Free Memento Nora by Angie Smibert Page A

Richie. Little Steven. Velvet. Winter. And Little Steven’s brother, Big Steven. I know; his parents are creatively challenged. Velvet’s parents named her Anne Marie. No one knows Spike’s real name. We suspect it’s something very long, Greek, and unpronounceable.
     
    We usually sit at the back table against the wall. It’s good for people watching and sketching. And the jocks don’t bother us there. Well, the jocks don’t pick on us too much since Little Steven grew a foot and half last summer and pierced his nose.
     
    Anyway, Spike was ribbing me about the comic. “We know you drew it,” he said. “Dude, it has you all over it.”
     
    Spike is into art, too. Clothes are his medium, he says. He likes spattering stuff on T-shirts and jeans and calling it street wear. Some of it is okay. Like today. He was wearing a Memento T-shirt—and, if I knew Spike, he was planning to make many more. Total badass.
     
    “Don’t worry,” Velvet said, leaning over the table toward me. She was sporting one of Spike’s nonpolitical painted tees over a really short skirt and black tights. “We’d never give you up.”
     
    Winter glared at her, and she backed off.
     
    “But we’re curious,” she said, looking at Winter, “about this new chick you’ve been hanging out with.”
     
    Winter was suddenly very interested in her burrito, but I caught her cutting me a sidelong glance as Velvet pressed for details. I couldn’t tell what Winter was thinking; but then again, I generally suck at mind reading.
     
    “Oh, leave him alone,” Richie chimed in. “The man can dream.” He was watching someone as he said this. I glanced up. It was Nora. She was making her way to the salad bar. She looked very little-girl-lost today.
     
    Richie started talking about a gig his band had next weekend. He plays bass in a retro band that mostly plays Bar Mitzvahs. No one in the band is old enough to be out past curfew let alone get into a bar. So they play the Mitzvah-Sweet Sixteen-Quinceañera circuit. This new gig was in the Cherry Falls compound, but Richie’s dad didn’t want to spring for the chip just so he could play there. Richie nudged me and said something about a new song he wanted to lay on the compound crowd. I nodded like I was listening, but I was watching Nora.
     
    She was looking shaky as she sat down with her friends. One of them—Maia, the tennis player—glared at me. They’re all look-good-on-the-college-app types. Everything they do is prep for some golden future laid out before them. I watched Nora pick at her salad. She looked like she was going to puke or bolt any second.
     
    Man, I wished I’d never messed with Nora’s head back at TFC. She was too good for that. Too good for me.
     

16
     

It Takes a Junkyard
     
    Therapeutic Statement 42-03282028-11
Subject: JAMES, NORA EMILY, 15
Facility: HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42
     
    The bones rattled like a sack of chicken legs in a Brooks Brothers suit. The air smelled like burning books. Car alarms wailed all along Market Street. Mom wasn’t there to cover my eyes. Micah was there instead, and he made me look. At the socks. At the silver watch stopped at ten past two. At the book with Memento written on its spine. I knelt and touched its cover. It burst into a cloud of ash, covering me in fine gray silt, choking me until I woke up gasping for air.
     
    I skipped breakfast.
     
    That day was so dreary. I was waiting for something to happen, waiting for school to end, waiting to see Micah. Just waiting.
     
    In homeroom, HTN ran a story on the extracurricular activities that could get you into your dream college. Then a Homeland guy reminded us that all student publications must be approved by the board. Some of the kids in class booed. The only student pub we have now is the yearbook.
     

     
    I caught a glimpse of Micah during lunch as I was getting my salad. He was sitting at the far table with his artsy, weird friends, which included Winter. Her