The Hidden Memory of Objects

by Danielle Mages Amato

  She laughed and handed me a paper towel. “Don’t. Stay and fight.” Before I could reply, she pushed her way through the swinging door and back out into the hall.

  I spent most of the morning reading Disasters in the Sun under my desk, brooding over the color plates, until I was more familiar with John Wilkes Booth’s mustache than any other person alive. My biggest disappointment was that Brightman didn’t include more information about Booth’s fiancée, Lucy Hale, the girl I’d seen in the restaurant. I knew what had become of Booth and Lincoln, of course, but what had happened to her? Between classes, I Googled her on my phone. She’d lived to be seventy-four. Ten years after the assassination, she’d finally married. I felt a surge of relief that she’d gone on to live a normal life.

  The most shocking chapter of Dr. Brightman’s book discussed the modern value of the artifacts he was describing. Tyler had underlined and highlighted that section heavily, and the numbers he’d circled were staggering. Ten thousand for a letter in Booth’s handwriting. Fifteen thousand for a pair of Lincoln’s eyeglasses. Two million dollars for a signed copy of the Emancipation Proclamation. Those price tags took things to a level beyond watches and cigars. The numbers made my eyelids twitch.

  Dr. Brightman had said that Senator Herndon’s family had a massive collection of Lincoln artifacts. Had Bobby and Tyler been stealing things that were even more valuable than I’d realized? What could they possibly want with that kind of money? And if Tyler was having some kind of political awakening—this new awareness of how well off we were compared to so many others—why was he stealing and selling stuff to get even more money?

  I knew only one person who might have answers about that: Bobby Drake. And if anything would test my new self-expressive, self-destructive project, he was it.

  After class, I made my way to Bobby’s locker. Next to it, most of Tyler’s makeshift memorial was gone now, but a few notes remained, still taped to the door. I wondered when the school would assign it to someone else.

  At last Bobby appeared. He looked almost ragged. A hint of blue-black darkened the skin under his eyes, and without his leather jacket, he seemed thinner than I remembered. It caught me off guard; I hadn’t even considered the fact that he might be grieving too. He headed straight to his locker, barely glancing at me as he spun the lock. “I hope they caught the guy,” he said.

  I stopped breathing for a moment. Did Bobby have new information about Tyler? “What guy?”

  “The guy who did that to your hair.” He barked out a loud laugh, his face beyond smug.

  Any sympathy I might have felt for him evaporated. “I did it myself.”

  He looked me over. “Of course you did.”

  And there she was: Brown Brown still. I cursed myself for letting Bobby undermine my confidence so quickly, and I tried to rally my Red.

  “I want to know why you and Tyler were stealing things,” I said. “Did you need money?”

  He snorted and turned his attention back to the lock. The hollows of his cheeks looked deeper, almost sunken. Was he doing something to himself?

  Then I caught my breath. Was it heroin? Detective Johnson was looking for the person who had made the anonymous 911 call. She’d speculated that whoever it was might have been using too. Was it Bobby?

  “What were you doing on the night Tyler died?” I asked.

  “Did you buy a two-dollar badge to go with that two-dollar haircut? I already talked to the police.”

  Bobby popped open his locker, and there, sitting on the shelf, was the Lincoln cigar box.

  I gasped, and my hand flew to my mouth. Bobby had had the box all this time?

  He narrowed his eyes. “What’s your problem?”

  I pointed. “That box. It was in my house.”

  Bobby grabbed a textbook from his locker and slammed the door. It seemed to close in slow motion, and I stepped forward to grab the box before it latched. But I was not fast enough. The bang of metal on metal echoed through the hall.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, spinning the lock.

  And then it hit me. “Our spare key,” I said. “You know where it is.” A sinking certainty rushed through me. I’d been so focused on Nathan having access to the box, I hadn’t even considered Bobby.

  He tried to leave, but I blocked his path.

  “I mean, my dad is almost always home these days. Did you watch the house? Wait until he finally left?”

  Bobby crossed his arms and said nothing.

  “Why did you do it? Were you hoping to find more cigars? Or no . . .” My brain was turning faster than my mouth could follow. “That roll of cash. You wanted the money.”

  Bobby’s face went stony. The money had been in my room the last time I’d seen it, which meant that Bobby must have gone through my things as well as Tyler’s. The very thought made me shudder.

  “So once you found the money, why did you take the box? Were you hoping to sell it too? Or were you just afraid the police would figure out that you and Tyler had been stealing?” Last night, I had thought other things were missing . . . Bobby must have cleared out any evidence of his and Tyler’s little thieving habit. “What else did you take?”

  He advanced on me, close enough that I could smell his gum and aftershave. “Those things were rightfully mine,” he spit. “Tyler and I split everything fifty-fifty. Now that he’s gone, it’s only fair that stuff should come to me.” He looked me up and down and made a sweeping gesture that encompassed all of me. “Look at you. You’re an infant. Prancing around, drawing attention to yourself. To Tyler.” He shook his head. “Grow up, Brown. And back off.”

  He strode away, and I stared after him, shaking and embarrassed and furious. I slammed my fist into his closed locker door. The box was in there, just two inches away. Two inches and a nice strong crowbar. And possibly expulsion.

  I dropped my backpack to the floor right there in the hallway and dug around until I found my wallet. I pulled out Detective Johnson’s business card and gripped it tight.

  It was time I drew a lot more attention to myself. And to Bobby. And to exactly what he and Tyler had been up to. I was turning him over to the police.

  I walked outside and tried to find a quiet spot where I could call the number on Johnson’s card. Rounding a corner, out of sight of the main doors, I almost ran into Emma Herndon. She was leaning against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette. A big white envelope lay on the cement at her feet, and she was paging through what looked like a college brochure. When she saw me, she choked and spluttered, tossing the cigarette to the ground.

  “You didn’t see that.” She used one of her delicate strappy sandals to grind the cigarette to ash and tobacco leaves.

  Fury at Bobby still churned in my stomach, making me feel risky and unmoored. I didn’t want to think, I wanted to act. So I started talking. “My brother took something from you—or from your dad. A wooden cigar box. With Abraham Lincoln’s picture on it. And I want you to have it back.”

  Emma’s face went slack; she blinked but said nothing.

  I plowed on. “Okay, so I don’t actually have the box right now, but I know where it is. And when I get it, I want to give it back to you. Because it was wrong, what Tyler did. And I’m sorry.”

  She bent down to pick up the envelope, her face stony. “My dad’s got a million of those Abe Lincoln things that Grandpa collected, just lying around his office. He probably hasn’t even noticed that it’s missing.” Her eyes locked onto mine. “Keep it.”

  She tried to stuff the brochure back into the envelope, but her hands were shaking, and a few pieces of loose paper blew away toward the parking lot.

  I ran to retrieve them. A purple NYU logo was blazoned across the tops of the pages. “Heading to New York next year?” I asked, handing them over.

  She shook her head. “William and Mary. Where my dad went.” She wrestled the papers back into the envelope. “Go Tribe,” she said, her voice flat.

  Her eyes darted back and
forth between me and the parking lot, and I was seized by an irresistible impulse to keep pushing her.

  “Sounds like your dad can be a bit of a tyrant.”

  For an instant, Emma went as pale and fragile as tissue paper. Then she tossed her hair over one shoulder and summoned back the calm, collected version of herself that I knew best. “I’ve got gym. See you around, all right?” She smiled, the corners of her lips trembling, and disappeared, clutching her envelope in one hand.

  I stared after her, then shook myself back to the present. I still had Detective Johnson’s card clutched in my hand. I called the number, talked to the officer on duty, then texted Eric.

  Tomorrow morning.

  Nine am.

  You and I are skipping school and going to the police.

  He sent me back the policeman emoji.

  Then two different police car emojis.

  Then a picture of himself giving a thumbs-up.

  You’re kind of ruining this moment for me, I wrote.

  Oops. Sorry.

  That night, I bolted awake from a blood-soaked nightmare that I couldn’t quite remember. All I knew was that I’d been wearing a long white dress. I checked my clock—not even midnight, and no chance I’d be going back to sleep anytime soon. I lay awake, my mind turning in restless, never-ending circles.

  My first thoughts were of Nathan. I’d been such a jerk to accuse him of stealing the box. I wanted to duck down under my covers and never come out. And I was adding stupid on top of stupid to be thinking about him now. I needed to put him out of my mind entirely. This had always been about Tyler, and Tyler was who I needed to focus on.

  What did he want with all that money? Could the stealing have gotten him into trouble somehow? Or the videos? Or maybe it had been one of Nathan’s parties that had led him to that abandoned building where he died. . . .

  I clearly wasn’t getting any more information from Bobby. He could answer to the police. I was going to tell Detective Johnson everything I knew about what Bobby and Tyler had done, and she could sort it out. Wasn’t that her job? And as for Nathan . . . I winced at the thought of us on the couch in his family room, at the thought of what I had thought was about to happen. Had that only been in my imagination?

  Stop. Enough. I folded my pillow in half in an effort to get comfortable. Every time I closed my eyes, images gathered in the darkness. Tyler and Nathan slapping hands. John Wilkes Booth’s flirtatious smile. Clara Harris’s face, splattered with blood.

  I crawled out of bed and turned on the lamp that was clipped to the edge of my worktable. The metal wall gleamed dully in the lamplight, and all my raw materials hung where I had left them. Instead of inspired, the artwork left me feeling lonely. My old button necklace hung from the lamp switch, and I put it around my neck, enjoying its familiar weight once again. I dug out my phone to text Elena.

  Today’s film: She’s Out of Control.

  Uh-oh. Do you want to talk about it?

  I heard my name, soft and far away. “Megan!”

  A finger of fear traced up my spine.

  But is that really an 80s movie?

  I thought we only did 80s movies.

  It came louder this time, a male voice. “Megan!”

  Did you hear that?

  Hear what?

  You do realize I’m a thousand miles away, right?

  I dropped the phone onto my bed and raised both hands. Was this what had happened to Dr. Brightman? The visions started taking over? But I didn’t see anything. I stood and glanced around, looking for the light.

  “Yoooo-hooooo! Megan!”

  I walked over to my bedroom window and yanked back the curtain. Down below, standing on the street in front of my house, was Nathan Lee, pretty obviously wasted. He tripped on the curb as he tried to step up onto the sidewalk. A big grin split his face.

  “There you are!” he said, delighted.

  From down the hall, I heard my mother’s voice. “Megan? What’s going on out there?”

  “Nothing, Mom. I’ll take care of it,” I called back.

  I opened my bedroom window and whisper yelled through the screen. “Go away!”

  “I have something to say,” Nathan announced. “Not leaving till I do.”

  “Megan.” I heard the note of warning in my father’s voice.

  I sighed. “Stay right there,” I called to Nathan. “And shut up!”

  My phone beeped. Elena again.

  Are you okay?

  You’re scaring me.

  It’s New Boy!

  Outside my window.

  Totally, completely trashed.

  She sent me the emoji with its eyes bugging out.

  SEND DETAILS

  Or I will haunt you forever like something out of Poltergeist.

  I pulled on a faded green hoodie and started for the door.

  I zipped up my sweatshirt as I stepped onto the front porch. It was a cool night for early May, and the lightest sprinkle of rain was falling. Nathan made his way up the walk and stopped at the porch steps. With the streetlight behind him, I could see tiny droplets of water sparkling in his hair, catching the light in a whole spectrum of different colors. I felt that same old tug in my chest, but I shut it down. He’d lied to me, and I’d wrongly accused him. Anything there might have been between us was surely over.

  His glasses were fogged and dotted with rain. He took them off and stuck them in his back pocket, and his eyes went wide. “Oh, Megan, check you out!”

  My hand went instinctively to my hair, and I resisted the urge to ask, “Do you like it?”

  He barked out a laugh. “It’s vicious. In a good way.”

  I dropped my hand to my side. “You can’t be here. It’s late. And it’s a freaking Monday night. How are you running around drunk on a freaking Monday night?”

  “I have something to say, and it couldn’t wait.”

  My face blazed hot with shame, and I ducked into my hood. “I have something to say to you too.”

  He raised a hand, winding up for a big speech. “I didn’t steal anything from you. And before you argue, hear me—”

  “I know you didn’t,” I said. “I was totally wrong about that. And I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry.”

  Nathan froze, his arm still outstretched, his face puzzled. “You . . . What? Really?”

  I nodded, my face hot, and turned to go back inside.

  “You were right about one thing,” he said. “I did lie to you.”

  I stopped, not turning around.

  “At least, I didn’t tell you the whole truth. About a lot of things.”

  I faced him at last.

  “Cedric Williams. The guy you met at the underground? The one you called the mastermind of all those parties? He’s my little brother.”

  I thought about their matching grins. Their awkward happiness to see each other. Brothers.

  “Half-brother, technically. Different dads. He didn’t end up in the system like I did. He was born when I was already in foster care, and his dad’s family took him.” Nathan looked down at his feet, then up at me. “You know how I told you Cedric went to Model UN, and he met this guy from Virginia, and together they came up with the idea for the underground parties?”

  I nodded.

  “That guy he met? That was me.” He came up a few steps toward me and leaned on the stair railing for balance. “I knew about Cedric, that he existed. But I’d never met him. And then I was talking to this random guy in a dorm cafeteria, and it was him.” His laugh was harsh. “I mean, we go to school, like, five miles apart. In the same city. But I never knew him. Or his friends, or the rest of his family.” He paused. “Or who I might have been, if the situation was reversed.”

  I tugged hard on the front of my hair. I didn’t want to feel for him, didn’t want to forgive him for lying to me. Being angry felt so much better than being sad, and I wanted to hold on to it for a while longer. And if I wasn’t angry at him, I might have to deal with all the other things I felt
about him, and I absolutely wasn’t ready to do that yet.

  “I’m a fuck-up,” he said. “I should have told you about the parties. But with the cops investigating Red’s death, I was scared they would find out, and tell my parents.” He paused, his face serious. “My birth mom . . . she just couldn’t get her life together. And I know my parents don’t think I’m going to end up like her, but I always kind of feel like I have to prove to them that I’m not going to end up like her.” He stopped to catch his breath.

  “And that’s where you met Tyler? At one of your parties?”

  Nathan smiled. “Red had his phone in his hand, shooting video. And I was like, ‘Hey, Moe. You can’t do that in here.’ But then somehow he talked me into it.” Nathan shook his head. “I don’t really know how he talked me into it.”

  I snorted. Tyler could always talk people into it.

  “We had this idea to start a YouTube channel,” he continued, “called it The District. We were going to make it a place for teens to talk about politics in DC—and the politics of DC.” Nathan cocked his head, remembering. “We brought Cedric on board too. He’s seriously brilliant, that kid. We would all, like, hole up in a corner at parties and talk—about making videos, about how to get attention for them.” Nathan snorted. “At least it gave me and Cedric something to say to each other. He could blab to Red about anything. But when it came to his own brother . . .” He trailed off.

  “Huh.” I spoke carefully, sensing the emotion beneath Nathan’s smooth surface. “Less pressure with Tyler, maybe?”

  “Yeah.” Nathan’s lips quirked in a smile. “Maybe.” He shifted, leaning a hand on the porch railing. “Anyhow, after a while, Red started spouting all these half-assed ideas. Like, his heart was in the right place, but he didn’t always know what he was talking about. ‘The tyranny of privilege!’ he’d say. Or what was that other one . . . ‘Talk may be cheap, but the rich can’t afford it.’” He shook his head, still smiling. “I was like, ‘Fool, we are rich!’ But I really thought we could make it work.” He met my eyes. “I’ll send you the videos. I promise.” He climbed the last two steps and joined me on the porch at last.