Need (3 page)

Maybe he's right. It's hard to separate what they've done out of embarrassment from what I've done out of anger. I'm to blame for a lot, but not for everything. The rest is on them. Which is why I avoid dealing with them online as much as possible. Why bother if I don't have to? Then again, unlike all the others, this site wants its members to be anonymous. The network doesn't want anyone to know who's lurking behind the profiles. No one will know I'm a member. I know I'm trying to talk myself into joining because I don't want to disappoint Nate, and deep down I have to admit that I'm curious to see how my classmates and former friends interact online when they don't know who they're talking to and when they're certain their parents or other adults in the community aren't watching.

Biting my lip, I roll my chair back to the desk and click the link with my mouse.

Welcome to NEED
appears on the screen.

PLEASE ENTER YOUR NAME AND CLICK THE BOX TO CONFIRM YOU ARE A STUDENT CURRENTLY ENROLLED IN NOTTAWA HIGH SCHOOL.

I follow the instructions and hit Enter. A new screen appears giving me my site identification number, D106; congratulating me on becoming a part of NEED; and inviting me to customize my home page. There are lots of options for adding wallpaper, changing my avatar to one of the hundreds of colorful images in the NEED database, and choosing links to the Need Exchange page, where members can message each other. I click around the site for a few minutes, trying to decipher its purpose, and end up on the page that Nate showed me earlier.

I read the boldface words again.

WANT:
A DESIRE TO POSSESS OR DO SOMETHING. A WISH.

NEED:
SOMETHING REQUIRED BECAUSE IT IS ESSENTIAL. SOMETHING VERY IMPORTANT THAT YOU CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT.

WHAT DO YOU
NEED?

I stare at the question and the blinking cursor in the box below it and think of my mother telling me she doesn't have time for me, again. Of the way she locked the door to keep me out. Is she concerned about DJ? Yes. Should she be? Absolutely. Nephrotic syndrome is scary. Incredibly scary, even in the best of circumstances. Is Mom upset that I keep pressing the issue of searching for Dad? Of course. But I can hear more than concern and frustration behind her words. I see it in her eyes every time she thinks I'm not watching. It doesn't matter that I didn't hesitate before offering to be a donor for my brother. It doesn't matter that I asked the doctors to test me anyway even though my blood type isn't a match. It only matters that when my mother sees me, she sees herself. Someone not quite good enough to save DJ. And, as hard as I've tried, I can't find the person who can.

I wipe tears from my cheek with my T-shirt and take a deep breath. Crying is stupid. And I hate feeling stupid.

WHAT DO YOU
NEED?

The red words on the screen are seductive. Do I believe someone sitting behind a computer creating a website for high school students can help me? Do I believe that whoever created this site really wants to make my life better?

No. I'm not that naive. But in the darkness, I find myself wanting to believe there is someone who cares. Someone who opens the door to me instead of bolting it shut. So, under the question that asks what I need, I type:

I NEED A KIDNEY FOR MY BROTHER.

And I press Enter.

The minute my finger hits the key, I want to take back the request. How dumb can I be? The site is anonymous now, but even so, other members will know this request came from me. They'll all laugh at me. Great.

The same message I saw when Nate made his request flashes:
NEED REQUEST BEING VERIFIED. PLEASE STAND BY.
Followed by a red ticking clock. I watch the second hand crawl and wait for the site to send a reply.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

With each passing second, I feel more foolish. Ten minutes go by and the clock is still ticking. Huh. Maybe my screen is frozen. I shut down the browser and log on again to NEED. The clock reappears. The hands are still moving, and I start to wonder if the response Nate received was sent by a live operator. If so, the person behind the system is either long asleep or completely baffled as to how to reply. I did ask for something that would immediately identify me as the user. Maybe breaking the rules means I won't be able to request anything else.

Well, if the person who's running NEED is asleep or has decided to put my account in limbo, there's no point waiting for whatever message is on its way. But instead of closing my laptop, I turn it so I can see the screen from bed before slipping under the covers. Just before I drift off to sleep, I squint across the room and see the site clock vanish.

I put my glasses back on, lean forward, and read:
YOUR NEED REQUEST HAS BEEN PROCESSED. WE WILL DO OUR BEST TO SEE THAT YOUR NEED IS MET.

My last thought before drifting off to sleep is that I wasn't asked to invite my friends. Either the system experienced a glitch or the person who sent the reply was too kind to say what I already know. That NEED and the powers behind it can't help me. No matter what the site tells me or anyone says, my family is well and totally screwed.

 

 

 

 

NETWORK MEMBERS—89

NEEDS PENDING—78

NEEDS FULFILLED—15

S
YDNEY CAREFULLY CLOSES
the front door so he doesn't wake anyone, and lets the heat inside the house seep into his frozen body and fingers. The weather report he watched on Monday said this week is going to be warmer than last.

Yeah, right.

Of course, the weatherman can afford to be wrong. He isn't the one freezing his ass off. And the guy sure as hell isn't going to get kicked off TV. Which just goes to show how unfair life is. If only Sydney's father had gone into meteorology instead of leaving a computer security job in the city to run his own real estate company. Although, to be fair, for a while it had been good. At least, that's what everyone says. Then the bubble burst and, with it, his family. Hooray for the American dream, where everyone can get screwed if they work hard enough. And his mother wonders why he isn't all hot and bothered to go to college for a computer science degree or take the military recruiters up on their promises of a meaningful career in communications or some other crap like that. Since he didn't apply to colleges, the school counselor asked him not to dismiss the G.I. Joe thing out of hand. So he hasn't told them yet to take a walk. Working for the government has perks, according to his dad, since there are always jobs to be had. Makes sense, since the government prints its own money. But while showing off his shooting skill has appeal, taking orders for the rest of his life doesn't. He does that enough now, although that's about to change. At eighteen his real life is beginning, and he plans on making the most of it.

Now that he can almost feel his ears again, Sydney peels off his gloves, blows hot air onto his hands and flexes his fingers. Better. They're still stiff, but at least he can move them.

He slides his backpack off his shoulder, puts it on the bench next to the front door, and takes a seat beside it. It takes three tries to yank off his boots, but finally his feet are free. Thank God. A warm shower will thaw them out. Quickly, he stores his boots and coat so his mom won't ream him in the morning. The deer hanging behind the boat in the garage will probably cut him some slack, but he figures he should bank that goodwill. A guy never knows when he might need a “Get Out of Jail Free” card. Especially given what's coming.

Grabbing his backpack, he heads through the quiet house and down into the basement. He wants a shower and some sleep, but he's still wired. He needs to unwind a little first.

After blowing on his hands again, he powers up his laptop. While he waits for the Start screen to appear, he unzips his backpack and pulls out his grandfather's old hunting knife. He reaches back in for a cleaning cloth, and—though he already cleaned the blood off the knife in the garage—wipes the serrated blade the way his grandfather taught him. Carefully, he places the knife in his desk drawer, locks it, and slips the key into the small box he's mounted under the bottom of the desk. He doesn't want anyone to accidentally hurt themselves. That would suck, and things suck bad enough as it is.

Now that his laptop is booted up, he plugs in his password and gets to work. Typing fast he goes through several screens, and smiles. Very cool. This whole networking site is intriguing. And he decides he doesn't mind taking a few orders when there's something interesting going on. He leans back in his chair and flexes the fingers that are finally warm and tries to decide what he needs.

The answer is easy. Money. And isn't that always the answer? Now he just has to figure out how much.

“G
UESS WHAT TIME IT IS
?” I call down the hall.

“Bite me,” DJ yells back. “I'm not taking my temperature again.”

“Wanna bet?” I snag the thermometer off the kitchen counter and head to the living room, where my brother is sprawled on the couch in front of the TV. “Mom's going to be calling in five minutes to check in.”

“Tell her I'm fine.” A car skids and crashes in high definition.

“She's going to ask if you have a fever.”

“Mom needs to get a grip.” DJ lets out a dramatic sigh. “I didn't have a fever the last four times she asked you to check. I think we can officially give it up for dead and move on.”

“It's not that simple.” The hospital tests showed no relapse—yet. With his immune system so compromised, it wouldn't take much to threaten that status. Each time a patient experiences a nephrotic syndrome relapse, the prognosis is scarier. There's a greater chance of fluid retention. Pneumonia. Clots. Additional kidney damage. For DJ the next relapse could mean complete kidney failure. If we don't have a donor by then . . .

“Yes.” DJ sits up and turns toward me. He doesn't look at the TV as a car explodes. “It is that simple. But it sure feels as if you and Mom are more interested in proving that I'm dying instead of fighting off a cold. I expect that from Mom. It's what she does. But you're supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side, and you're not dying,” I say, wishing my stomach didn't twist as I speak. “I'm not going to let that happen.”

“There's nothing you can do to stop it, Kaylee. I wish you could. Then I wouldn't have to be scared. And I'm tired of being scared.” In his eyes I see the little boy I used to play blocks with who cried when he stacked them too high and they fell down. And I see the fear that he's so good at hiding because he wants to forget that there's a chance his immune system will give out. He deserves to forget and be happy. Even if it's just for a few hours.

I tuck the thermometer in my pocket, lie down on the floor next to the couch, and say, “Do you mind if I watch the movie with you?”

“Okay. You didn't miss much. Just the bad guys taking money from the other bad guys, and that guy chasing them in the car is a suspected cop who thinks he killed his partner and hasn't been able to forgive himself. Only, he didn't kill him and I think the partner is working with the bad guys, but we haven't gotten there yet.” A truck rams a car off the road and there's another explosion as some guy jumps out of the truck and fires his gun. I haven't a clue what's happening, but it doesn't matter because I'm not really watching. I'm listening to DJ cheer and watching him bounce up and down when the good guy finally confronts the partner who supposedly was dead.

The house phone rings and I have no problem lying to Mom about taking DJ's temperature. Because DJ wants normal.

Not long after the first movie has ended and a second one begins—because apparently every bad action flick needs a sequel—I notice that my brother has fallen asleep on the couch next to me. I place a blanket over DJ and then lie down next to him and brush his hair off his face.

While he sleeps, I watch and wish. Finally, when it looks like he might wake up, I stand and go up to my bedroom so he doesn't have to feel embarrassed about his big sister watching over his sleep like he's a baby or something.

I shuffle through the folders in my desk drawer, ignoring the paper on top. I know I should toss it. It only proves how terrible people can be. Like I really need a reminder of that. But I leave it there as I pull a list of names out from underneath it, hoping that at least a few of these people are more compassionate than those I have contacted in the past. The list is comprised of all the people I can think of who might know where my father is. Fifteen have lines drawn through them, which is disheartening. When I made the list, the names at the top were my best hopes. Shows how much I know. So far, only one of them, Mr. Bryski, has admitted to hearing from my father since he left for a fishing trip last spring.

The doctors told us from the beginning that a close family member with the same blood type would make the best donor for DJ. Family donors have the highest probability of making a six-point match, which would give DJ's body the best shot at accepting the new organ. As far as I am concerned, Dad is going to be that donor whether he likes it or not. No matter what my mother says, he owes us that much.

I log on to the email account I created for this project and check in with Mr. Bryski to see if he's heard anything else from my father. He promised to keep me updated, but I trust nobody. Not even him, which is why when I finish the email I don't sign my name. He probably thinks he's talking to my mother. Most of the people I contact this way do. I selected my email address specifically with that misdirection in mind. People like making assumptions, and for once it's working in my favor.