Need by Joelle Charbonneau Page A

mother’s coffee cup clatters to the counter. “Did she confront someone while they vandalized her house?”
    â€œNo.” I cut my mom off before she can start imagining all the awful things that could have happened. “Someone gave her cookies. She ate one and had an allergic reaction that killed her. Isn’t that what happened, Officer Shepens?”
    I assume he’s heard.
    With an unreadable expression, he studies me over the rim of his cup. “Amanda Highland died this morning from anaphylaxis.”
    â€œThat poor family.” Mom sags against the countertop. “When I think about what they must be going through . . .”
    It’s easy for us to imagine what it’s like to lose someone. To have that hole in the fabric of a family. We live with that every day, and without a donor we could lose one more. Amanda’s family must be in hell.
    â€œWait.” Mom shakes her head. “I don’t understand why you called the police about this.” The sadness and concern in her face are replaced by an expression that makes everything inside me go still. “It’s terrible that a girl died, but I don’t see how an allergic reaction could have anything to do with DJ and what happened here.”
    â€œKaylee must have seen or heard something that made her believe the two are connected. Right, Kaylee?” Officer Shepens says calmly.
    I rub the palms of my hands on my jeans and swallow down the hurt. I shouldn’t care. I should be used it. But I’m not. I hate that I’m not.
    â€œThere’s this website.”
    â€œA website?” My mother sighs. “Kaylee . . .”
    Officer Shepens holds up a hand. “Tell me about the website, Kaylee.”
    I keep my eyes on Officer Shepens and say, “It’s new. The site is called NEED and it’s only for Nottawa High School students, but no one is supposed to say what their profile name is or post information that gives away their identity.” Officer Shepens frowns, and inside I cringe. I’m explaining this wrong. So I try again. “The website asks the users to tell it what they need. Once the request is accepted, the site gives you a task to perform in order to get what you asked for. And there’s this message board where people can post links to things they want or post pictures and comment on them. One of the pictures was of the hole in our yard. And there was another with a bakery box sitting on Amanda’s front porch. I—”
    â€œKaylee, let me make sure I’m understanding you.” Officer Shepens rests his elbows on the table. “You’re saying there’s a website with photos of your front yard and of Amanda’s house?”
    â€œNot her house,” I answer him. “The front stoop. There was a green and white bakery box sitting next to the front door. And the photo of our yard was taken before I ran outside. The box hadn’t been put into the hole yet. And—”
    â€œAnd you realize this is hard to believe.” Officer Shepens’s voice is kind, but his words turn me cold. “Unless you can show us what you’re talking about . . .”
    â€œI can.” I open the cover of my laptop as the doorbell rings. “I can prove that I’m not making this up.”
    â€œHey. Is someone here?” DJ’s voice calls from upstairs.
    Yes, but I don’t care. I type in the password as my mother goes to see who’s at the door.
    â€œHey, Mom. Who’s here?”
    My desktop appears and I click on my Web browser.
    Footsteps pound on the stairs.
    â€œIs Kaylee around?” Nate’s voice calls from the front door. “I got a message from her and thought I should come over.”
    â€œHere,” I say as I click on the bookmark for NEED and turn the screen around to face Officer Shepens.
    â€œHey, Nate! Are we going to watch movies again today? That would be awesome. Wow