Free The Forgetting Curve (Memento Nora) by Angie Smibert

“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, but 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.
    I’m usually a caffeine and sugar guy. School always had Müesli for breakfast, but there was a bakery nearby that made amazing fried apple-bread things and coffee. It was worth being late for class.
    “Cook can prepare something else, if you wish.”
    “No, this is okay.” I could run to Starbucks later. No need to get off on the wrong foot with the old man.
    I broke off a piece of fish with my chopsticks and shoveled it in my mouth with some rice. The salty mouthful of goodness surprised me. It was like coming home—to a home I’d forgotten about. I still intended to get a latte later, though.
    Dad smiled as I polished off the salmon. And the rice. He waited until I sipped the miso to say something.
    “You’ll be working in the testing lab this summer with Roger Nyugen.” He allowed Cook to clear away his plates. “He’s a good kid. You two have a lot in common.”
    I raised one of my eyebrows, and Dad let out a small chuckle.
    “Yes, he’s been in trouble, but he’s turned himself around. For his family.” Dad explained that Roger was supporting his younger brother while his parents were in Saigon on business. The company, meaning Dad, was going to give Roger a scholarship for school this fall. “It’s a surprise, so don’t mention it.”
    I sipped my tea. I saw where this was going. Roger was supposed to be the good example for me to follow, my mentor on the road to the straight and narrow.
    “Don’t worry, there will be plenty of interesting doors for you to crack open.” Dad must’ve sensed I wasn’t buying the kid-from-the-streets sob story angle. “We have a new version of the Chipster set to ship in a few weeks. They were supposed to release this fall, but our client wants to