“Micah drew them in Memento.” I shook my head when Grandfather offered me a glass of juice. I hopped onto the counter over the recycling unit.
He nodded. “We’ve been watching the vans for a while—Bell and I—and we think they’re connected to incidents that happen later. Car bombings, mostly. So Memento might attract the wrong kind of attention for the group. You’re my granddaughter, and you’re giving out the comic at Doug and Katie’s school.”
“Wait. Vans? You mean the Coalition is using the black vans to blow up stuff? Then why don’t you guys report it? You don’t support what the Coalition does, right?”
Grandfather looked at me like I was five. Of course, Grandfather would never support the Coalition. And he, Bell, and everyone else would be heroes if they turned in any information about the bombings. I realized I’d been kicking the metal door of the recycling unit and stopped.
“You mean it’s not the Coalition?”
He shrugged. “Some people think the Coalition might not be behind everything that blows up these days.”
The hummingbirds beat their wings into a frenzy. It was almost as hard to think as when I took my meds. I think I started tapping my foot again, but it couldn’t keep up with the hummingbirds. Finally I got a word out. “Explain.”
“All of the attacks in the beginning—the World Trade Center, the London tube, that train in Madrid—were all done by various terrorist groups for different reasons. Separate, unconnected incidents. Then it was quiet for many years, at least outside the Middle East. Until that plane took out the bridge in San Francisco about the time you were born. At first there was some debate over whether it was really a terrorist act or just a terrible accident, but a new group calling itself the Coalition took credit for it. Afterward, smaller things started happening more and more often across the country until it was almost a daily occurrence.” Grandfather stilled my foot with his. “Everything since the Golden Gate has been blamed on the quote-unquote Coalition.”
“But if you don’t believe it’s the Coalition, then who do you think is really doing it?”
“Certain corporate interests.”
“What about the government? Why would they let this go on?”
“Governments, corporations—same thing. One owns the other, right? And business is booming.” Grandfather wasn’t laughing. “Scared people are good citizen-consumers.” He let that sink in. “I know. It’s hard to believe and nearly impossible to prove. A lot of people have disappeared trying to do so—or because they stumbled onto something. A whole watch group in South Florida vanished a few months ago. Which is why the MLSG doesn’t want you involved.”
“Afraid we’ll mess it up and blow their cover, huh?”
“They don’t want anything to happen to you.” He drained his glass. “Or themselves,” he added with a wink.
“What do you want, Ojiisan?” I hopped down from the counter and stood in front of him.
“I don’t want to lose you, too.” His voice caught as he said it. He put his hand over his heart, over the snowflake he’d tattooed there for me fourteen and a half years ago.
“I’m just the tech support.” This time I winked.
He didn’t look convinced. “Don’t think so little of yourself or your friends,” he said. “But be careful.”
“Me? You’re the one chasing black vans.” All this time I’d thought he was just patrolling the neighborhood, looking for burglars and muggers.
The hummingbirds were making an unbearable racket in my head. “I need to tinker.”
“And I need to work out,” he said. He kissed me on the forehead before he disappeared.
I walked through the garden to my workshop.
Did I underestimate my friends? I had to admit Nora had huevos. She laid out her story there and stood up to the MLSG, but I wasn’t completely sure she was my friend—or Micah’s. He was the one I worried about. He had no one. Just his mom and a few other homeless people looking out for him. He was the one who would go down hard for this if it went bad.
And I knew it would. The hummingbirds told me.
I had to finish my garden.
21
I Can Still Smell
the Fruit Loops
Therapeutic Statement 42-03282028-12
Subject: WALLENBERG, MICAH JONAS, 15
Facility: HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42
She kissed me. Again. That was the only thing going through my brain, like a loop playing over and over again, as I pushed off toward home. That and the smell of her hair. Like Fruit Loops. I love Fruit Loops. We don’t get those too often in the Village. My board glided over the ramps and sidewalks and handrails until I got to the King footbridge.
I wasn’t quite ready to go home yet. I plopped myself down by the statue. From there you can see the back end of downtown—the reverse of the skyline you see on the city logo—with Memorial Avenue running right through it.
My brain wandered off from the Fruit Loops to darker areas, like cops and black vans. I, for one, was looking forward to some ride-along action with the Black Van Committee, but I didn’t know how I was going to stand not knowing until then. At least I’d get to see Nora on Monday. And she definitely said to call her this weekend.
I got out my sketch pad, cranked up the tunes on my mobile—a little Lo-Fi Strangers I’d cadged off Spike. I started out drawing Nora; but as my mind went to that chill, kind of glossy-in-a-good-way place it goes when I draw, I began sketching black vans and crowds of people. I could see where my story and the cop’s intersected.
I poured it out on paper, not all of it, just a scene or two, while the Strangers croaked out “My credit rating sucks and so do you” through my earbuds.
The lights on the bridge started to flicker on as the sun dipped behind the copper roof of the Alexander Hamilton Building. I was losing my light, so I watched the traffic roll down Memorial for a few minutes. Most of it was buses or car services—you can tell by the armor plating—fleeing from the city center. All except this black van streaking toward downtown. I stuffed everything into my bag and hopped on my board and rode it down the handi-ramp to the street. The van was long gone now. A cop car coming the other way slowed. Its blackened window slid down as it pulled up alongside me.
“Unless you have a work or sports permit, you better get home, kid,” the cop said. Her Homeland Inc. badge flashed JACINDA W. “The eighteen-and-under curfew starts in twenty,” she added, not waiting for me to reply. Without a pass or an adult, no kids can be on the street after dark in our fair metropolis. She hit her flashers and took off after a speeding limo.
“On my way, officer,” I said to the back of her car.
Mrs. Brooks scolded me for being late again, but she’d saved me a big bowl of excellent vegetarian chili and a hunk of sunflower fennel French bread. Mom was working another double. She’s determined to get us our own apartment again by Christmas. Most places these days require a wad of cash up front if you have a shit security score like we do. First three months’ rent. Last three. Security deposits. Cleaning fees. Credit check. Security check. I’d rather just stay in Black Dog Village, but I get it. Mom wants us to have our own place. How could I get mad at her for that? Especially since I keep screwing up and costing her money. I know the emergency room isn’t free. We can’t afford insurance.
Mrs. Brooks sank into the seat next to me with a big cup of coffee in one of her new blue-glazed cups. She asked me how my day was, and I nearly choked on my bread.
“Chew, boy,” she said. She looked real tired, and I knew that wasn’t decaf in her cup. She volunteers at a soup kitchen twice a week on top of everything she does here.
“Mrs. Brooks, have you heard anything about black vans?” I asked. She knows a lot of people—on the streets and off. Church people. Cops. Delivery drivers. People more homeless than us.
She looked at me hard. “Young man, you steer clear of any unmarked black vehicles you see in this city. Or any city.” There wasn’t a hint of that
stern-but-not-really thing in her voice. She was dead serious. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I said, and then chewed furiously. Mom hadn’t told anyone in Black Dog how I’d broken my arm. I guess they all assumed I’d wiped out on my board. “Just had a dream about one hitting me,” I added when I could see she wasn’t buying it. It wasn’t exactly a lie. I had that dream sometimes. And sometimes a bunch of apes in football jerseys drove the van.
I probably could have told her about the whole memory support group run-in and about Memento, but Mrs. Brooks might tell Mom. And then she’d figure out I never took the pill. That would really freak her out.
I fetched the rest of the firewood for Mrs. B. before I hit the sack, but I couldn’t really sleep. I pulled on my jeans and padded out barefoot to the playground. Here you didn’t have to worry about junkies and terrorists when you couldn’t sleep. Melinda Peterson waved to me as she sat in front of her cottage having a late-night smoke and a cup of herbal tea. She usually waits up for her husband to come home from his job scrubbing floors at the courthouse. I sat atop the jungle gym and stared at the stars for a while. The city slept. I could still feel Nora’s lips on mine. And I could still smell the Fruit Loops.
In the quiet, I heard the distinct sound of a car bomb going off somewhere. Maybe uptown.
That’s when it clicked in my head. Black vans. Car bombs. Duh. Crazy, but so duh that no one would believe it.
22
I Disappoint
My Father
Therapeutic Statement 42-03282028-11
Subject: JAMES, NORA EMILY, 15
Facility: HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42
Sliding into the backseat of the car, I was still feeling pretty glossy from that kiss—until I bumped right into Dad.
“Well, now I know what you were doing,” he said as he rifled through some papers in his briefcase. An ad played across the bulletproof screen between the driver and us. “I thought I’d surprise you by picking you up after my meeting with your principal. Thought I might treat you to a slice of pizza or something with your old man. Imagine my surprise—and worry—when I find the library’s closed and you’re not answering your mobile.” He still didn’t look at me. I had noticed the missed calls when I buzzed the car service, but my brain had been otherwise occupied.
I knew I had to say something—fast—but I was totally not used to lying to my father. Not telling him things, yes, but not outright lying.
On the screen, purple mountains faded into a boardroom and then into a little girl blowing on a dandelion; the barest hint of a flag waved underneath everything like a ghost. Securing our way of life, the final frame said. Soft Target.
“Uh, yeah, the librarian had to leave early so we went to the art studio,” I said. “And I left my mobile in my locker.” At least the last part was true.
“Uh-huh.” He kept staring at the piece of paper in his hand. What was it? That actually concerned me more than him thinking I was making out with Micah. I didn’t think I’d flunked anything, and Officer Bell obviously hadn’t told the principal what he knew.
“Why were you meeting with the principal, Dad?” I asked.
“You saw this, didn’t you?” he said, handing me the latest issue of Memento.
The temperature in the car felt as if it were about a hundred degrees.
“Everyone did,” I managed to say.
“I know. It got all over town. Other cities, too, but we’ve determined it started here. My client isn’t happy.”
I wondered which client would care about an underground comic drawn by a few high school kids. I mean, Homeland Inc. would. It was their school, but Dad had never mentioned working for them before. It wasn’t like I knew his whole client list, though.
He looked up from the paper at me. “Your principal doesn’t have any proof, but she thinks one young Micah Wallenberg, your new boyfriend, is the only one in this school talented enough to draw this. Or this.” He pulled out a copy of the first issue from a plain brown folder. “Interesting story line, don’t you think?”
I waited for him to say something. Anything. When he didn’t, I knew.
He knew. Everything.
He held his lighter under the comic and watched the flames lick the paper for a moment. Then he threw the last bits of it out the window just as we turned down the street.
“You’ve disappointed me, daughter.” He looked at me, his expression softer, sadder. “I thought you were smarter than that. You may think this is just a harmless flirtation with a rebellious bad boy—but you’ll get hurt. And I, for one, don’t want that. I want you to get into a good school, carve out a nice career for yourself, meet the right kind of young man, and be happy.”
I could tell he really meant what he said.
I didn’t say anything. Even though I believed in Memento, I still felt as if I’d let him down.
“Give me your mobile,” he said.
I handed him my Pink Ice. He pressed a couple of digits on his mobile and handed mine back to me. I knew what he’d done without looking. He’d cut me off from everything except homework and his or Mom’s calls. He didn’t need to do all that in front of me—he could have done it from anywhere, anytime—but he wanted me to watch.
“You’re not to see that boy again. In fact, you’re grounded until we move. And then you’re restricted to the compound indefinitely.”
He let me out in front of our house.
After I closed the car door the car window slid down.
“Nora, I’m going to have a long talk with your mother about this when I get home,” he said. And then the car took off.
I knew how those long talks ended.
I raced inside to warn Mom. I found her sitting on the kitchen floor, cleaning out the cabinets, a big box marked SMALL APPLIANCES by her side.
“You—we—we need to leave now before Dad gets home,” I told her.
“What?” She put a mixer I’d never seen her use in the box.
“We have to go now,” I implored. I grabbed her mobile off the counter and tossed it to her.
“Calm down, Nora. What’s wrong?” She taped up the box with maddening calmness.
I took a deep breath. The important thing was to get her out of the house. I could explain it all later. “I did something Dad didn’t like. And he said he’d ‘talk’ to you about it.” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I realized how ridiculous they sounded.
“Nora Emily James! What did you do?” Mom scrambled up off the floor.
This was not going the way I wanted. She wasn’t going to budge unless I told her something. Should I tell her I spit out the pill? That I remembered what she’d forgotten? That I put out an underground comic about it? That I just rode home with a cop from a meeting of people Dad would call terrorists?
“Well?”
I opted for the safest version. “I’ve been hanging out with this boy Dad doesn’t like.” That sounded so stupid.
“Is that all?” Mom was relieved, but then she asked, “You two haven’t been doing anything? You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“It’s not like that at all,” I insisted. As if.
“Nora, do you really like this boy?”
“That’s so not the point, Mom.” How could I get it through her glossy head that Dad was dangerous?
“Honey, don’t worry. If you really like him, we could have him over for dinner, and your Dad will come around. I’ll talk to him.” She put her arm around me.
“No!” I squirmed free. That’s exactly what I didn’t want her to do. Talk to him.
“And why not?”
I was going to have to say it. “Things happen when you two talk. He hits you.” I said the last part quietly.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” She was pissed.
But I had to keep going. “That’s why you go to TFC. To forget.” She must know that, somewhere inside.
“Enough, young lady! I will not listen to another word. Go to your room.” Mom turned her b
ack on me and started packing again.
“But, Mom—”
“Enough.”
I heard the argument that night as I was lying in bed. He was more convinced than ever that moving to Los Palamos was the right thing to do. And that I needed to be kept away from “certain elements.” And that it was all her fault for not keeping a better eye on me. I heard her protest.
Memento Nora Page 10
