Need Page 4

  When Gina reamed her best friend about never having sent her an email, Michelle said it was because she assumed Gina had already been invited by someone else. Which makes sense, but still. There’s no way she’s going to be the only one of her friends who doesn’t receive her NEED request. Thanks to the anonymity of the site, no one will actually know she hasn’t been granted a request yet, but it’s the principle of the matter. Gina Ferguson is always on the cutting edge of trends. If NEED is the next big thing, she’s not only going to be a part of it, she’s going to stand out from the rest.

  Of course, for that to happen, the site has to cooperate.

  Taking a deep breath, Gina rolls her chair back toward the desk and clicks on her profile page, which includes not only an irritating identification code she can’t change, but updates on her request.

  NEED REQUESTS SUBMITTED:

  CONCERT TICKETS TO SEE BLONDFIRE—WAITING FOR FULFILLMENT REQUIREMENT TO BE MET.

  12 QUALIFIED USER REQUESTS REQUIRED.

  1 QUALIFIED USER HAS ACCEPTED YOUR INVITATION.

  (ALL OUTSTANDING INVITATIONS HAVE BEEN SENT TO CURRENT USERS. WE ENCOURAGE YOU TO TRY AGAIN OR CLICK HERE TO RESET THE FULFILLMENT REQUIREMENT.)

  One. How is that possible? She sent invites to everyone from her world history, English, and statistics classes. She can barely recognize most of them by sight let alone by name. They aren’t part of the popular crowd, so how did they get on NEED before her?

  This is so annoying.

  Wait.

  Gina reads the message again and lets out a sigh of relief. The Reset Requirement button is new. Good. Because she doesn’t have any more email addresses to add.

  Smiling, Gina hovers her mouse over the link and clicks. The screen color changes. Now the words are written in blue.

  WRITE THE BELOW MESSAGE ON A NOTE AND SLIP IT UNDER THE FRONT DOOR OF 519 SYCAMORE LANE. TAKE A PHOTOGRAPH OF THE NOTE AND THE HOUSE AND POST IT ON THE MESSAGE BOARD TO CONFIRM YOU COMPLETED THE TASK.

  “THANKS FOR LAST NIGHT. I KNOW WE HAVE TO WAIT FOR THE RIGHT TIME FOR US TO BE TOGETHER. I’LL PRAY IT COMES SOON.—L”

  Deliver a note? Ha. That’s way easier than sending email invitations. Too bad the system didn’t give this assignment sooner. It’s already getting dark outside. What a waste of a day.

  Sycamore Lane. Is that on the other side of town? Gina types the address into the search bar and smiles when the names of the people who live there come up on the screen. Perfect. Pastor Frey and his family are always acting like they are so superior to everyone. Mrs. Frey has even stopped Gina in the store to suggest she not dress less like a harlot or she’ll find herself treated as one. As if. And their son, Luke, is even worse. He makes snide comments all the time about her and even turned her in for cheating on her Spanish final even though she only copied one thing off his paper. He said it was for her own good. God was sending her a sign that he wanted her to do better. Like Luke has a direct pipeline to God because of his father. Well, two can play at that game. And clearly God, through NEED, has sent her a mission.

  Standing, Gina scribbles down the message, grabs her purse, and heads for the door. No point in wasting any time getting this task done. And if delivering this note screws with either Luke or his holier-than-thou family, it will be a lot more fun than she expected to have today. It’s almost righteous. Hell, she might almost be willing to do it without the free concert tickets.

  Almost.

  Ethan

  ETHAN CLOSES HIS LAPTOP and picks up the page he printed. He doesn’t want to get the instructions wrong. Not if it means not getting the new computer he needs. The graphics on his current one suck. And the processor speed . . . No wonder he keeps getting his butt kicked in Mercenary of War. But the one NEED will give him after this will have him at the top of the mercenary leaderboard in no time. Maybe it isn’t the nicest thing to do, but in the grand scheme of things it isn’t that big a deal. Essentially, Ethan tells himself, he’s playing a harmless joke.

  Okay, maybe not all that harmless, but it’s not like anyone’s going to be seriously hurt or anything. And the heroes in Mercenary of War often have to participate in quests they don’t really believe in. It’s the only way to gain the experience and fame necessary to move up in the ranks. He’s just doing what his character would do. And when it’s over he’ll be rewarded. No one can find fault with that. And if his mom asks about the computer, well, he’ll just say he earned enough money to buy it. Technically, that isn’t a lie. Because NEED will be paying for the job it asked Ethan to do. His first real-life mercenary commission.

  But first things first. Time to go walk Shadow and scout out the area. A mercenary always does reconnaissance before performing an assignment. It’s the only way to guarantee success. And if he brings Shadow along, no one will wonder what he’s doing taking a walk in the cold. It’s a perfect cover. As long as it works.

  Bryan

  STANDING ON THE CORNER of Prairie and Ridge Streets near the streetlight, Bryan VanMeter looks down at the box in his hand. He shivers as a blast of cold wind whips his scarf around. He’s seen the familiar white and green box with the “Made with love” stamp in his own house dozens of times. For special occasions, his mother always orders a cake from Mrs. Lollipolous’s bakery. Which is good, because his mother is a terrible cook.

  But this isn’t big enough to be a cake box, and he didn’t get it from the bakery. It was waiting for him where the message said it would be—in the fiction section of the library, on the bottom shelf behind the books by authors whose last names start with the letter K. Now all he has to do is deliver it to Amanda Highland’s house, take a photograph of it sitting on her doorstep, and post the picture on the NEED message board to prove the task has been completed. Nothing to it.

  But just thinking of Amanda makes his neck start to sweat. He still has no idea how he let his friends convince him to asking her out for New Year’s Eve. How idiotic could he be?

  She said no.

  Of course she did. Amanda’s beautiful. She’s athletic. And mysterious. Or at least as mysterious as a person can be in this town. It’s not like there are tons of people here. No wonder he noticed Amanda when she moved to Nottawa a year and a half ago. Unlike most of the popular girls, she rarely dates, and she spends her lunch hour in the school library. That’s why Bryan allowed himself to be convinced she might say yes when he asked her to go with him to the movies on New Year’s Eve. They have the library and a love of books in common, which isn’t exactly a mainstream passion. He should know. Even his friends make fun of the amount he reads.

  He kicks at a chunk of ice on the sidewalk as he remembers the way Amanda tried to let him down nicely. But she should have come up with a better excuse, because no one with half a brain would believe that Amanda’s parents don’t allow her to go to the movies. Even the strictest parents aren’t that insane. It wouldn’t be so bad if his friends hadn’t spread the story. But they did, and now everyone knows Amanda turned him down. The last thing he wants is to be seen near her house and appear even more pathetic.

  He thinks about untying the string and looking inside despite his instructions not to open the box. But he doesn’t, because his fingers are too cold. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

  He turns and walks down the block toward Amanda’s house, which is awash with Christmas lights. Her parents really go all out with the holiday theme. Bryan hurries to the front door, places the box on the holiday welcome mat, and pulls out his phone.

  His fingers shake as he pushes the Camera button, and it takes three tries before he is able to snap a photo. Inside he hears a girl laugh. Amanda. He knows that laugh well. He used to dream about it. It used to make him happy. Now he pictures her laughing when she told her friends about him asking her out. How he thought he was good enough.

  It’s that laugh that makes his hands stop trembling, along with the thought of getting the prescription his parents said isn’t necessary. He’s tired of being the nice guy
with acne who girls turn to for homework help. His doctor said there’s a good chance the treatment will stop the breakouts. Then everything will change for the better.

  Bryan doesn’t consider looking in the box again before he turns and walks away. And when he feels a stab of worry at what might be contained inside as he posts a picture of the box on the website, he tells himself that if the box helps make Amanda sorry for lying to him, it’s no less than she deserves.

  Lynn

  “DID YOU ASK for something yet?”

  “I’m just about ready to do it now.” Lynn puts her cell on speakerphone so she can type while she talks to Hannah. Hannah can balance her phone against her shoulder while doing almost anything, which is a skill Lynn hasn’t mastered. “What do you think I should ask for?”

  Hannah’s laugh comes over the speaker. “How about a date for New Year’s Eve so you can show Logan that you’re totally over him?”

  Lynn stares at the phone.

  “Hey, are you there? I didn’t mean to upset you or anything. I mean, you’re over Logan, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am,” says Lynn, though she’s not. Being dumped sucked. Having everyone at school know she had been dumped sucked even more. “But I don’t want to show up at the party with just anyone, or it’ll make me look desperate.”

  “You’re right. So what are you going to ask for?”

  “I don’t know,” Lynn says. She still doesn’t know by the time Hannah hangs up, because Amanda is calling. What does she need? Not much. Making Logan regret breaking up with her would be nice, but how juvenile is that? If a guy doesn’t want her, well, she has enough self-respect not to want him anymore.

  Technically, she doesn’t need anything. But as she scrolls down the list of other people’s requests, Lynn sees something she wants too.

  I need a later curfew time on New Year’s Eve.

  If it’s later than Logan’s, so much the better. Although she doubts anyone can convince her father that a later curfew is a good idea. He believes in rules and regulations, and curfew falls into both those categories. Still, it would be nice if he changed his mind.

  Lynn smiles when she sees the message that her request has been accepted, but frowns as she keeps reading:

  TO OBTAIN YOUR REQUEST, TAKE A PHOTOGRAPH OF THE FIRST PAGE OF YOUR FATHER’S MILITARY MEDICAL RECORD AND HIS DOG TAGS AND POST IT ON THE MESSAGE BOARD TO CONFIRM YOU COMPLETED THE TASK.

  Dad’s dog tags hang from a clip on the corkboard in his office. His medical records are probably in the filing cabinet along with everything else he needs when he goes to the VA hospital to have his leg adjusted. Lynn can hear Hannah tell her to go ahead and take the photograph. It’s no big deal. The only people seeing it are their friends. It’s not like everyone doesn’t already know that Lynn’s dad has a prosthetic leg.

  And maybe they do. But there’s no way she’s going to put her father’s personal information on the Internet for everyone to see. Those papers include his Social Security and driver’s license numbers. His blood type. No way. Her father trusts her. No website or curfew is worth screwing with that. So she shuts down her computer and forgets about the request. If her friends want to pull mindless pranks and screw around online, they can. Logan probably will. But Lynn . . . well, she has better things to do.

  NETWORK MEMBERS—532

  NEEDS PENDING—520

  NEEDS FULFILLED—58

  Kaylee

  I SIT UP IN BED. My heart is pounding hard as I fumble for the lamp switch and blink when the room floods with light.

  No one is here. Nothing makes a sound.

  The clock on the end table next to the photograph of my father reads 2:08 a.m. I must have had a bad dream, although normally I can remember whatever awakened me. DJ used to be the one plagued by nightmares. But something changed after he was diagnosed. Suddenly, the ghosts and goblins that haunted his dreams didn’t scare him anymore. DJ hasn’t had a nightmare since the doctor’s visit that changed our lives. I had one that very night.

  It was my father who came in to comfort me, explaining that I was having nightmares because I’d discovered monsters that were real. Disease and the prospect of death were far scarier than any boogeyman. After a while, I learned not to cry out when I woke up, and he thought the bad dreams had stopped. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just understood that I needed to prove to myself that I could deal with the fear on my own. Until the day he walked out the door to go on that fishing trip and never came back, I thought he loved me. I was wrong about that. Who knows what else I was wrong about? Probably everything.

  I hold my breath and listen to the silence. No creaking floorboards to alert me that my mother is once again hovering outside my brother’s door or is going outside to sneak a smoke. No high-pitched whine of the old TV in my brother’s room that tells me he is wearing headphones to watch some late-night action flick. Everything is quiet, just as it should be.

  I turn off the lights and am burrowed under the blankets when I hear a scraping sound. There it is again. My heart kicks hard in my chest. The sound gets louder. I sit up and try to figure out where it’s coming from. Outdoors.

  Wait. That isn’t a scraping sound. It’s shoveling. Someone is shoveling snow.

  I roll my eyes and think about what Nate would say about my reaction to an industrious neighbor keeping his driveway clear. No doubt he’d call me a bunch of girly names and then do his impression of me shrieking and covering my face. Needless to say, I don’t plan on telling him about this. I live in Wisconsin. You’d think I’d be used to the sounds of snow removal. Especially since I’ve had to do most of it this year. With DJ’s health and Mom’s work schedule, shoveling the driveway has fallen to me. I’ve even put a weather app on my phone so I know when the snow is coming. Maybe that’s why the shoveling startled me. We aren’t supposed to get any snow until the weekend. Not that I’m surprised the app got it wrong, but now I won’t be able to sleep in. After the way Mom shut me out, I want to let her just deal with the snow herself. But I won’t. Not because I’m nice, but because I refuse to sink to her level.

  I put on my glasses, walk to the window, and turn the blinds so I can see how hard the snow is coming down. It’s not. I look down at the backyard below my window and once again hear the sound of a shovel hitting ice and snow. Why would someone be shoveling when there isn’t any new snow?

  I start to go back to bed, then change my mind. There’s no way I’ll sleep. Not while I’m wondering what’s going on. I glance at my mother’s closed bedroom door and am careful not to make a sound as I tiptoe by. There’s no point in freaking Mom out unless there’s really a reason.

  When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I make a beeline for the living room window. The snow is reflecting the moon, and makes the front yard bright enough to see that there’s nothing unusual out there. Shaking my head, I start to turn. That’s when I see something move. A shadow at the edge of the yard by the large tree near the street. Not a shadow. A man, and he’s holding a shovel. The shovel he must have used to dig the hole in the snow at his feet. And when he puts the shovel down and throws something in the hole, I don’t think. I run to the front door, fumble with the locks, and throw it open.

  “Hey.”

  The guy starts, then reaches down, grabs his shovel, and runs. By the time I pull on my boots and race out into the cold he’s almost all the way down the block. I run onto the street to try to see which way he will go next.

  He looks back at me as he reaches the end of the block. I can’t make out his face. Only that his coat is black and his hat is green and yellow. Then he bolts to the left onto Beloit Street and disappears from view.

  I wrap my arms around myself as the frigid wind whips my hair. I grit my teeth and walk slowly toward the tree and the hole that he dug in the snow. A hole that is shaped like a rectangle. And now that I am closer I can see what he threw inside.

  A rectangular cardboard box with writing on the top.

  Get a clue. No
one wants to help. You might as well just go ahead and die.

  The box is supposed to be a coffin. The hole is a grave. And the note . . .

  Suddenly it hurts to breathe. The wind stings my face as I read the words again. Words that can only be meant for my brother.

  Anger builds and claws to get out. I need to move. I have to destroy the note and the hole so DJ never sees it. I have to do something. But all I can do is wrap my arms tighter around my body and rock back and forth as I stare at the cardboard coffin.

  How could someone do this? How?

  The snap of a twig makes me jump. I spin around to see if someone is behind me. No one is there, but that doesn’t stop the fear that cuts through the horror and makes me run through the snow. Back to the house. Inside, where it’s safe.

  I close the door and start to shake. I’m so cold. So scared. So shocked that anyone could be this cruel. It feels like forever before I stop shivering. When I do, I stand, grab the first coat I find in the closet, and wrap myself in it. Then I do the only other thing I can think of. I dial the police on my cell as I go upstairs to wake my mom.

  Two officers arrive. One of them looks familiar, and when he introduces himself to Mom, I realize his son, Logan Shepens, is in my class. Not that we’re friends or anything.

  Mom makes coffee for the police and herself, and hot chocolate for me, and repeatedly reminds us all to keep our voices down while Officers Shepens and Klein discuss what has happened. They want to talk with my brother, too, but Mom asks that DJ be allowed to sleep as long as possible. She shut his door after I woke her and is still worried about him fighting his cold. I’m not sure what difference an extra hour or two of sleep is going to make. Learning about the snowy grave and the message inside is going to hurt no matter when he finds out about it. But I don’t question her. What’s the point?