Memento Nora

by Angie Smibert

  Mr. Yamada stood up.

  “Damn, kiddo, I should know better than to ninja up on a skater boy,” he said, rubbing his chin and grinning.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I felt bad for hitting him, an old man and all, but we didn’t have time for this. “There’s a van creeping around the block right now.”

  The smile evaporated from his face. He scrambled back up the outside of the fire escape and onto the roof in one fluid motion—like a spider monkey. Then I heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie, like the ones they use in old war movies, coming from the top of the roof. Mr. Yamada must have spotted the van.

  I raced down the alley. I could see the van idling a couple of blocks down Nineteenth—by a parked car on the opposite side of the street. Carrying my board, I ran half crouching through the shadows to a doorway about a block from the van.

  I saw a guy in a dark uniform of some sort; I couldn’t see any markings, but it didn’t look like cop or military issue. He had on gloves and a watch cap, though it was pretty warm out. The guy—at least I think it was a guy—put something in the wheel well above the front driver side tire. He slapped a sticker on the front windshield and then jumped into the back of the van as it peeled away. The whole operation took just seconds.

  As I crept down the block, I saw another car pull slowly up to the opposite corner. It stopped about twenty-five yards away. It was Bell. I heard the walkie-talkie crackle again as he rolled down his window.

  I picked up my board and ran commando style over to Bell’s car. I rapped on the window.

  “Jesus, kid, you scared me,” Bell said as he rolled his window down farther. “You need to get out of here now.”

  “Did they do what I think they did?” I asked.

  “Get in,” he said.

  Mr. Yamada ran up to the passenger side.

  “What are you going to do about this?” I asked them, still not getting in. “What if someone tries to drive the car? Did you check to see if anyone is sleeping in there now?”

  “They slapped a shutdown sticker on the vehicle. It can’t be driven,” Bell explained rather casually. “Well, most of the time. Besides, who in their right mind would be sleeping in a car these days?”

  Crap, I thought. It would take too long to explain. I skated over to the car, which was an old beater, a yellow Chevy a lot like my mom’s old car. Lights were on in the building behind it. I circled around and peeked in the back. There was a lumpy pile of blankets and clothes across the seat, and I heard the faint sounds of the Haji Patrol theme song coming from underneath. I tapped on the window, and the sound cut out. I tapped again.

  “Dude, get up,” I said. “Someone’s been messing with your car. You could be toast in a few minutes.”

  A kid’s head popped up and looked at me in a panic. He couldn’t have been more than twelve. And he didn’t know whether I was waiting to jack his gear or was telling the truth. I backed away from the car.

  I waved off Mr. Yamada and supercop as they came running at the car. Nothing would scare the kid more than a couple guys in black rushing his crib.

  “Dude, no lie. I saw some guy put something under the driver side. Ease out toward me.”

  He still didn’t move.

  “Is your mom working in this building?” I asked, pointing behind me. “Cleaning or something?”

  He nodded.

  “Better go warn her. You don’t want her to get hurt,” I said, and backed off even farther.

  The kid climbed out of the car slowly in his camo pj’s and bare feet, his mobile clutched in his hand. He looked from me to Bell to Mr. Yamada.

  “This dude’s a cop.” I pointed to Bell, who had the sense to flash his badge. “He can get you and your mom to somewhere safe.”

  The kid rabbited into the building. Bell followed.

  Mr. Yamada looked at me. Then he bowed and offered to bring me home.

  “Nah, I’m okay,” I said. “Take care of those people who almost got blown up.” I pushed off toward home before he could say anything else.

  I wasn’t really okay, though. Six months ago that could have been me. I shivered as I wound through the alleys and side streets toward Black Dog Village.

  I got about a half mile away before the explosion went off.

  26

  Behind the Gates

  Therapeutic Statement 42-03282028-11

  Subject: JAMES, NORA EMILY, 15

  Facility: HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42

  I successfully avoided Micah for a whole seventy-two hours, not counting the weekend. My girls ran interference for me at school. They assumed I was finally nipping an undesirable relationship in the bud. And when the girls weren’t around, I ducked into the bathroom and other places when I saw him coming.

  Monday, I darted into the library without thinking. Then I realized he was going to follow me. It was kind of our place. But Ms. Curtis instantly understood the situation. She hid me in her office.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” she said as she squeezed one of those stress thingies she keeps on her desk. “Sometimes you’ve got to do unpleasant things to protect the ones you love. Things they might not like you for.”

  For a second I thought that Ms. Curtis knew about my mom somehow. Then I realized she was talking about Micah. She meant I was protecting him by ditching him. And I guess I was.

  “I don’t know about love,” I said. But I did feel better about what I was doing. “Thanks. Tell the group Memento is history.” Just like Micah and me.

  “Good.” She released the stress ball and let it drop onto her desk.

  I still didn’t understand why the group cared, why she cared. As the pink ball rolled toward me, I could see it had the Behind the Gates logo on it. I felt a weird kinship with her.

  “Who did you lose?” I asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “You said the people who’d started the group had all lost someone to you-know-where.”

  “My mother.” That’s all she said.

  “Oh.” I don’t know what I’d expected, a brother or boyfriend maybe. Winter’s mom was in the Big D, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. But I was.

  Ms. Curtis didn’t look like she wanted to discuss her mom, but I had a crazy urge to talk to her about mine. “Can I tell you something?”

  She nodded, and the whole thing about my parents spilled out of my mouth. How he beat her. How she forgot it. How he’d told me to stop seeing Micah. The only thing I left out was the cocoa. It felt good, but as soon as it was all out of my mouth, I worried that Ms. Curtis would have to report it to someone. So I asked her, just to be sure.

  “Technically, I only have to report child abuse.” She looked me in the eye, I guess checking to see if I were lying and my dad was hitting me, too. “I know you’ve been through a lot, Nora.” She was silent for a moment. “Your secret is safe with me,” she finally said, shaking her head slightly. “But please know you can come to me if things get worse or if you need anything. Anything at all.” I noticed she’d picked up the stress ball again while I was talking and was rolling it around in her hands.

  “Thanks,” I said, relieved.

  She nodded. “You’re doing the right thing.”

  I felt better, and I didn’t.

  My mobile buzzed, and I dashed out the door.

  The next day when Micah approached our table at lunch, I let Tom Slayton, egged on by the girls, stare down Micah and tell him to piss off. But I ached to talk to him. Micah, not Tom. And Tom took the whole situation as a sign. An invitation. Maybe the girls clued him in. He walked me to my next class. And he was waiting there when it was over. And he even asked me to the prom. I told him I’d love to but I was indefinitely grounded. I never mentioned we’d probably be “behind the gates” of Los Palamos by then. I still hadn’t told anyone about the move.

  The girls were thrilled with the Tom Slayton development. He’s so Stone Collins, Abby said. Very glossy, Maia agreed. I could feel Winter looking through me when I passed h
er in the hall, as if she could see how hollow I really was.

  Dad would probably approve of Tom Slayton, too, I thought as Tom walked me to history class. He was talking about which colleges had the best pre-law programs and lacrosse teams. But the thought of living behind the gates with a Tom Slayton was so dreary, I wanted to cry. I told him I’d see him later and ran into the bathroom.

  In there, a junior girl I didn’t know asked me to sign a petition to bring back the school newspaper. We used to have one, she explained, back when her big brother went here.

  “Homeland blamed it on budget cuts,” she said, rolling her eyes as she handed me the clipboard, “but we all know they just didn’t ‘approve’ of what we had to say.” She already had 283 signatures.

  While I was signing, an announcement played on the ad screen over the sink. Senior Skip Day had been canceled because of the prank.

  “Typical,” the girl said on her way out.

  Wednesday was a lot of the same. But that evening our home security system announced a visitor, and then someone knocked on the door to my room. I prayed that it wouldn’t be Tom.

  It wasn’t. It was Micah.

  “You okay? I told your mom I needed your help on our art history project,” Micah said, pulling his sketchbook out of his trusty messenger bag.

  I didn’t say anything. I just sat on the bed like a lump.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “I was worried when you didn’t show at Winter’s. When you didn’t answer your messages. When you let that jock-head blow me off yesterday,” he said, hurt. He took a few steps closer.

  “I can’t do it anymore,” I told him. I pulled my knees up to my chin and wrapped my arms around them.

  “Wait,” he said, pulling something from his sketchbook. “Before you make up your mind, look at this.”

  He spread the next issue of Memento, minus the words, on the bed in front of me. Then he stepped back.

  The first half I recognized. It was the cop’s story. Black vans and all.

  “I did a little extracurricular research,” he said, gesturing toward the last few frames.

  That part was new to me. A kid on a skateboard stakes out a familiar building. Out comes a black van. Kid follows. Black-van guy sticks something on a car. Kid rescues another kid from the car. It blows up.

  I didn’t know what to say. It was crazy.

  “The kid and his mom lived,” Micah said.

  I still didn’t say anything.

  “I missed you,” he said softly. He moved closer.

  I felt terrible and wonderful. And trapped.

  “Did I do something?” he asked, looking at me with those big brown eyes.

  I shook my head. “My mom” was all I managed to say.

  “We—I need you. I never would’ve done this without you.” He sat down on the bed next to me, and I could feel his eyes searching my face for something.

  “Don’t put it all on me.” I said it a little more harshly than I’d meant to.

  He stood up. “No, I mean I wouldn’t have stuck with this if it hadn’t been for you.”

  Now I felt really bad.

  “You don’t understand, Micah.” I swallowed hard. “My dad knows about Memento. He blocked my mobile. He grounded me. And he took it out on her.”

  “Oh, crap.”

  “And there’s something else. We’re moving to Los Palamos next week,” I whispered. “I know I should have told you sooner.”

  I began to tear up, and Micah leaned in to kiss me. As our lips touched, someone knocked on the door. I slid Memento under the pillow while Micah spread out some other drawings on the floor. Sketches of medieval churches. They were quite spectacular.

  Mom popped her head into the room.

  “Dinner’s in twenty minutes,” she said. “Micah, you’d be wise to leave before Mr. James comes home.”

  Micah gathered up his church drawings. Mom stood in the doorway while I helped him stuff them into his bag.

  “When does your cast come off?” Mom asked him.

  The cast was all taped up.

  “Not soon enough,” he replied, grinning at me. “Couple weeks, ma’am,” he said to my mom.

  “Yours?” he asked, his grin gone.

  “The same. It was just a tiny fracture.” She held up her arm gingerly.

  To me he said, “Wish you’d change your mind about our project, but I understand if you don’t.”

  He left. And I felt as if all the air rushed out of the room after him.

  “What was that about?” Mom asked.

  “Nothing.”

  At dinner that night no one said much. Dad barely looked at me. Mom had trouble eating because the cast was on her right wrist. Dad rolled his eyes as I cut up her chicken for her. Then he pushed away from the table and told no one in particular that he was going out for drinks.

  I dreamed the dream that night.

  The ash rained down smelling of cigar smoke. It was ten to two on the silver watch. The red socks twitched. The body moaned on the pavement. He turned his face, and it was Micah. Then I heard a scream. And the sound of doors opening and closing and opening again. I looked at the body once more, and it was my mother lying on the sidewalk, clutching the book with the red words on the black cover. Memento Nora.

  27

  Little Girl Lost

  Therapeutic Statement 42-03282028-11

  Subject: JAMES, NORA EMILY, 15

  Facility: HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42

  Winter Nomura slammed my locker shut, just barely missing my fingers.

  “Micah’s gone,” she said. “And it’s your fault.” Her words were as spiky as her hair, which was all black now.

  “What do you mean, gone?” I opened my locker again to get out my Spanish book.

  “He never made it home yesterday.” She lowered her voice. “The Village was up all night looking for him. You turned him in, didn’t you?”

  “I’d never,” I said, closing the door a little harder than I’d intended. “But I told him I couldn’t see him anymore.”

  “When?” she asked.

  “He came over last night before dinner.”

  “Idiot,” Winter spat out. “I told him not to go to your place. He must really like you.”

  She looked at me hard with those damn X-ray eyes of hers.

  “Look, I believe you didn’t turn him in,” she said carefully. I could hear the inevitable but in her voice. And with a shiver, I knew what it was.

  “But my dad probably did,” I said. He must’ve set the house security system to alert him if Micah ever visited. I guess I should’ve thought of that, but I’d never dreamed Dad would do something to Micah. Me, maybe. Not Micah.

  “I think I’d better go,” Winter said, backing away. She had her eyes on someone or something behind me. I turned my head to get a look. It was Officer Bell. He was watching us as he searched bags across the hall. He didn’t make a move toward us, though, and Winter turned as non-chalantly as she could and walked quickly down the hall in the other direction.

  Winter was right. Micah wasn’t anywhere in school. He wasn’t at lunch or in the art studio. I decided to blow off Tom once and for all, skip out, and see if Micah had come home yet.

  The black dog wouldn’t let me past the inner gate to the Village, but through the iron bars I could see Mrs. Brooks consoling a woman in purple scrubs. I called to her, but Mrs. Brooks turned away and the dog growled at me. I ran back to school, stopping only to catch my breath at the bridge. I couldn’t believe he was really gone.

  The rent-a-cop barely even looked at me as he searched my bag on the way back in. The late bell rang, but I ran to the bathroom. And threw up.

  As I rested my head against the cool, and hopefully clean, porcelain, I thought about staying in the bathroom until school was out. I couldn’t go home yet. If I called the car service, I’d have to explain to Dad why I’d left school early. I could say I was sick, but I really couldn’t face him yet. I didn’t have any cash, and my on
ly way home that second was on the school bus. Or on foot. I wasn’t feeling brave enough for that. But sitting on my own in there, in the same stall where I’d stashed Mementos, just gave me too much time to think. About Micah. About Mom and Dad. About Winter’s parents. I even thought about going to TFC and making it all just go away. For me, that is.