The Memory Key

by Liana Liu

  And I cannot figure out what we’re doing wrong.

  So I don’t know how to fix it.

  I ride an even more circuitous route going than I did coming, and it’s not until I am rolling my bicycle into the house that I realize the circuitous route was unnecessary—anyone following me would already know where I live. I slam the front door shut. Then I notice my cell phone is ringing.

  It’s her. It has to be her.

  It’s not her.

  I don’t recognize the number, but I answer anyway.

  “Hello! This is Tonya from the KCO, returning your call. How can I help you?” chirps the voice at the other end. It takes me a second to remember that the KCO is the anti–Keep Corp organization from Ms. Pearl’s leaflet, and then my mood immediately improves. Maybe the KCO can help us.

  I start small: “Do you have any advice for people who’ve gotten their memory keys removed?” I ask.

  “No, we actually don’t recommend key extraction.”

  “But what about the things you say? About Keep Corp’s power? About the child labor in their factories?” My improved mood is already deteriorating.

  “Unfortunately, there’s no alternative as long as Vergets disease is a threat,” she says. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Then what do you even do?” I don’t bother hiding my disappointment.

  “At this point, our main goal is to end Keep Corp’s monopoly on key manufacture. Their patents should have expired decades ago, but they’ve managed to get extension after extension. The other med-tech companies are afraid to challenge them because every time someone has tried, Keep Corp has successfully sued.” Tonya from the KCO talks quickly, as if she’s afraid I might give up, hang up, before she’s done.

  “In three months, there’ll be a rally to increase public awareness,” she says.

  “A rally,” I say.

  “If we can end their monopoly, there’ll be more regulation of the industry, more transparency. And that’s only the beginning! Won’t you help make it happen? Anything you’re able to do—distributing flyers, making calls, raising money—would help.”

  “Distributing flyers,” I say.

  “Sure! We’re having a meeting next week. Let me give you the details.”

  I listen to the details. I hang up the phone. I slip my hand into the front pocket of my bag and fumble around for something. It’s only when the top is unscrewed and I’m staring at the blank white bottom that I realize it’s the empty bottle of pain pills I’ve got clenched in my fist.

  But my head isn’t aching. But my memory key isn’t broken. I have no excuse. No excuse other than I’m so frustrated it hurts. Keep Corp wrecked my family once, but it’s us doing the wrecking this second time. If only Jon weren’t so afraid. If only Dad weren’t so bewildered. If only my mother weren’t . . . I go into the kitchen and drop the empty pill bottle into the recycling bin.

  I come to a decision.

  My first move is a text message: Can we talk?

  After waiting a few minutes, I leave my phone on the table and go upstairs. I wash my hands and face. I brush my hair and tie it up into a ponytail. I make my bed. I put away my laundry. Then I run downstairs to check if I’ve gotten a text back; I must have gotten a text back by now.

  I haven’t. I scowl at my phone. It chimes.

  I’m at the place.

  “The place” is the pizza place in our neighborhood, and it serves what may be the worst pizza in the whole city: never enough sauce, never enough cheese, so much crust. The décor is equally unimpressive; the principal design feature is grime. But the waiters are friendly and they let you stay hours, even if you’ve only ordered a soda. Probably because the place is almost always almost empty.

  This afternoon is no different. Only one table is occupied, the table in the back corner. Tim’s regular table. And Tim is sitting there. And he’s not alone.

  “Hi, Lauren!” says Becky, cute Keep Corp intern.

  “Hi, Becky.” I wait for Tim to correct her about my name, but he doesn’t. He is apparently too busy chewing up the plastic straw in his empty cup.

  “That’s bad for your teeth,” I tell him.

  He shrugs.

  Becky stands up. She is wearing a fluttery polka-dotted dress and a crisscrossing pair of sandals. Her lipstick is bright red. All of it is cute, just like she is cute. “I better get going before I’m late. Bye, Lauren. Bye, Timmy.”

  She leaves and I sit down.

  “How’s it going, Timmy?” I say.

  “What do you want?”

  “What makes you think I want something?”

  “Why else would you be here?” He does not look at me. His gaze drifts from the dingy walls, to the plastic menu on the table, to the tiled floors, to the yellowed ceiling, but not to me, never to me.

  “I just have a question for you.”

  “What?” he says.

  “What do you know about the new memory keys?”

  Finally, he looks at me. “Why do you want to know?”

  “It’s a long story,” I say.

  “I don’t mind.” Tim stares resentfully at me. And I stare resentfully back at him. For he has no right to stare at me so when he was just hanging out with Becky, cutest intern ever.

  After a moment, his mouth curls. “Don’t you trust me?” he asks wryly.

  “I do,” I say, and realize it’s true. Tim may not be the nicest person: he can be selfish and unthinking; he goads and teases and never lets anyone get away with anything. But he is also the one who, when we were kids, soaked me with his neon green water gun then handed me the gun so I could soak him back. Tim is my friend. And I’m tired of pretending otherwise.

  “I trust you,” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  “Promise you won’t tell anyone.”

  “I swear it,” he says, and if it’s possible for a grin to be solemn, his is.

  Then my story comes speeding out of my mouth, phrases tripping in eagerness, sentences jumbled, words crowded too close for breath. I tell him about finding my mother at Grand Gardens. I tell him about mysterious cars and Carlos Cruz. I tell him about Jon’s plan for my mom to leave the country.

  “This is . . . It’s totally unbelievable,” he says.

  “But you believe me, right?”

  “Nope. Never.”

  I glare at him.

  “Okay, okay. I believe you! Of course I believe you.”

  “That’s better.” I smile. “So what do you know about the new keys?”

  “I know they’re scheduled to be released at the end of the year. It’s weird because there’s lots of buzz, but no one seems to know what makes them special. I’ll ask around. I’m friends with some recent grads in that department.”

  “That’d be really helpful. Thanks,” I say.

  “Do you have that flyer with you? From the Keep Out Keep Corp-whatever?”

  “I think so.” I unzip my bag. Out comes a sweater, a stack of rumpled documents, a bottle of water, and a book I thought I’d lost.

  “Is this it?” Tim yanks a sheet of paper from my pile of mess.

  “No, what’s that?” I lean over to see. He leans over so I can see. Our elbows bump once, twice. I have to remind myself to read.

  It’s the article I got at the library about the new memory keys. Now that I’m looking at it closely, I think it’s funny I printed it out. The article is not from a newspaper, but a tabloid magazine, the kind that loves a good alien abduction story.

  The writer claims that Keep Corp will soon present a new line of keys that will be marketed as innovative memory technology, but will actually be used to transmit data to the extremist group the Citizen Army, enabling them to circumvent security measures and carry out a series of political assassinations. With the government destabilized by these murders, Keep Corp will take power.

  “I know that can’t be true,” I say. “But could it?”

  “Are you serious? This is a magazine that claims werewolves are living secretly a
mong us. Why would the Citizen Army help Keep Corp take power?”

  “Maybe they don’t know about Keep Corp’s plans.”

  “They’ll know once they read this article.” Tim smirks.

  “My mom discovered something bad about the new keys. This is bad, isn’t it?”

  “Sure it’s bad, but seriously, Lora, it makes no sense.”

  I scowl at him. “Well, let’s hear some of your ideas then.”

  “Glad you asked. I think we should talk to that journalist.”

  “Who? Carlos Cruz? But we can’t trust him!”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  I point out the inconsistencies in his story: how Carlos said he knew nothing about Keep Corp anymore, but then talked about their new line of keys. I describe his unexpected visit to our house and his interest in the blue-jacketed strangers.

  “Honestly, it sounds like he’s just doing his job,” says Tim.

  “No. It’s more than just his job,” I say.

  “You really don’t like this guy, huh.”

  “He’s too handsome for his own good.”

  “So am I, and you like me, don’t you?”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re cute and all, Tim, but Carlos Cruz is really, really handsome. Like movie-star handsome.”

  “I knew it! You think I’m cute!” He grins triumphantly.

  “I don’t! I was just being nice. Anyway, this is about Carlos.”

  “Right, Carlos. I’ve got an idea, an amazing idea.”

  We bike over to Tim’s house so he can get his car. I tell him I’ll wait for him outside. He looks at me with confusion. “It might take a couple minutes,” he says. “Wouldn’t you rather come in?”

  “It’s better if I wait here,” I say.

  His expression clears. “Wendy’s not home, if that’s what you’re worried about. She’s with her new boyfriend.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

  “Right. Whatever you say.”

  “And who’s this new boyfriend, anyway? The football player?”

  He shrugs. “How should I know?”

  “She’s your sister.”

  “Exactly. She’s my sister. I want to know nothing about her love life. Gross,” he says. “Anyway, if you’re so curious, why don’t you ask her?”

  I make a face. But when he motions for me to follow him inside, I follow. We go into the living room, where his parents are watching television.

  “Lora!” they say. “Wendy’s not home, but she should be back soon.”

  “Oh, good.” I wonder how soon.

  The evening news is on and they’re showing scenes from Senator Finney’s memorial service. The president gives a speech about how this is a personal tragedy for every citizen, as well as a tragedy for the country as a whole. He says we must unite across party lines to fight the radical extremist groups that are threatening our nation and our freedom.

  “Nice talk, now let’s see some action,” says Mr. Laskey. His wife shushes him as the camera shifts to people nodding in sorrowful agreement. Suddenly, it’s Austin nodding in sorrowful agreement.

  “My aunt!” I say. She looks tired, her mouth tight with grief, her face pale above her black suit. Then the camera pans, and she’s gone.

  “It’s so very sad,” says the news anchor.

  “Yes, a life and a career cut tragically short. Who knows what impact the senator would have had,” says the other news anchor.

  They segue into a segment about new opposition to the proposed economic bill, specifically the defense budget. A conservative commentator talks about how the liberals are destroying everything the nation has worked so hard to accomplish.

  “I can’t believe this guy. What an idiot,” says Mrs. Laskey.

  “You’re not even listening to him,” says Mr. Laskey.

  “I am listening, and it’s outrageous,” says Mrs. Laskey.

  I stare at the television. The program goes to commercial. On the screen, it’s a dreary day and people are gloomy until a dozen women come running down the street, tossing yellow umbrellas to everyone. The umbrellas glow as they open, and soon everything is glowing: the street, the sky, the formerly gloomy people. Then it all fades into the Keep Corp logo and the caption BRINGING YOU A BRIGHTER YESTERDAY.

  I glance pointedly at Tim. He glances pointedly back. But I’m not sure we’re glancing about the same thing. His parents’ conversation is getting louder.

  “You think protecting our country is wrong? You think supporting our troops is wrong? Really?” Mr. Laskey scowls at his wife.

  “I think it’s wrong that we’re spending billions on these useless wars when there are so many people unemployed and hungry here.” Mrs. Laskey scowls at her husband.

  Tim glances pointedly at me. I glance pointedly back. This time we are definitely glancing about the same thing. We escape outside and get into his car. “They’re just enjoying some spirited debate,” I say.

  “If you say so.” He sighs as he turns on the engine.

  There’s a tap-tap-tap on his side of the car, and we both turn toward the sound.

  It’s Wendy.

  Tim rolls down his window. “Hey. What’s up?”

  “What are you doing?” she asks her brother.

  I don’t know whether to look at her or not. So I don’t. Then I do. She is with a handsome hulk of a guy, the football player, presumably. His arms really are impressive. But after my cursory inspection (of his biceps), I look only at Wendy. I look at the familiar tilt of her chin, the familiar slant of her mouth. She does not look back at me.

  “We’re going on an adventure. Want to come?” asks Tim, and as I wait for her answer I realize I want her to say yes. I realize I miss my friend, I miss her fiercely.

  “Well . . .” Wendy glances at me as if she has just noticed I’m in the car. Her eyes are dead cold. And even though she is standing right there, she seems hopelessly far away. “No, thanks,” she says.

  “Okay, see you later!” Tim backs out of his parking space and drives down a couple blocks. Then he pulls over to the side of the road.

  “Are you all right?” he asks me.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “If you’re fine then why are you crying?”

  “I’m not crying. Not really. Not a lot.”

  “Just talk to her,” he says.

  “I called her a bitch,” I say.

  “Well, she can be kind of bitchy sometimes.” Tim hands me a tissue.

  I wipe my eyes and tell him I’m impressed he has tissues in his car.

  He mutters something about allergies. “Anyway, I know she misses you,” he says, patting my shoulder.

  “Yeah? How do you know?”

  “I know her. I know.”

  “Thanks, Tim. You’re a good friend.” I smile at him. He smiles at me. Then his hand stops patting, but stays carefully balanced on my shoulder. We look at each other, no longer smiling. We look at each other until Tim looks away.

  “Thanks for not making fun of my allergies,” he says.

  “To be honest, I would if I could think of a witty way to do it.”

  “Well, thanks for not being able to think of a witty way to do it.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say because that is what good friends say.

  Tim slows the car as we approach Carlos Cruz’s apartment building, then we circle around, looking up and down the street. There are no silver sedans. “So much for your amazing idea,” I tell him.

  “Could it be in the back?” he says.

  We get out of the car and sneak down the alleyway that cuts through the center of the block. There’s a small parking lot behind the building, with room for just four cars. There are three cars, none of them silver sedans.

  “Maybe he’s not home?” I say.

  “Let’s look. Which is his apartment?”

  “That one, I think.”

  We creep closer, breathing softly, moving slowly, stepping carefully, though the gravel still spatters an
d sputters under our shoes. The window is open and a breeze flutters the curtains apart, just far enough apart so we can peer inside.

  “See anything?” I whisper.

  “A light? Is that a light there?” Tim whispers.

  “I think it’s a mirror,” I whisper.

  “No, it’s a light,” Tim whispers.

  “No, it’s a mirror,” says Carlos Cruz as he yanks back the curtains and stares at us through the screen, his handsome face darkened by shadow, and as I stare back at him I remember another handsome face, another attractive man, sitting on a bench, reading a magazine, except that other man was not another man, that man was actually this man.

  It was Carlos Cruz I saw that day at Keep Corp.

  28.

  “MISS MINT, HOW NICE OF YOU TO VISIT! PLEASE, WON’T YOU come in? It’s a little awkward talking like this, don’t you think?” Carlos smiles hospitably, as if we had come knocking on his door, not peeking through his curtains.

  “I’m sorry, it’s not what you think,” says Tim, and I elbow him. Carlos Cruz deserves no apologies, no excuses or explanations.

  “I saw you at Keep Corp,” I say, pointing rudely so there can be no mistake. “What were you doing there if you don’t have any contacts anymore?”

  “Let’s have this conversation inside. I just made a fresh pot of coffee. You kids drink coffee?” Carlos is not fazed, not even a little.

  “No way,” I say.

  He sighs. “If you don’t like coffee we can go to the bakery down the street.”

  Tim tugs my arm, pulling me back from the window. “Let’s talk to him, Lora. We have nothing to lose,” he says into my ear.

  “What if he’s involved?” I hiss.

  “You know he’s not involved. You know that you know.”

  “The bakery makes really good sandwiches,” Carlos croons through the screen.

  “I am kind of hungry,” says Tim.

  “Fine,” I snap. “Let’s go.”

  We sit on the bench outside of the bakery, and before anyone can unwind their really good sandwich from the waxed paper, before anyone can take that anticipated first bite, I turn to Carlos and say: “What were you doing at Keep Corp the other day? I know it was you.”