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The Memory Keeper - Hardcover

Camiccia, Jennifer

 
9781534439559: The Memory Keeper
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 1534439552 ISBN 13: 9781534439559
Verlag: Aladdin, 2019

Inhaltsangabe

“A heartfelt tale of an exceptional girl.” —BCCB
“Poignant…heartwarming.” —School Library Journal

Fish in a Tree meets The Thing About Jellyfish in this heartfelt middle grade debut about long-buried secrets, the power of memory, and the bond between a girl and her grandmother.

All Lulu Carter wants is to be seen. But her parents are lost in their own worlds, and Lulu has learned the hard way that having something as rare as HSAM—the ability to remember almost every single moment in her life—won’t make you popular in school.

At least Lulu has Gram, who knows the truth about Lulu’s memory and loves her all the more for it. But Gram has started becoming absentminded, and the more lost she gets, the more she depends on Lulu…until Lulu realizes her memory holds the very key to fixing Gram’s forgetfulness. Once Lulu learns that trauma can cause amnesia, all she needs to do to cure Gram is hunt down that painful moment in Gram’s life.

With her friends Olivia and Max, Lulu digs into Gram’s mysterious past. But they soon realize some secrets should stay buried, and Lulu wonders if she ever knew Gram at all. It’s up to Lulu to uncover the truth before the only person who truly sees her slips away.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Jennifer Camiccia has lived in the wilds of Los Angeles, where she wrote her first book at the tender age of five; Iran, where she developed a fear of camels and a fondness for pistachios; Hawaii, with its balmy breezes and memories of learning to swim; and the San Francisco Bay Area, where she now lives with her children and husband. Visit her online at JenCamiccia.com or on Twitter: @JenCamiccia.

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1. Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory (HSAM for Short)
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1. Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory (HSAM for Short)
Turning thirteen and becoming an official teenager in two months is weird enough without having my brain go haywire. But I, Lulu Rose Carter, have a memory that won’t shut up.

There are some people who remember everything—or almost everything—about their pasts. It’s called highly superior autobiographical memory, or HSAM. It’s really rare, like fewer than a hundred people in the world have it. It’s not the same as eidetic or photographic memory. A person with HSAM has memories specific to their past. They might forget little things like where they put their phone five minutes ago, but they can remember nearly every day of their past in vibrant detail.

Not everyone develops HSAM the same way. Some develop it slowly with age. Others might have part of it and then all of a sudden—BAM—the full power of it flips on. Anything can act as the trigger—maybe a stressful event, or maybe something happy like falling in love for the first time. It might even be something like getting lost in a mall parking lot.

Only one person in the whole world knows the secret of my memory. I’m just not sure how much longer she’ll remember it. And if she forgets my secret—if she forgets who I am—then who else will know the real me?

My world implodes the week school lets out for the summer. It figures it would happen at the mall. My best friend, Olivia, says anything significant in life usually starts at the mall. She probably didn’t mean the parking lot, though.

Gram, Clay, and I have wandered around for the past hour. The summer heat turns the mall lot into a wasteland of melting asphalt. Sticky globs of tar stretch and snap with each step, and they cling to the soles of my shoes like a giant web. It’s what I get for texting while Gram parked. I wasn’t paying attention, and now we’re lost.

“Lulu, take the baby’s hand.” Gram thrusts Clay’s hand in mine.

“No baby,” Clay shouts.

“I swore it was here,” Gram repeats for the thousandth time. Her hands push against her eyes like if she presses hard enough, she’ll remember. “I parked right here. I know I did.”

The sweat on Clay’s palms makes them as slippery as butter. I tighten my grip and squint at the sea of cars. We may as well be on a different planet.

I pat Gram’s arm softly. “Gram, I think we should go back inside and get something to drink. Clay doesn’t look so good.”

She glances down at him, but her eyes aren’t focused. They’re filled with the same fear my horse, Remy, has when he sees a snake—before he takes the bit in his mouth and bolts.

Clay’s whimpers soar to wails, his face a kaleidoscope of red and purple. With all his hollering there should be tears, but his cheeks are as dry as the asphalt. The heat has sucked the tears straight out of his body, right along with Gram’s memory.

“I know it’s here.” Gram turns in a circle; her shopping bags hit my shoulder and tip me into the roasting metal of a car. Clay’s hand slips from mine, and he tumbles to the ground.

Before I can pick him back up, a blue truck slows down and idles next to us. The tinted window rolls down, and Mr. Rodriguez, the manager of the riding stables, smiles at us, his mustache dancing as he talks. “Hey there, you need help?”

“Mr. Rodriguez.” I smile and try to look normal. Please don’t let Max be with him. Please don’t let Max—

“Hey, Lulu.” Max leans across his dad and smirks at me. “You’re looking hot. Get it? Because it’s ninety degrees and—” Max’s dad pushes him back in his seat.

Max’s smirk is an exact replica of the one he wore when we first met three years ago, on the Saturday of my first horseback-riding lesson. He’d worn a Giants T-shirt with a matching hat and made riding look so easy. It was like he could read the horse’s mind and make it do anything he wanted. I, on the other hand, could barely stay in the saddle.

Since then he’s teased me without mercy. No matter how well I ride now, every time I see his smug face, I’m reminded of the embarrassment of that first day.

“Is he hurt?” Mr. Rodriguez points to Clay, rolling around on the ground and sobbing.

“We can’t find our van.” The words sound ridiculous as soon as I say them, and if it weren’t so hot outside, my red cheeks might be a dead giveaway.

Mr. Rodriguez waves us over. “Hop in, and we’ll help you find it. The truck has air-conditioning.”

Gram shakes her head, her jaw thrust out with a stubbornness that mirrors my baby brother’s. I pick Clay up and stagger to the truck. At almost three, he’s getting too big for me to carry, but sometimes it’s faster to lug him around than expect him to listen. As soon as I open the door, cold air wraps me in a hug. Clay slumps over and presses his flushed cheeks to the cool leather.

“Stay here,” I say needlessly. He isn’t going anywhere.

Max hops out to help. He smiles at Gram. “Hi, Mrs. Carter. It’s Max from the stables. Let me help you inside.”

“Come on, Gram,” I say. “It’s okay.”

She blinks at me, confusion blanketing her. I want to shake her. I want to make her snap out of this fog she’s in. She’s been forgetful before, but not for this long. Not like this.

This isn’t the Gram I know. The one who takes charge and bosses everyone around. The one who moved in after Mom had Clay and made me feel loved again. But her blank expression is the same one I’ve seen more and more lately. And it scares me.

Max murmurs something to Gram as he gently helps her into the car, and it reminds me of his kindness to the horses at the stables. I guess it’s just me he teases.

Mr. Rodriguez shifts the truck into gear and flicks a concerned glance at Gram. “Do you remember anything about where you parked?”

Gram’s lower lip trembles, and I know I have to do something. I can’t let her cry in front of Max and his dad. Gram never cries.

I squeeze my eyes shut and picture driving here earlier this morning. I’ve always had an outrageously good memory, but I’ve learned to keep it to myself. When I was really young, I thought it was something everyone had. I found out the hard way that people think it’s weird when you remember what they wore six Thursdays ago or what they ate for lunch a year ago from Monday.

Gram is the only one I trust. The only one who really knows about my memory. And she needs me now. She needs me to remember where the stupid van is.

I’ve become so used to ignoring my memory that it feels strange to work to remember something instead of pushing it away. Even when I don’t use it, I always sense it’s there. Somewhere in my brain. Waiting.

In the past, some memories would filter through: dates, names, what people did or said. Usually, it was because the day was an emotional one for me. Sad, angry, happy—it didn’t seem to matter what emotion as long as I felt it deeply.

But it isn’t until right now that...

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Verlag
Aladdin
Erscheinungsdatum
2019
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1534439552
ISBN 13 
9781534439559
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
352
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Verantwortliche Person
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