Memento Nora

by Angie Smibert

  The tattoo was red and bleeding when I got done; I cleaned it off and bandaged it. It would heal in a day or so. When I was done admiring my work, I noticed that it was already 8:30. I’d be late for school, if I went. So I decided I’d just go to Grandfather’s shop to see Jet.

  It doesn’t open until ten; but she’s always there early, cleaning, setting up her station, doing the books, etc.

  “Damn, girl. That’s so glossy,” she said as I set down the machine on her table. She was wearing this leather corset thing and jeans. Like I said, she looked hot.

  I dutifully groaned. It was a game we played. She knew I hated that word. She grinned.

  “Seriously, Winter,” she said. “That is the coolest mod you’ve done yet. Almost as cool as your sculptures.”

  “Sculptures?” a female voice asked from behind the dressing screen in the corner. I hadn’t realized Jet had a customer. A woman emerged with a sheet clutched to her chest. She still had on dress pants and heels. Her hair and makeup were sleek and polished. Very corporate. She looked vaguely familiar, like I’d seen her on a ’cast; but I hardly ever watched except for the news. And the news was mostly mind-numbingly irrelevant, corporate-owned crap.

  “She does kinetic sculptures. Very nonglossy,” Jet said as she moved the steampunk machine to a side table.

  “Extraordinary,” the woman said as she lay down on her stomach across Jet’s client table. There was the black outline of a tiger across her creamy white back. She was looking at the dials on the power supply of my mod. “Does it work?” she asked.

  “Yeah, it does,” I answered, holding out my hand.

  Jet took my hand and peeled open the gauze. “You did this?” she asked as she led me by the hand to her after-station. She cleaned off the tattoo with alcohol and rubbed something else into it. The black ink popped against my glistening skin. She studied it appraisingly. “That’s really good. It looks simple; but a perfect circle is really hard to do, especially if you’ve never tattooed before.” She put fresh gauze on my hand. “Girl, you can apprentice under me anytime,” she said with a smile.

  “Hey, I thought that was my position,” the woman with the half-drawn tiger on her back said.

  Jet smacked her on the rear. “And you better remember that, my love,” she said before she pulled on her gloves.

  Figures, Jet has a girlfriend. I don’t know why I thought she could like me. I started backing toward the door.

  “Did you use a stencil?” Jet asked.

  “Stencil?” It hadn’t even occurred to me to use any kind of stencil or even to draw it freehand first. I just did it. Of course, I’d seen Grandfather and Jet work before. They usually drew up the design and then copied it onto a stencil, which they applied to the client’s skin. Then they inked over the lines.

  “Don’t tell me you did that freehand.” Jet looked incredulous.

  “Show me how to make a stencil,” I said, a new hummingbird flitting around in my brain.

  Stencil. Ink. Paper. That just might work.

  13

  Now Who’s

  Being Paranoid?

  Therapeutic Statement 42-03282028-11

  Subject: JAMES, NORA EMILY, 15

  Facility: HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42

  Winter sent a message that she had a surprise for Micah and me after school.

  Her surprise was set up on the low table in the pagoda at the center of her garden.

  “It’s just the guts so far,” Winter explained. “But it works. Later I’ll fix it so you can feed the original into a slot and it’ll all print out.”

  One part of the contraption looked like a scanner or copier. It was a wide, low box with a glass top and a slot below. The other part looked like a big tin can with a crank handle.

  Winter pulled on some cheap disposable gloves and laid the comic facedown on the glass. She pressed a button, and a light scanned the image from below; nothing unusual, but instead of paper a shiny sheet of goo oozed out of the slot.

  “Gelatin,” Winter said. “It’s a stencil.” The stencil had an impression of the comic. Winter lifted the glass and showed us, Micah mostly, how she’d put an old dot matrix printer, a piece of junk from the 1990s, under the hood to cut the stencil. This kind of printer used real pressure rather than ink or light to make an image. A roll of homemade gelatin-backed paper was also under the hood.

  Winter held up the stencil to the light. “If you wanted to,” she told Micah, “you could freehand right on this with a stylus.” Then she put the stencil faceup on the tin can thing, clipping it in place with the tiny metal holders that were screwed into the can. She cranked the handle slowly. The contraption printed out a fresh black-and-white copy of Memento.

  “The ink’s from Grandfather’s shop. He makes it himself. I had to tweak it a little for print.”

  Micah snatched up the copy.

  “It’s kind of messy,” I said, straining to look over his shoulder. Some of the lines weren’t that crisp, but it still looked good.

  “I probably need to put more drying agent in the ink,” Winter said. “Plus, it’ll get better the more we do it.”

  Micah held up the paper to the light. “I bet I can touch up the master with a razor blade.” He squinted at the stencil on the drum. “You know, this would be great for T-shirts or posters.”

  “It still seems like way too much trouble,” I said.

  “People used this kind of printing for underground magazines and comics way before copiers and the Internet,” Winter said. She went off about something called a mimeograph machine and the history of antiestablishment magazines.

  “Did your grandpa tell you this, too?” I asked, a little tired of her knowing everything.

  “No,” she said, surprised. “Jet did. She runs Grand-father’s tattoo shop down the block. And her girlfriend, the reporter. She knew about the magazines. The shop has an old thermofax machine that Jet let me look at. It makes stencils that you press on the skin and then tattoo over. Same idea.”

  “Now, that’s glossy,” Micah said with a low whistle. He started to examine his forearm for optimum tattoo placement.

  “You didn’t tell her what you were doing, did you?” I asked.

  “Now who’s being paranoid?” Winter laughed.

  I turned red.

  “Don’t worry. I told her it was for an art history project.”

  I had to laugh at that.

  We printed about two hundred copies of the first ever issue of Memento. And Winter was right. It did get better looking the more we printed.

  “We should’ve used colored paper,” I said. It was all I could think to add.

  The next morning I stood in line at the security checkpoint at school with a stack of freshly inked paper tucked into my bag. Winter and Micah were doing the same. My heart raced as my bag passed through the scanner; but the cop assigned to the school, a big, sandy-haired guy, just stood there watching the rent-a-cops work the machine. They all seemed bored out of their minds.

  Micah, Winter, and I visited the bathrooms—separately, of course—and stealthily placed a handful of Mementos on the toilet in each stall, careful to appear as if we were just using the facilities. The school has cameras everywhere—except in the stalls. Micah thought that wasn’t so much to preserve our privacy as to keep the pervs and pedophiles on the security staff to a minimum. It wasn’t an elegant solution to the distribution problem, but it was the best we could come up with.

  14

  This Is Me Not

  Nipping It in the Bud

  Therapeutic Statement 42-03282028-11

  Subject: JAMES, NORA EMILY, 15

  Facility: HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42

  Homeroom was quiet—except for the drone of Homeland Teen News in the background. HTN is this ’cast that all Homeland-owned high schools have to run in the mornings. Today’s lead story was about teamwork on and off the field. Nobody was watching. I tried to cram for a Spanish quiz but ended up just staring at the words
while I listened for something. I don’t know what. Maybe a swarm of security guards crashing through the hallways. A black helicopter landing on the roof. All I heard were the usual whispers of my classmates and the rustle of paper. I let out a breath and tried to focus on the vocabulary words. Micah and Winter were just being their paranoid selves, I told myself.

  Mr. Finchly got up from his desk, which was unusual, and started walking down the aisle toward me. He moved with deliberate speed, like a police car moves right before its lights start flashing. I imagined myself sitting in the office, police by the door, my father storming in. Then Mr. Finchly brushed past me. I heard him stop a few desks behind me.

  “Mr. Jameson, is there something you’d like to share with the class?” Mr. Finchly’s crisp British accent echoed in the now silent room.

  Rick Jameson replied, “Why yes, sir, there is.” He held up a familiar sheet of paper.

  Mr. Finchly snatched up Rick’s copy of Memento and read it quickly. In my head, I could hear the helicopters hitting the roof and cops swarming the halls, but I couldn’t turn away. I had to see his reaction.

  “Where did you get this?” Mr. Finchly asked.

  I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but I thought I was going to hurl.

  “They’re all over the place,” someone else—Catrina Jackson, I think—replied. Other kids agreed, saying they found it in the bathroom, hallway, café courtyard, locker rooms.

  I forgot how to breathe for a minute.

  The bell rang. Nobody moved.

  Finally, Mr. Finchly turned on his heel, wadded up the paper, and tossed it in the trash can at the front of the room.

  “Well,” he said, turning back to the class. “What are you waiting for? Get out of here.”

  On my way to Spanish, I started to think it was all going to be all right. I even relaxed enough to get a B on the quiz.

  After third period I met my girls outside the yearbook room. We started talking about Mercedes Rios breaking up with Trey Collins on Behind the Gates. I hadn’t told anyone yet we were moving. I couldn’t think that far ahead—even if it was only eighteen days. I hated the idea of leaving my girls, though I knew they’d be so behind the move. I’d be their ticket into compound life.

  “Oh, she’d never marry him,” I said when Maia brought up Trey’s brother, Stone, as a possible replacement; but I didn’t finish the thought. We could hear lockers slamming and unfamiliar voices down the hall toward the gym.

  The school cop and his squad of rent-a-cops were searching lockers. Actually, the real cop watched as the others did all the work.

  “I bet it’s because of that Memento comic,” Abby said.

  “Oh yeah, everyone’s got one.”

  “Someone ran off copies in the library.”

  “My cousin sent it to my mobile just before third period—and she goes to a private school across town.”

  Wow. I had no idea it would spread this fast. Or at all. It had become self-replicating, like the viruses we were studying in biology. I started getting that queasy feeling again.

  “Hey, isn’t that your skate-punk art history partner?” Maia asked, pointing to a security guard frisking a kid. Micah.

  Micah, however, was grinning as they patted him down. I didn’t dare move, even if I could. He opened his bag for them as if he didn’t have a thing in the world to hide. They turned out books and papers and candy bars and even dirty socks, but no sketch pads. He winked at me as he stuffed all his belongings back into his messenger bag.

  “Girl, he likes you,” Abby said, giving me a little shove.

  I blushed, and Maia told me I’d better nip that in the bud.

  I didn’t say anything. All I could see was that big, sandy-haired cop staring at me.

  The rest of the school day dragged on forever.

  That afternoon I waited in our usual spot in the library, but Micah didn’t show. The school cop did. He sauntered in about five minutes after I sat down. He poked his head into the librarian’s office. Ms. Curtis is kind of cute, so I thought maybe he was just hitting on her. She giggled, and I relaxed a bit. I opened one of the big art books from the perpetual stack on the table. No one seems to tidy up this place. The book was about kinetic sculpture. I turned the page, and a piece of paper fluttered out. They’re watching us. I stuffed the note back into the book and looked up to see the cop smiling at me as he headed out of the library.

  “I see Mr. Wallenberg stood you up.” It was Ms. Curtis. She’d emerged from her office to watch the cop leave. “Oh, don’t worry about him.” I wasn’t sure if she meant the officer or Micah. She looked at me differently then. “You know, we have similar taste in men,” she said.

  I was so not having this conversation with the school librarian. I grabbed my bag and stood up.

  “We fall for the ones our friends—and family—don’t get,” she added with a sad smile.

  “I’ve got to go.” I left the library.

  But then I thought, Maybe she has something there. Micah was not who Dad or my friends would pick for me. Still. She was like thirty-five or something. It was not the same thing at all.

  But Micah was right. Someone was watching us, although maybe not for the reasons he imagined.

  15

  A Man Can Dream

  Therapeutic Statement 42-03282028-12

  Subject: WALLENBERG, MICAH JONAS, 15

  Facility: HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42

  Dreams suck. Not all dreams do, obviously. But this one did. Big-time. Most mornings I don’t even remember them. I just roll out of bed and see what’s for breakfast. Okay, I feed the cat, do my chores, shower, and then see what’s cooking. By the time I’m shoveling oatmeal into my mouth, any trace of a dream is out of my head.

  This time, though, it was like something important was there, something I couldn’t quite see, as if a wall were blocking it. I remember being in a crowd of people, all way taller than me. They were moving and shouting, not angry shouts but more like chanting. A guy—I think it was my dad—lifted me up and put me on a fence or wall so I could see over the crowd. He told me to stay put as the crowd started to surge forward, carrying him with it. All I could see were heads. Hundreds of them. Then there were sirens. And angry shouting. And shots. Smoke. People running. A man called my name. And then nothing. This big, fat wall of nothingness I couldn’t see around.

  I sketched what I remembered, meaning to show Nora later. Somehow that thought made me feel pretty mellow. Glossy even.

  Then Mrs. Brooks knocked on the door. I knew it was her because Mom was working the night shift. Again.

  “Young man,” Mrs. Brooks said in that mock stern voice she puts on to get me to do stuff. “You’re going to be late for school if you don’t shake a leg. And you promised me some firewood for the ovens. We’re making a big batch today.”

  I could already smell the bread baking across the square.

  “I’m up,” I told her.

  “Sure you are.” She chuckled. “I saved you some muffins for breakfast. Those Peterson kids eat enough for an army.”

  Mrs. Brooks always has my back.

  I rolled out of my cot, banging my cast on the dresser that doubles for my desk. Our shack is a definite improvement over living in our car, but I still miss a real, person-sized bed. I pulled on the cleanest-smelling T-shirt I could find out of the pile on the floor, fed Mr. Mao, and wrestled a shopping cart out to the woodpile.

  Sometimes we used salvage wood, the stuff we’d ripped out of old houses that was too damaged to use again. Today we had proper logs for the bake ovens. A guy traded us a truckload for some bathroom fixtures and a half-dozen loaves of rosemary garlic sourdough. Mrs. Brooks has connections.

  I wheeled the cart over to the pavilion and told Mrs. Brooks I’d get the rest after school.

  “Sure you will,” she said, nodding. She handed me a warm paper bag filled with blueberry muffins and a to-go cup of coffee. The smell of the blueberries and the coffee (and that little dash of
vanilla the old lady dabbed on her wrists every morning) was the smell of pure love.

  “Marry me, Mrs. Brooks,” I said as I slung my bag over my shoulder.

  “Get to school, child,” she said, this time not so stern. She pointed toward the gate.