Memento Nora by Angie Smibert

beside him just as Micah breezed into the library on his skateboard. That’s when the book came down, and the door closed behind Micah.
     
    “I’d like you two to come with me,” Officer Bell said firmly. He looked more annoyed than anything. “And don’t think about skating out of here. I know where you live. Both of you,” he said, looking meaningfully at Micah.
     
    So, I thought, it had finally come. My father would storm into the police station. We’d be expelled or grounded or both. I resigned myself to my fate. And Micah’s. He held my hand as we walked out of the library. I let him. It didn’t matter now what anyone thought about Micah and me.
     
    Officer Bell locked up the library—Ms. Curtis was nowhere in sight—and let us stash our stuff in our lockers. “Leave your mobile,” he added before I closed the door. He directed us out the staff entrance to the parking garage where his car sat idling. No one saw us.
     
    He drove for about ten minutes with the back windows of his patrol car blacked out. Then he let us out in an alley behind a brick building.
     
    “Is this a police station?” I whispered to Micah.
     
    He shook his head. And I knew what he was thinking, what I was now thinking. Detention. The big D variety. It wouldn’t have a neon sign or valet parking. It could be anywhere, look like anything.
     
    We both glanced up and down the alley. No cars. No people. We didn’t have mobiles or any money. And I certainly didn’t know where we were or where else to go but home or school—and as Officer Bell had so kindly pointed out, he knew where we lived.
     
    He guided us toward some stairs leading to a basement. Micah squeezed my hand before we started down the steps. A bare bulb hung over a rusty metal door. And on that door was taped a piece of paper that said:
     
    Memory Loss Support Group. 4 p.m.
     
    Micah pulled open the door, and I could smell coffee. Burned coffee. And I could hear the sound of metal clacking against concrete or linoleum.
     
    The cop gently pushed us into the room. It was long and narrow, with a little kitchen at one end. Fluorescent light bounced off freshly waxed floors. The walls were covered with kids’ drawings, everything from colorful construction paper Noah’s arks to macaroni crosses.
     
    We were in a church basement.
     
    “Help yourself,” Officer Bell said, finally cracking a smile. “We’ll be starting soon.” He walked over to where people were setting out doughnuts and coffee on the breakfast bar in the kitchen.
     
    Micah and I still didn’t move. A handful of middle-aged men and women milled around, talking and sipping coffee. Some nodded in our general direction. One of them was the school librarian, Ms. Curtis. Micah nudged me and pointed toward the man setting out folding chairs. Vintage black hat. Tattoos snaking down his arms. It was Winter’s grandfather.
     
    “Mr. Yamada?” Micah moved to help him with the chairs, and I followed.
     
    “What’s going on?” I wanted some answers first.
     
    “The group wanted to talk to you.” Mr. Yamada acknowledged the cop with the slightest of nods. “Some thought it might be best to scare you a little first.”
     
    “Is Winter here, too?” Micah asked.
     
    “Yes, I pulled her out of seventh period,” Mr. Yamada said as he set a chair on the floor with a smack.
     
    Micah seemed relieved, but my fear was quickly turning into anger.
     
    “A memory loss group?” I pressed.
     
    Mr. Yamada set the next chair down more gently. “It started out as a support group for those of us who lost someone to Detention,” he explained. “Then others joined, mostly to vent about the way things are. And then it kind of grew into something else.”
     
    A man moved to the front of the room.
     
    “Winter’s over there,” Mr. Yamada said, pointing toward the kitchen. “Showing them how to make proper coffee.” He laughed.
     
    His tone relaxed me somewhat, but I still wanted