Memento Nora Read Online Free PDF Page A

to the next page. “This one was my own damn fault.”
     
    The comic strip showed Micah skating through traffic downtown, a spray can in hand, and then getting hit by a big black van at the corner of Market and First.
     
    He explained that the cop at the scene had convinced his mom that he’d be scarred for life if he didn’t “forget” about this incident. “He probably thought my accident was related to the big bombing up the street.”
     
    “The bookstore one,” I said, putting it together. “That’s where I was. That’s what I was supposed to forget, too.”
     
    Micah picked up his pencil. “Tell me about it.”
     
    I did, and it just sort of flowed out of me, much easier than it had at the TFC. Micah sketched as he listened. I stopped when I got to the part about seeing him in the waiting room.
     
    “You didn’t really spit out the pill because of me, did you?” he asked. He stopped sketching, and I noticed how brown his eyes were.
     
    “No,” I said after a few seconds. “It was my mother’s memory.” That was too private to tell anyone, to even say out loud. “Let’s just say she’s earning her frequent-forgetting points. And somebody needed to remember that.”
     
    Micah looked at me as if I’d said the most profound thing on Earth. “Yeah, they do,” he said finally. He gathered up his sketchbook and pencils, shoving them into his messenger bag with his good hand. Then he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek before grabbing the skateboard he’d stashed under his seat. I was too dumbstruck to say anything. He looked over his shoulder as he stood up.
     
    “Same time Monday?” he asked.
     
    I nodded.
     
    I waited until he left to look around to see if anyone had noticed us. Micah wasn’t really date material, not in my crowd, but I couldn’t help feeling pretty glossy.
     
    Maybe I needed a new word.
     

The Hummingbirds
Awaken
     
    Therapeutic Statement 42-03282028-13
Subject: NOMURA, WINTER, 14
Facility: HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42
     
    The hummingbirds had been slumbering peacefully in my brain until that day. Velvet tagged along with me to get a book on Jean Tinguely’s work that I had reserved at the library. He created these amazing abstract metal machines that showed how ridiculous everything was.
     
    “Why don’t you just download this shit?” Velvet whispered as we walked up to the front desk. I didn’t answer her. I had tried to explain before that I liked to touch the pictures. The real sculptures would’ve been even better. But the thing with my parents meant I’d never get an exit visa to go see Tinguely’s work in person. It was all in Switzerland and France.
     
    Ms. Curtis smiled tightly at us as she handed me two books. I don’t think she knew what to make of my crowd. Velvet could construct a runway-worthy ensemble out of a trash bag and a shoelace—and look darn good in it. Our other friends dressed like the rock stars and artistes they thought they were. My only outward expression of inner nonconformity was my hair. It was pink that day.
     
    “I thought you might like this one, too,” Ms. Curtis said, tapping the second book.
     
    The top book was the one I’d ordered; the other was about Alexander Calder. He sculpted mobiles and painted airplanes.
     
    I took the Calder book. It had a striking red mobile on the cover. Maybe I could make a sculpture driven by the sun, like solar chimes, and they could play something really annoying.
     
    I looked up. Ms. Curtis had said something that evidently required an answer on my part. I nodded. She continued talking about her trip to the National Gallery over Christmas break with a guy who didn’t appreciate art. He was into music, though, she added, as if that made him acceptable in my eyes. Ms. Curtis, with her cute blonde bob, perfect complexion, and matching sweater set, might not get us; but maybe she wanted to be us—just a little.
     
    Velvet nudged me. “That can only end badly,”