The Forgetting Curve (Memento Nora) (7 page)

VELVET

Huxley’s was deader than usual—and I really couldn’t afford to keep recycling my paycheck through the shop’s antiquated till. Mrs. Huxley is against a lot of the same things as my mom—like gridded technology. They’re friends. And, yes, that’s how I got the job.

Still, I had nothing better to do than browse the new vintage jackets and play dress-up until Winter’s cousin got here or a customer popped in. The latter wasn’t likely at this time of day. “Business” would pick up later after we closed, during the unspoken, unadvertised Hour Exchange hours. Mrs. H. worked those herself.

I didn’t like deciding on barters, anyway. How many dresses does four hours of free legal service or five loaves of French bread equal? Only Mrs. H. could judge that.

“Nothing Ever Happens” by the Lo-Fi Strangers roared over the store’s old-fashioned stereo system, while I slipped on a black leather jacket. I modeled it with my current ensemble. Too biker chick.

Spike called while I was trying on the vintage Chanel suit with my black lace tights.

Ignore. Don’t talk to fools when you’re still mad at them. Or yourself.
Book of Velvet.
Yada, yada, yada.

I was modeling the peasant skirt with combat boots when Aiden came in. The effect was sort of punk little-house-on-the-prairie. Not my best work.

“Velvet?” he asked. I could feel him staring, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him.

I held up my hand. “I’ll be right with you.” I ducked into the dressing room again and changed back into my jeans.

Now it was my turn to stare.

Aiden Nomura looked like he’d stepped out of a J. Crew catalog. Not bad on the eyes, but nothing like Winter. If I hadn’t been expecting him, I would’ve directed him to the mega-Gap three blocks away.

“I’m Aiden.” He reached out his hand and launched into this full-charm initiative, with just the right smile and tilt of his head. “Nice shop—”

I put the counter between us.

He kept talking some crap about liking the store, yada, yada, yada. I stopped listening. Never listen to BS wrapped in a polo shirt and $300 shoes. Finally, he came up for air.

“You’re Winter’s cousin?” I let the incredulity sink in.

“Um, yeah,” he said, put off his game, whatever it was.

“Velvet Kowalcyk,” I said. I made a show of appraising his outfit.

“What is it with you and Winter?” He chuckled. “I have to look the part, you know.”

I guess we all do. Corporate prince. Wannabe rock star. Vintage store screw-up. Everybody except maybe Winter. She doesn’t care.

“How is our girl? Really,” I asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he said earnestly. The Prince Charming façade fell away like an ill-fitting prom dress.

Now I could see the resemblance. In the eyes. He had Winter’s intensity.

Aiden Nomura slung his backpack on the counter and glanced around before he pulled out a large coffee-table art book. “She doesn’t remember sending me these.” He slipped out a set of cartoons—which were obviously drawn by Micah. No doubt.

Winter (and Micah) always had art books like this around, but I didn’t remember seeing the comics—and I think I would because they were disturbingly good.

“Definitely Micah’s,” I said to Aiden’s unasked question.

“We got a weird message when we called him.”

I put the drawings back into their hidey hole and closed up the book tightly. Aiden watched.

“Micah’s in juvie.”
And now I know why.

“When did that happen?” Aiden shoved the book into his pack.

“Right before the cops raided Black Dog Village and found ‘suspicious’ materials there. Bomb-making stuff, they said.” I explained to Aiden that BDV was a homeless village where Micah used to live. And that the raid happened in mid-May, about the time school let out. “Luckily, his mom got one of those new TFC-sponsored apartments on Norfolk Avenue right before the raid.”

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Now that I’d said it out loud, I wondered: How did I know all this? I strained to remember. I hadn’t talked to his mom. Or to Winter’s mom for that matter. I’d just gotten the weird messages when I called. How did I know about the hospital? And that Nora James moved to Los Palamos? Like I care about her?

“Are you okay?” Aiden asked. I hadn’t noticed him coming around the counter, but there he stood, leaning against it, looking all concerned into my face.

I studied his. He seemed a lot like Winter now, in the ways that counted, only glossier on the outside. And harder to get a handle on. Could I tell him? About the chip? About what I just realized I don’t remember?

Not in those clothes.

“We need to do something about all this.” I waved my hand over his perfectly put together ensemble. But I really meant something else. I think.

9:42 AM. SOMEWHERE IN THE CITY OF HAMILTON…

Good morning, citizens. Today let’s talk about things you might not hear about on Action 5—or the national Action News ’cast. Or any newscast in this country.

Yesterday the French government closed down TFCs in Paris after a riot broke out in front of a clinic near the Sorbonne. The crowd, mostly students from the university, was heard shouting “Memento!” as they turned over a black van.

A similar incident happened in Athens this morning.

French and Greek authorities are investigating.

Next up: The Silence’s version of “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised.”

WINTER

Over dinner that night, which Mom ordered in from some Thai place, she and Dad talked work.

“The ID chip interface isn’t going to be ready in time if Ichiro keeps micromanaging the whole project,” Dad said, shoveling Pad Thai into his mouth.

“He’s just stressed because the client bumped up the schedule so much.”

“Well, he could trust some of us to do our jobs.” Dad stabbed his chopsticks into the pile of noodles.

Mom passed the curry.

I didn’t care about family or company politics (which were the same thing); I had only one thing on my mind: Japan. I was stuck on it.

“Did you guys see the Anya Reismuller exhibit at the Watari last year?” I asked.

“The what at the what?” Dad said, his mouth full.

“The Watari Museum of Contemporary Art. It’s between Shibuya station and Nomura headquarters. The artist does these amazing robotic sculptures.”

Dad shook his head as if I’d suggested they might have gone deep-sea diving for sponges or something. Dad’s idea of art is an engineering blueprint or a fast car. He likes things that do what they’re supposed to do—well.

“No, I’m afraid we didn’t, dear,” Mom said. She writes code for a living, but her idea of art is hanging in her closet. Actually, that’s not true. She doesn’t really care about fashion; she just wants to fit in.

“The artist used to work for the company. I thought maybe you would’ve gone to support her. A little company loyalty. Like Hachiko.”

“Who?” Mom asked.

“You know, the famous dog statue right outside the train station you used every day for the past three years.”

“Enough.” Dad slammed his chopsticks on the table. Mom was beginning to tear up.

I’d struck something here.

“Can’t you just leave it alone?” he asked.

“No.” I stared at my dad, looking for that missing piece of the puzzle rattling around in his brain. “I don’t think you were in Tokyo at all.”

“What? You think because we don’t know some touristy stuff you looked up online that we weren’t really in Japan?”

He had me there. I shook my head. “No, but something just doesn’t make sense.”

“Look, Winnie,” Mom said. I cringed at the name. “Our memory is a little hazy because of a special project we worked on there. One Ichiro didn’t want leaked. So—”

“So you brain-bleached yourself?” That was just as crazy as what I had been thinking. “Okay, so then why don’t I remember you going to Japan in the first place? Or you ever calling me in three years? And don’t say Grandfather TFC’d me. He’d never.”

Mom glared at me, but I wouldn’t let it go.

“And why did he spend all that time and money on lawyers to get you out of Detention?” I’d said it. The D word. They were in the Big D, not the Big J.

“Oh, Winnie.” My father sighed and looked at Mom, who was crying now. “Look what you’ve done.”

“Honey, I’m sure your grandfather was having his own legal problems.” Mom sniffed. “I hope he wasn’t contributing to your—”

“Delusions?” I finished for her. “I’d like to hear all this from him.”

“That’s not a good idea. We’re making an appointment for you with the doctor Ichiro recommended.”

“Winnie,” my dad said. “We’re home. Everything is okay. We can get on with our lives. Forget about the past. You need to work hard. Go to school. A good school. Work for the company.”

Where had I heard that before?

AIDEN

The clock blinked seven AM at me, and for a brief sleepy moment, I wondered why on Earth I’d set the alarm. It was way too early for summer. Then it came to me.

My internship started today. Groan.

I rolled out of bed.

The skinny black jeans and red pseudo-western shirt Velvet had picked out for me hung over the closet door. I hoped she was kidding.

Mom called while I was in the shower to tell me to behave myself at the office.

I ought to wear this cowboy punkware to work.

I didn’t.

White shirt. Check. Khakis. Check. Tie. Check.

Dad was eating breakfast when I came downstairs. I suspected he’d waited to make sure I was actually presentable and on time.

He gave me one of his arched eyebrow looks but didn’t say anything. He just dipped his
tamagoyaki
—a rolled omelet—in soy sauce and motioned for me to sit. Cook had made a traditional Japanese breakfast for us. Rice. Broiled Salmon.
Tamagoyaki
. Miso. Something pickled. Tea.

I’m usually a caffeine and sugar guy. School always had Müesli for breakfast, but there was a bakery nearby that made amazing fried apple-bread things and coffee. It was worth being late for class.

“Cook can prepare something else, if you wish.”

“No, this is okay.” I could run to Starbucks later. No need to get off on the wrong foot with the old man.

I broke off a piece of fish with my chopsticks and shoveled it in my mouth with some rice. The salty mouthful of goodness surprised me. It was like coming home—to a home I’d forgotten about. I still intended to get a latte later, though.

Dad smiled as I polished off the salmon. And the rice. He waited until I sipped the miso to say something.

“You’ll be working in the testing lab this summer with Roger Nyugen.” He allowed Cook to clear away his plates. “He’s a good kid. You two have a lot in common.”

I raised one of my eyebrows, and Dad let out a small chuckle.

“Yes, he’s been in trouble, but he’s turned himself around. For his family.” Dad explained that Roger was supporting his younger brother while his parents were in Saigon on business. The company, meaning Dad, was going to give Roger a scholarship for school this fall. “It’s a surprise, so don’t mention it.”

I sipped my tea. I saw where this was going. Roger was supposed to be the good example for me to follow, my mentor on the road to the straight and narrow.

“Don’t worry, there will be plenty of interesting doors for you to crack open.” Dad must’ve sensed I wasn’t buying the kid-from-the-streets sob story angle. “We have a new version of the Chipster set to ship in a few weeks. They were supposed to release this fall, but our client wants to release its new Chipster app early. We haven’t even finished testing everything.”

Product testing was usually done months ahead of release, and Dad is a notorious control freak.
No wonder he let me come home. Free labor.

“Do they want it in time for SecureCon?” That was a big industry conference traditionally held over Fourth of July weekend.

Dad nodded. “The new TFC app is due out July first, and they’ve invested a lot in our partnership.”

“TFC?” I asked, recalling the ad I’d seen on the plane.
It’ll be like having a TFC right in your pocket.
“Really?”

Dad had always said that TFC was unethical and manipulative, and that he’d never do business with them.

“Sometimes you have to protect your interests,” he said quietly.

And your interests are money. Not ethics. Not family. Money.

Dad rose. “I have a meeting.” On his way out the door, he added quietly, “I missed you.”

I think he actually meant it.

AIDEN

Aunt Spring met me in the lobby of Nomura’s Research and Development Division. Sans Winter.

“She’s not quite ready to work yet, Aiden,” Spring said. “She needs to settle in.”

She handed me my ID badge, which she explained was mostly for visual reassurance. Translation: the other employees would know I belonged there. All secure transactions—that is, getting into the building and most areas inside—were handled by biometric scans. She led me to the Product Testing Department but stopped with a hand on the door.

“When Winter is ready to come in—even before—would you mind keeping an eye on her?”

“Of course not.”
That’s why I came home
.

Aunt Spring turned me over to one of the product testing geeks, Roger Nguyen—my supposed mentor. He was maybe eighteen, if that, with fidgety, scarred hands and intense eyes. He struck me as the male version of Winter, minus the artistic genius. Roger handed me a testing protocol to read and disappeared into his cubicle.

My eyes glazed over as soon as I hit the second paragraph. The protocol was forty pages long.

Roger came back twenty minutes later with two cups of coffee and a handful of sugar packets. I was reading the product reports I’d downloaded to my mobile.

“Look, I know you’re the Big Kahuna’s son, but you gotta follow the protocols.” He slid a Nomura mug toward me.

His own well-worn cup had a faded penguin in a tuxedo on the side. The bird was the symbol of a company that promoted open source code. Once upon a time, programmers thought you should be able to share code, collaborate, and build new and wonderful things together. For free. The cup was ancient—if it was real. Roger was using it to establish his geek street cred.

I could play that game. “Dude, I’ve been eating the dog food since I was weaned.” I slapped my Nomura Chipster pre-beta on the desk.

Roger almost did a spit-take with his coffee. In the software-hardware world, dog food equaled product, whatever product the company made. There was an old saying: it’s good to eat your own dog food. That is, you consume (read: test) what you make. Dad always had me testing shit.

Roger flipped over my phone to read the Kanji on the back. “You have the beta of the model that’s being released soon.” He slapped another mobile on the table. “Want the beta of version 2.0? It was supposed to roll out this fall, but now we’ve got to release it this summer.”

“Sure.” I snatched the mobile off the table.

“We also have betas and prerelease candidates of the Soma and a few other models to test, but their chipset is based on the Chipster’s. The priority, though, is the Chipster.” Roger shook his head. “Such a kludge.”

“Bring ’em on,” I said.

And he did with a big fat grin on his face.

He left me in my own cubicle with a pile of mobiles and a bigger pile of paperwork. Not literally paper, of course. He set up the terminal so I could fill out electronic forms as I tested.

Forms. My summer was going from geek to bleak. Still, I eyed the terminal and mobiles.

Be good
, Mom’s voice echoed in my head. I knew exactly what she meant. This internship was kind of like giving an alcoholic a summer job tasting wine. I was expected to taste but not swallow. Spit it out and move on to the next vintage.

I wondered what Velvet was doing this summer.

Roger’s mobile buzzed in his cubicle.

He listened a moment and then let out a squirrely little laugh. “Nah, he’s just a rich skid,” he said seriously, and then hung up.

A skid. A script kiddie. It’s what serious hackers called wannabes who ripped off other people’s code or downloaded off-the-shelf scripts from Russian or Filipino boards to do the heavy lifting. Kids like me.