Memento Nora (15 page)

26

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 her 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.