Need Read online

  Still, I can’t help thinking how strange this whole thing is. In grade school, we couldn’t bring homemade cookies or cupcakes into the building because of the risk to kids who had food allergies. And the kids who had the allergies were careful about checking labels on anything they considered eating. While I don’t know her well, I would bet that Amanda is the cautious type. Unless she was trying to kill herself, which seems like a stretch, considering she was getting ready for a party. I can’t imagine her eating something without first looking at the ingredients. I just hope the reaction wasn’t as bad as the posts on her page make it sound, because hospitals suck. DJ could give a dissertation on the subject. Maybe if Nate knows what he’s talking about, my brother might get a chance to not see them so often in the future.

  Nate.

  He’s rarely serious, and I know he had more that he wanted to say. So why didn’t he say it? Is he worried that I’ll blame him if his plan doesn’t work? Or is he thinking that our friendship could develop into something more? And if he does want us to be more than friends, would that put what we have now at risk? I don’t know. I hope Nate won’t bring it up again so I don’t have to make that choice. At least, not until my father is found and DJ is better.

  Since I don’t want to think about the intensity of Nate’s stare, I focus on his plan for DJ and sign in to NEED. If we’re going to mimic the outreach this site has, I should probably look at it again. I click on my profile page and I let out a huge sigh of relief as I see that no one has discovered it yet. Or if they have, they haven’t left any comments under my need request. At least one good thing has happened today.

  I click on the various tabs and try to imagine what Nate is thinking about for the viral campaign. He wants to use a picture of today’s vandalism, which makes me uneasy, even though I understand his reasoning. The most popular posts on social media sites always have pictures. Even here on the NEED message board, there are lots of photos, of shoes, iPads, new phones. Some of the photos document the rewards that NEED has bestowed. Others are of items they’re hoping to request in the future.

  Then I see it, and I feel as if I’ve been punched in the gut. The tree. The hole. Our house. Our nightmare. But only part of it. Because the makeshift coffin is missing. Wait. No. It isn’t.

  I lean in closer to the screen. At the bottom right corner of the photograph, I can see the edge of the box and a shovel sitting on the snow. This photograph is from before the box was put into the grave, and must have been taken by the person who dug that hole. A person who belongs to NEED.

  I click on the profile of the person who posted the photo. L592. Crap. I forgot that NEED doesn’t let users post identifying information. Maybe the cops can subpoena the site and get the user’s name and other data. Since I really don’t want to have the police come to the door and wake up DJ or my mother, I decide to wait on that until morning and instead try to see if there’s a way I can figure out who the user is on my own. The only thing I have to help is the pending need request: a Michael Kors purse.

  What?

  That can’t be right. I didn’t see the person’s face, but I’m sure it wasn’t a girl. And maybe it’s sexist of me, but I can’t see any guy in my high school interested in carrying around a purse. Could NEED be so intent on anonymity that they are mixing up what we see on people’s profile pages? They blocked mine, but they can’t do that for everyone without causing suspicion. That makes me realize that unless someone brags, it’s almost impossible to learn who committed what act for which request.

  I go back to the message board. Maybe there are comments on the photograph that can give me a clue to the poster’s identity. But as I scroll down, another photograph makes me pause.

  It’s a picture of someone’s front door, decorated for the holiday. But it’s not the cheerful wreath and lights that make my breath catch. At the bottom of the door is a holiday mat with the words WELCOME TO THE HIGHLANDS’ printed on it, and on the mat is a green and white bakery box.

  It’s a photo of Amanda Highland’s house.

  Dread grows inside me as I pick up my phone and dial Nate so he can tell me if what I’m seeing is what I think it is. Unless I’m totally out of my mind, someone who belongs to NEED delivered the peanut-laden cookies in that box. They are the reason Amanda could soon be dead.

  Bryan

  NO. NO. NO. No. No.

  Bryan’s computer screen shines bright in the dark room. Amanda’s face smiles out at him as he reads the posts from her friends and family. Dismay. Horror. Prayers. Love.

  Because of him.

  No. This isn’t his fault. He doesn’t even know what was in the box he delivered. And if it was the cookies that caused the allergic reaction, Bryan isn’t the one who chose to give them to her. Someone else is to blame. He’s a victim. Just like Amanda. Except he’s sitting in his room safe and sound and she’s in a coma, fighting for her life.

  He gags as his stomach cramps. Sweat breaks out on his forehead and saliva fills his mouth. He’s going to be sick.

  He makes it to the bathroom just in time. Even after his stomach is empty, his body heaves as if trying to push out the guilt. Because no matter how much he wants to believe this isn’t his fault, it is. He knows it is.

  His stomach cramps again. His legs tremble. He has no idea how long he sits on the bathroom floor. It feels like hours have passed when his legs are strong enough to stand. He brushes his teeth and splashes cold water on his face. When he looks up from the sink, he stares at the acne that he hates so much.

  The house is quiet when Bryan walks back to his room. His mother must not have heard him getting sick, which is a miracle because she almost always wakes up when something is wrong with him or his brothers and sisters. She says mothers have a sixth sense. Not tonight.

  Mostly he’s glad his mom is asleep, but part of him wishes she weren’t. With Amanda’s face filling the screen, he’d tell her about NEED and the delivery he made. How deep in his heart he knew when putting the box on her doorstep that he was doing something bad.

  His eyes are heavy, but he doesn’t get into bed. Instead he sits in front of the computer, reading the updates as they scroll by. The updates become less frequent as the hours pass. Still he sits in front of the monitor. Watching. Waiting. Hoping.

  Which is why, when a new post appears at four thirty in the morning, Bryan is awake to read it.

  My niece, Amanda, has gone to heaven. She brought us sixteen years of joy and is gone too soon. How could this happen? I just don’t understand.

  There are no tears as Bryan reads the message again and again. His fingers hover over the keys. He wants to say he is sorry. He wants to give Amanda’s aunt an explanation. But he knows that won’t help. Because, no matter the reason, Amanda is dead.

  He is cold and empty when he reaches for his mouse and logs on to NEED. He doesn’t read the message board to see if someone has found the picture he posted earlier. That doesn’t matter. Neither does the message on his page that says his NEED request has been delivered to the mailbox for him to retrieve. Only one thing matters now.

  “What do you need?” the site asks.

  I need a gun.

  Enter.

  NETWORK MEMBERS—689

  NEEDS PENDING—685

  NEEDS FULFILLED—144

  Kaylee

  NIGHTMARES HAUNT ME. Dreams of my brother in an icy grave. My mother screaming that it’s all my fault. Me screaming as my father steps over a collapsed, unmoving Amanda and strides out the door.

  Amanda.

  I jolt awake. Sunlight streams through the blinds as I squint at my clock. Eight a.m. It’s Saturday. Mom is probably awake, but she’ll let my brother and me sleep as late as we want, since it’s winter break. I start to lie back down, then remember Amanda’s lifeless face in my dreams and the photo I saw posted on NEED. Sliding out of bed, I turn on my laptop to look for an update on her condition.

  After my brother’s diagnosis, his deteriorating condition, and my fathe
r’s abandonment, I thought nothing could shock me anymore. I was wrong.

  I read the words Amanda’s aunt Mary wrote several times before they finally sink in. Then I scroll back up and read the other posts. Despite the early hour, there are dozens of messages expressing shock. Horror. Despair. And there will be more as the day goes on. Almost all the messages offer condolences to the family and prayers. I start to add mine, but stop before I hit Enter.

  Why bother? Nothing I say, or anyone else says, will do any good, because no matter how much anyone wishes it could be different, Amanda is gone.

  I want to cry. Amanda was nice. I didn’t know her well, but I knew enough to understand that she wasn’t like everyone else. She didn’t obsess over boyfriends and phones and the hot new music group. She didn’t roll her eyes at people and make them feel idiotic for expressing an opinion or being different. Maybe if I had been more open, we could have been friends. It’s stupid, but part of me always thought she wanted to be. And now it can never happen.

  Tears burn the backs of my eyes and clog my throat, but not a single drop falls, because as I read the posts lamenting such a terrible accident, I feel something so much more than sadness and despair. I feel fear. Icy, heart-stopping fear. The photo I saw on NEED last night makes me think Amanda’s death isn’t the accident nearly everyone believes it to be.

  NEED killed Amanda. Or someone who participates in NEED did. Maybe it wasn’t intentional and was just a sick joke gone awry. Maybe someone thought Amanda would recognize the danger the cookies posed. If she had, she’d now be alive and wondering if whoever sent her the cookies understood they were lethal.

  My fingers shake as I grab my phone and dial Nate’s number. Voicemail. Just like last night when I first saw the photo and tried to reach him. He must have turned the ringer to silent when he went to bed and is still asleep. Otherwise he would have gotten my middle-of-the-night message and would have called. After the beep, I try to tell him about Amanda’s death, but all I can get out before hanging up is “Call me. Please.”

  Clutching the phone in my hands, I think of Amanda, then of the hole in our yard and my brother’s white face as my mother explained what had happened. DJ’s first question was “Why?” and despite Nate’s horror movie marathon, I know the incident haunted DJ throughout the day and into his dreams. Just as it did me.

  Could that be the purpose of NEED? To cause this fear and uncertainty?

  I shake my head and imagine Nate telling me that I’m being dramatic. That I’m overreacting. And really, a social media site created just to strike fear into the hearts of Nottawa High School students does seem nuts. As I’m sure Nate would ask, why bother? What could be accomplished by sowing that kind of fear here in Nottawa, Wisconsin? It’s not like the kids who go to our high school are anything special.

  Still . . .

  I click off of Amanda’s page and log on to NEED. Quickly, I scan through the various links and photos on the message board until I find the one I’m looking for. The one of Amanda’s front stoop and the bakery box. Maybe it’s just a coincidence that this photo was posted on the day that Amanda died, but even if I could make myself believe that, the photograph of the icy grave in my front yard would convince me otherwise. I don’t know how or why, but somehow NEED is connected to both. There’s just no other explanation, and because NEED is anonymous, I can’t figure out who did what on my own. The cops should be able to do what I can’t. So I punch in the number. But my finger hovers over the Call button as I think about what the cops might say. What everyone else will say when they hear that based solely on a couple of pictures I found posted online, I’m accusing a website, at least indirectly, of killing someone everyone loved and hurting my own family.

  Drama queen.

  Attention seeker.

  Crazy.

  Or, as I heard my school therapist, Dr. Jain, explain to my mother, I have a desperate need to compensate for my father’s defection and brother’s illness with actions based in a reality of my own making.

  I don’t. I’m not. I know I’m not. I’ve done stupid things to get attention for DJ. So stupid, but I didn’t know what else to do. I told lies. Lots of them. They didn’t help. They only made things go from bad to worse. Will calling the cops now do more of the same? Or will they understand that I’m telling the truth?

  Almost everyone in this town aside from DJ and Nate has called me names or used me as an example of a good girl who took a turn for the misguided. I’ve already gotten online messages calling me out for Officer Shepens questioning Mr. Ward. If I call the police again and report the activity on NEED and no one believes me, there will be worse. I’ll be a target for attacking something that everyone who attends Nottawa High School belongs to. Even if I’m right, everyone will hate me for shutting down a site that has given so many of them things they want.

  I shouldn’t care. A good person should never consider how people will react when something important is at stake. Amanda is dead. Other lives could be on the line.

  But I’m not a good person. Nate might think I am, but my hesitation tells me he’s wrong. Because I’m tired of being alone. Of hearing Nate talk about invitations he doesn’t care about getting and pretending that I don’t care either. Pretending I don’t wonder what life would be like if DJ hadn’t gotten sick. If my father hadn’t left. If my mother had been a match for DJ. If I had been. I won’t stop fighting for my brother. I only have to remember the way he looked lying asleep on the living room floor to find the courage to protect him at any cost. But still, I worry that everything I have done and all that I am thinking of doing now will ultimately hurt him more than it will help. If kids from school start picking on him because of me, I don’t know what I’ll do. They won’t do it in public, but online they could attack from behind their screens, where no one is really watching. Not really. And then what?

  I watch the screen fade to black and rub the edge of my cell phone with my thumb, wishing Nate would get out of bed and listen to his messages. If he calls the police, no one will condemn me. That thought fills me with guilt, because it’s the thinking of a coward. Something I’ve accused everyone in town of being who didn’t get tested as a potential donor. How many times have I yelled at Dr. Jain that they’re all too scared to do the right thing? I’ve said that the ability to save a life should mean more than any of their fears.

  Shouldn’t it be the same for me? Or have I been lying to myself?

  I dial Nate’s number again. No answer. For the first time since we were kids, he isn’t there when I really need him. As I wait for the beep, I realize I could postpone calling the cops until I talk to Nate. But I know that waiting isn’t an option. A life is more important than my fear, and someone else might get hurt before Nate rolls out of bed. And if I am being completely honest, I’m forced to admit that there is another reason. I want Nate to keep thinking I’m the person he believes I am, even though that person doesn’t really exist.

  This time when I leave a message, my voice is steady. “Nate, if you wake up in the next few minutes, throw on some clothes and come over to my house. I’m calling the cops. I think someone on NEED killed Amanda.”

  Before I can lose my nerve, I hit End and then dial the Nottawa Police Department. It rings several times and I almost hang up. But before I do, a woman’s voice answers and asks me how she can help.

  For some reason, the question catches me off-guard. For a moment I just sit without moving, trying to decide what to say.

  “Hello? Hello, is anyone there? If this is a prank call, I—”

  “No.” I wince at the desperation and panic in my voice. “I’m here. This isn’t a prank. I promise. Is Officer Shepens there?”

  “Officer Shepens isn’t available at the moment. Is this a police matter? If so, I am happy to take a report and contact the officer on duty. If not, it might be best to contact Officer Shepens at his home. This is not an appropriate line to contact officers for personal—”

  “This is a police ma
tter. Honest.” Crap. I’m screwing everything up and I haven’t even started to talk about the problem. “Officer Shepens came to my house yesterday. I called because someone dug a hole in my front yard and . . .” I swallow down the bile that rises when I think of the cardboard coffin and the message written on it. “. . . left a disturbing note about my brother.”

  “The Dunham residence. Correct?”

  Am I imagining the edge that I hear in her voice?

  When I confirm she asks, “Do you have additional information to add to your original statement?”

  Yes. No. Well, not to just anyone. “Is Officer Shepens working today?” I ask. “I’d be more comfortable talking to him. He said I should call if I thought of anything new.” Okay, he didn’t exactly say that, but he was here. He saw what someone did to our yard and will recognize the photo on the NEED message board. He should, since he took one just like it.

  The woman on the phone clearly isn’t happy, but she finally agrees to put me on hold while she contacts Officer Shepens. Down the hall in my house I hear the shower shut off. My mother is definitely awake.

  “Officer Shepens will be by to take your statement within the next half-hour. Please don’t go anywhere until he arrives.”

  I assure her that I won’t leave the house, and I hang up. Pots and pans clank in the kitchen below, telling me that Mom has decided to cook breakfast. Probably waffles, because they’re DJ’s favorite. I watch the NEED message board as I pull on a pair of jeans and an oversize, fraying blue sweater that I typically keep stashed in the back of my closet. I snuck the sweater from a box of my father’s clothes before my mother put it in storage. Normally, I don’t wear it outside my room because I don’t want to upset DJ. But I tell myself that today he has waffles to make him feel better. This is all I have. Despite Dad leaving us, the sweater still smells like him. Or maybe I just imagine it does. Either way, the hint of aftershave and wool makes me remember how he made me feel like I could face anything.