say anything. He just dipped his tamagoyaki—a rolled omelet—in soy sauce and motioned for me to sit. Cook had made a traditional Japanese breakfast for us. Rice. Broiled Salmon. Tamagoyaki. Miso. Something pickled. Tea.
The Forgetting Curve (Memento Nora) Page 6