Need (7 page)

She files it with yesterday's orders and closes the drawer. With a quick glance toward the kitchen to make sure her actions went unnoticed, Yvonne puts the whole thing out of her mind and gets to work filling orders. After all, it's just a piece of paper. What's the harm?

S
AMEENA JUMPS
as the dogs next door bark. The lead on the mechanical pencil snaps.

Hell. Sameena throws down the pencil and wants to cry. She wants to be out with friends or skiing or doing what everyone else in her school is doing right now. Instead, her parents insist she has to be at her desk doing homework. Like she has been every single day since school let out.

Crumpling the paper, she throws it into the already overflowing wastebasket next to her desk. This is supposed to be winter break. English might not be her first language, but even when she started learning it she understood that “break” means the same thing as “vacation.” Maybe instead of giving her teachers homemade cards for the holiday, she should have given them a dictionary, because the stack of work on her desk makes it clear they have forgotten the definition.

“Sameena, are you ready for me to check your work?” Her father's voice makes her wince. She wishes she were done. Her cousins would be done by now. They are the smart ones.
But I'm the one that my parents ended up with and I can't concentrate with those dogs barking. I wish they would stop. Then maybe I'd be able to hear myself think.

“Sameena?” The door opens and her father steps inside. “Are you ready?”

She blinks back the tears and gives her father a bright smile. “I'm still working. I want to do some of the extra-credit problems, too. Just to see if I can.”

“Of course you can, Sameena.” He doesn't smile back. “You simply need to apply yourself. If you worked more and spent less time sleeping in, listening to music, and talking to your friends on the computer you would already have your homework done.”

“I am working, Daddy.” Every day. All day. Even when her parents think she's turned out the lights and is long asleep. And still nothing makes sense.

“Good. I expect to see a four-point-oh on your report card this semester. You need it after last year. You can't expect to get in to a top college if you don't have top grades.”

The door closes, punctuating the pronouncement. Not that she needs a lecture. She knows. She should; she hears it every day. How she has to work. Has to be smart. But she's not.

Sameena picks up the pencil and starts again. The dogs' barking gets louder as she frantically erases. The equation won't balance. She closes her eyes. Takes a deep breath and starts one more time. The lead snaps again as one of the dogs howls.

She crumples the paper, throws it to the floor, and tries to concentrate. All she has to do is concentrate and she'll be able to finish this assignment. Her father won't be upset. She won't have to tell him that she's not smart. That she's in the wrong-level classes. That her teachers know it. They know he always fixes her homework. Everyone knows.

Those damn dogs. If they would just stop barking. She could concentrate. She'd be better.

“Stop.”

Breathe.

“Stop.”

Concentrate.

A tear drips onto the page as she erases again, wishing there was a way to make the noise stop. Those dogs just need to stop. Maybe that website will help her figure out a way.

“Y
OU SAID YOU WERE GOING
to wear the blue sweater, Amanda.”

Amanda hops onto one of the kitchen island stools and smiles at her mother, who is wearing a Green Bay Packers sweatshirt. “Aunt Mary sent this to me for Christmas. I thought maybe you could take a picture of me wearing it tonight at the party so she knows how much I like it.”

“That's a wonderful idea.” Her mother puts down the knife she is using to cut vegetables for the party and comes around the island to give Amanda a hug. “There are days I find it hard to believe you aren't in pigtails anymore. But when you do something like this, I realize what an amazing young woman you've become.”

Amanda grimaces. She hates when her mother says things like this—because she isn't amazing. When her mother suggested she wear the heavy, chunky-knit blue sweater, Amanda only pretended to agree with the choice, knowing full well she was going to wear the lower-cut, more flattering red one her aunt had sent.

Not that the blue one isn't okay. It is. Just not for her sixteenth birthday party. Sixteen is supposed to be special. She's supposed to feel more like an adult. Less like a child. So far that hasn't happened, but at least Amanda has avoided fighting about the sweater. She hates making people feel bad. Which is why she can't get Bryan out of her mind.

She hurt him. And she hadn't meant to. But she was so surprised when he called. She didn't even know he had her cell number. If she'd had time to think, she could have come up with an excuse that would have let him down gently. Instead, she told the truth, which is so strange it might as well be a lie.

“Are you okay, honey?”

Amanda looks up. Her mother is looking at her with concern.

“I'm fine, Mom.” She smiles to prove it. “I guess I'm just nervous about tonight. We've been planning the party for so long, I'm worried it won't go well.”

“It doesn't have to be perfect as long as you have fun.” Her mother wipes her hands on a towel and brushes back a lock of blond hair that in length and color is just like Amanda's. “I'm going to go upstairs and hop into the shower. Do you want a snack or something before I disappear for a while?”

“Go shower, Mom. I can get my own snack if I need one. I think I'm old enough to handle that.” She laughs.

“Okay.” Her mom tucks the towel on the oven door and gives Amanda one of those weepy looks that makes her wish she had worn the blue sweater. “But there are all sorts of crackers and munchies in the cupboard if you change your mind.”

“Thanks.”

When her mother disappears, Amanda grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and tries to decide what to do about Bryan. Someone posted on the new networking site that he needs to figure out what he did to make a certain girl dislike him. That has to have been Bryan. How awful is that?

Even if she explains why her mother won't let her go to the movie theater, he might not believe her. Not many people here in Nottawa know about her peanut allergy. Her decision, which means this whole thing with Bryan is her fault. Her mother made such a big deal about her allergy when she was younger. It was embarrassing. Worse, kids started blaming her when they couldn't bring homemade cupcakes or cookies in to class for their birthdays. Which meant no one wanted to be her friend. So when they moved here almost two years ago, she and her mother came to an agreement. She would follow Mom's rules about her allergy in secret, as crazy as they sometimes were, and Amanda could live her life without feeling like a freak.

Maybe inviting Bryan to the party is the answer. If he comes, she can explain why the movie theater in town is off-limits. If they didn't roast peanuts, her mother probably wouldn't have a problem, but since they do . . .

Sighing, Amanda starts to open the cupboard and notices a green and white bakery box sitting on the far end of the counter next to a pile of mail. She grins and tosses her hair as she flips open the lid. Chocolate chunk cookies. Her favorite. And a note. “Happy birthday, Amanda. Celebrate with sweets made just for you.”

Mrs. Lollipolous has a second kitchen where she bakes both gluten-free and peanut-free cookies and cakes. Mom must have ordered these as a surprise and forgot to hide them. Which means Amanda really shouldn't eat one.

Amanda counts the cookies. There are seventeen. One too many for a sweet sixteen party. Someone counted wrong. Well, she'll just fix that.

She snags a cookie, closes the lid, slides the box back into the corner, and peeks down the hall to make sure Mom is upstairs. Yep. The shower is running. And since her mother takes epic showers, Amanda has time to enjoy every bite. Then she'll call Bryan. Because it's the right thing to do. And besides, despite the acne, he is kind of cute and really nice.

After two bites she knows.

Her throat tightens. The cookie drops to the floor as she starts to cough. Eyes watering, Amanda stumbles to the counter and fumbles to pulls out the drawer where her mother keeps the EpiPen.

Where is it? It has to be here.

She tries to call out to her mother but nothing comes out. Her throat is too tight. She can't breathe.

There. Her fingers curl around the pen.

Everything gets fuzzy as she unbuttons her pants so she can give herself a shot. She puts the pen on her thigh, but loses her balance before she can push the injector.

She barely notices when she hits her head on the corner of the drawer. The world has already gone black.

 

 

 

 

NETWORK MEMBERS—657

NEEDS PENDING—652

NEEDS FULFILLED—109

“H
EY
.” M
Y DOOR OPENS
and Nate pokes his head inside. “What gives around here? When your mom let me in, you would've thought I was here for a funeral instead of movie night. Where's DJ?”

Ugh. I forgot about movie night. Not a surprise, considering how bad today has been.

I put aside
The
Grapes of Wrath,
which I haven't been able to concentrate on anyway, and swing my legs over the side of my bed. “DJ's locked himself in his room.” My mother has been trying to coax him into opening the door for most of the day. After the third time, I told her to take the door off the hinges, but she insists DJ needs his space and will come out when he's ready. While I'm worried about my brother, I can't help but be glad he's kept the door locked. Now Mom knows what it feels like.

“What happened?” Nate asks. “Did they get into a fight? I thought that was more your thing.”

I scowl. “It's been a rough day. There was an ‘incident' this morning.” Incident. The mild-mannered word the cops are using to describe what basically amounts to someone wishing DJ would drop dead.

“What kind of incident?”

I pick up my phone, pull up the photograph I took this morning, and hold it out to show Nate. “Someone dug a grave in the snow and left a message essentially telling DJ it was for him.”

“Are you kidding?” Nate grabs my phone and stares at the photograph. “Who the hell would do something like that?”

I shrug. “I'm surprised you haven't heard about it. We've gotten so many calls my mom finally decided to take the phone off the hook.”

The police paid a visit to Richard Ward at the drugstore and word spread. Fast. I'm spreading rumors. I'm blaming someone without evidence. I'm causing drama. Again.

I called Nate not long after the police came back to talk to DJ, but didn't leave a message. He always calls back when he sees he missed one of my calls. When he didn't this time, I figured it was his way of saying he'd had enough of my problems. I was hurt, but I didn't blame him. Much.

Nate shakes his head, still staring at the image of the grave beneath the tree. “Today was Obligatory Holiday Visit to Obscure Relatives Day. Dad's still pissed about Jack's new iPhone, so we all had to leave our phones behind. I was going to call when I got back, but I got distracted by the whole thing with Amanda.”

“What about Amanda?” Now I'm the one who's confused.

“You haven't heard?” He glances up. “Amanda's in the hospital. Her sweet sixteen party was supposed to be tonight, so people were sending texts to let everyone who had been invited know.”

Which explains why I haven't heard. I wasn't invited. And, of course, Nate was.

“What happened to her?” I ask, telling myself it doesn't matter that Amanda didn't invite me. Just because she actually cared enough to ask me how my brother was doing and promised to get tested as a donor doesn't make us best friends or anything.

“Between the rumors that she was poisoned by her mother and that someone came in and beat her up, it's hard to say. I'm putting my money on whatever explanation is behind door number three.” Nate looks back down at my phone and frowns. “Although after seeing this picture, I'm thinking maybe those theories aren't that crazy.”

“Amanda's mother wouldn't poison her, and there's no way someone would break into her house and beat her up.”

“Yesterday, I would have said there was no way someone would dig a hole in your yard and put a threatening note for DJ in it.” Nate hands my phone back to me.

Fair point. Still . . . “Instead of jumping to conclusions, why don't you check with your network of informants and see if anyone knows how Amanda is doing.” I've seen DJ hooked up to beeping machines far too many times to wish that on anyone, let alone Amanda. “Everyone is probably exaggerating how bad it is, but it would be nice to know for sure.”

“If you insist.” Nate pulls out his own phone and starts dialing. After the first three calls, I tell Nate I'm going downstairs to get us something to drink. It's one thing to know my best friend is more popular than me; it's another thing to hear him talking about parties and ski trips I haven't been asked to be a part of.

Not that I want to go. After all the sideways glances, unkind comments, and horrible messages I've received, I'd rather spend my time alone than with most of the people who attend my school. Not that I really have a choice. No one invites me to group events anymore. But Nate is always invited. Most days, I can pretend that Nate will always choose me over those offers. But I know the truth. Nothing lasts forever. I survived my dad's abandonment. When Nate goes too, I'm not sure what I'll do.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and hear the sound of one of Mom's cooking shows coming from the family room. Careful not to step on the creaky middle floorboard, I go to the kitchen, grab two sodas, and hurry back up to my room. Bullet dodged.