Read Online Memento Nora by Angie Smibert - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Angie Smibert
Tags: General Fiction
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He squinted at the stencil on the drum. “You know, this would be great for T-shirts or posters.”
“It still seems like way too much trouble,” I said.
“People used this kind of printing for underground magazines and comics way before copiers and the Internet,” Winter said. She went off about something called a mimeograph machine and the history of antiestablishment magazines.
“Did your grandpa tell you this, too?” I asked, a little tired of her knowing everything.
“No,” she said, surprised. “Jet did. She runs Grand-father’s tattoo shop down the block. And her girlfriend, the reporter. She knew about the magazines. The shop has an old thermofax machine that Jet let me look at. It makes stencils that you press on the skin and then tattoo over. Same idea.”
“Now, that’s glossy,” Micah said with a low whistle. He started to examine his forearm for optimum tattoo placement.
“You didn’t tell her what you were doing, did you?” I asked.
“Now who’s being paranoid?” Winter laughed.
I turned red.
“Don’t worry. I told her it was for an art history project.”
I had to laugh at that.
We printed about two hundred copies of the first ever issue of Memento . And Winter was right. It did get better looking the more we printed.
“We should’ve used colored paper,” I said. It was all I could think to add.
The next morning I stood in line at the security checkpoint at school with a stack of freshly inked paper tucked into my bag. Winter and Micah were doing the same. My heart raced as my bag passed through the scanner; but the cop assigned to the school, a big, sandy-haired guy, just stood there watching the rent-a-cops work the machine. They all seemed bored out of their minds.
Micah, Winter, and I visited the bathrooms—separately, of course—and stealthily placed a handful of Memento s on the toilet in each stall, careful to appear as if we were just using the facilities. The school has cameras everywhere—except in the stalls. Micah thought that wasn’t so much to preserve our privacy as to keep the pervs and pedophiles on the security staff to a minimum. It wasn’t an elegant solution to the distribution problem, but it was the best we could come up with.
14
This Is Me Not
Nipping It in the Bud
Therapeutic Statement 42-03282028-11
Subject: JAMES, NORA EMILY, 15
Facility: HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42
Homeroom was quiet—except for the drone of Homeland Teen News in the background. HTN is this ’cast that all Homeland-owned high schools have to run in the mornings. Today’s lead story was about teamwork on and off the field. Nobody was watching. I tried to cram for a Spanish quiz but ended up just staring at the words while I listened for something. I don’t know what. Maybe a swarm of security guards crashing through the hallways. A black helicopter landing on the roof. All I heard were the usual whispers of my classmates and the rustle of paper. I let out a breath and tried to focus on the vocabulary words. Micah and Winter were just being their paranoid selves, I told myself.
Mr. Finchly got up from his desk, which was unusual, and started walking down the aisle toward me. He moved with deliberate speed, like a police car moves right before its lights start flashing. I imagined myself sitting in the office, police by the door, my father storming in. Then Mr. Finchly brushed past me. I heard him stop a few desks behind me.
“Mr. Jameson, is there something you’d like to share with the class?” Mr. Finchly’s crisp British accent echoed in the now silent room.
Rick Jameson replied, “Why yes, sir, there is.” He held up a familiar sheet of paper.
Mr. Finchly snatched up Rick’s copy of Memento and read it quickly. In my head, I could hear the helicopters hitting the roof and cops swarming the halls, but I couldn’t turn away. I had to see his
“It still seems like way too much trouble,” I said.
“People used this kind of printing for underground magazines and comics way before copiers and the Internet,” Winter said. She went off about something called a mimeograph machine and the history of antiestablishment magazines.
“Did your grandpa tell you this, too?” I asked, a little tired of her knowing everything.
“No,” she said, surprised. “Jet did. She runs Grand-father’s tattoo shop down the block. And her girlfriend, the reporter. She knew about the magazines. The shop has an old thermofax machine that Jet let me look at. It makes stencils that you press on the skin and then tattoo over. Same idea.”
“Now, that’s glossy,” Micah said with a low whistle. He started to examine his forearm for optimum tattoo placement.
“You didn’t tell her what you were doing, did you?” I asked.
“Now who’s being paranoid?” Winter laughed.
I turned red.
“Don’t worry. I told her it was for an art history project.”
I had to laugh at that.
We printed about two hundred copies of the first ever issue of Memento . And Winter was right. It did get better looking the more we printed.
“We should’ve used colored paper,” I said. It was all I could think to add.
The next morning I stood in line at the security checkpoint at school with a stack of freshly inked paper tucked into my bag. Winter and Micah were doing the same. My heart raced as my bag passed through the scanner; but the cop assigned to the school, a big, sandy-haired guy, just stood there watching the rent-a-cops work the machine. They all seemed bored out of their minds.
Micah, Winter, and I visited the bathrooms—separately, of course—and stealthily placed a handful of Memento s on the toilet in each stall, careful to appear as if we were just using the facilities. The school has cameras everywhere—except in the stalls. Micah thought that wasn’t so much to preserve our privacy as to keep the pervs and pedophiles on the security staff to a minimum. It wasn’t an elegant solution to the distribution problem, but it was the best we could come up with.
14
This Is Me Not
Nipping It in the Bud
Therapeutic Statement 42-03282028-11
Subject: JAMES, NORA EMILY, 15
Facility: HAMILTON DETENTION CENTER TFC-42
Homeroom was quiet—except for the drone of Homeland Teen News in the background. HTN is this ’cast that all Homeland-owned high schools have to run in the mornings. Today’s lead story was about teamwork on and off the field. Nobody was watching. I tried to cram for a Spanish quiz but ended up just staring at the words while I listened for something. I don’t know what. Maybe a swarm of security guards crashing through the hallways. A black helicopter landing on the roof. All I heard were the usual whispers of my classmates and the rustle of paper. I let out a breath and tried to focus on the vocabulary words. Micah and Winter were just being their paranoid selves, I told myself.
Mr. Finchly got up from his desk, which was unusual, and started walking down the aisle toward me. He moved with deliberate speed, like a police car moves right before its lights start flashing. I imagined myself sitting in the office, police by the door, my father storming in. Then Mr. Finchly brushed past me. I heard him stop a few desks behind me.
“Mr. Jameson, is there something you’d like to share with the class?” Mr. Finchly’s crisp British accent echoed in the now silent room.
Rick Jameson replied, “Why yes, sir, there is.” He held up a familiar sheet of paper.
Mr. Finchly snatched up Rick’s copy of Memento and read it quickly. In my head, I could hear the helicopters hitting the roof and cops swarming the halls, but I couldn’t turn away. I had to see his
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