I hold a mug of hot chocolate in my hands, wondering if I’ll ever feel warm again, and I answer the officers’ questions. What time did I wake up? Why did I go outside? Did I recognize the person who dug the hole in the snow? Is there anyone I can think of who is angry with our family or has said anything negative about DJ’s illness? The last question I don’t answer.
“Ms. Dunham?”
I look down at my drink, wishing I hadn’t gotten out of bed. That people weren’t so mean.
“Kaylee.” My mother’s voice is quiet, but I hear the tension. “Answer the officer’s question. Do you know someone who would want to hurt DJ?”
There’s an accusation in her voice. As if this is my fault. It’s the same tone she used when she told me the test results. I wasn’t a match. I couldn’t save my brother. I was useless.
“Kaylee.” This time Officer Shepens asks.
And I answer. “Not exactly. But I got an email.” I glance at my mother. “When I learned I wasn’t eligible to be DJ’s donor, I started looking for my father.”
My mother’s lips form into a tight line. Disapproval and anger shine in her eyes. During one of our fights, she forbade me to look for Dad. I promised I wouldn’t, though I’ve never understood why she is so insistent about this, and neither does anyone else. I don’t understand why she won’t go to any lengths to help DJ. She always says we can survive without my father and that she will find another donor. But it doesn’t make sense, and she hasn’t. So I did. We both lied. And now she knows.
I squeeze the mug between my hands, trying to ignore the way everything inside me tenses and my eyes burn. Taking a deep breath, I say, “I’ve been sending emails to everyone I can think of who knows my father, hoping one of his friends has heard from him. A couple days ago, I got a message from someone. If you wait a minute, I’ll go get it.”
Before the police or my mother can object, I jump out of my chair and run up the stairs to my room. When I received the email, I printed it out. Why? I’m not sure. Part of me wanted to make copies and put it up all over town. That way he’d feel as bad as he’d made me feel. Instead, I put it in my top desk drawer.
I touch my brother’s door as I hurry past it, and when I walk into the kitchen I don’t hesitate. I hand the paper to Officer Shepens and feel my mother’s stare boring into me as he reads the words I’ll never forget.
Get a clue. I don’t want to help you track down Mel and he doesn’t want to be found. Find someone else to harass because I don’t care if the kid dies.
The email is from the account of Richard Ward. A bowling and fishing buddy of my father’s, local Boy Scout leader, and deacon of our church. He’s also the owner of the drugstore in the center of town.
Officer Shepens reads the note, looks up at me, and passes it to his partner. “Richard Ward sent that to you?”
“I use a different email address for the emails about my father.” I turn and look at my mother. “He probably thought he was sending the message to you.” Which makes it worse.
My mother’s jaw tightens when Officer Klein hands her the printed email, and she doesn’t say a word as they question me about the messages leading up to this one. There are two. The first when I asked if Mr. Ward had had any word from my father since he left town. The second a week later when I didn’t get a response to the first one. And then this one that made me want to scream and throw things and pull my brother close and protect him from everything bad.
“This sounds more like a kid’s prank than something a grown man would do. Do you think the man in the green and yellow hat looked like Richard Ward? Or could it have been someone else?” Officer Shepens asks.
“Of course it was him,” my mother snaps. “How much more evidence do you need? He even used the same words.”
Which is why I recalled the email when the police asked. But now that I’m thinking things through, I’m not sure. “The man looked bigger than Mr. Ward.” Or maybe his coat was bulky and that’s why, as much as I want to, I can’t picture my father’s friend holding the shovel. The idea that someone else might hate us enough to write that message makes me shiver.
Officer Shepens checks his watch and tells my mom there’s no point in waking DJ now. They’ll come back later to speak to him, and will pay visits to the neighbors to see if anyone saw the man with the shovel. Until then, we should keep our doors locked and call the police at any sign of trouble.
Mom thanks them for their time and asks if there’s any chance they would be willing to fill in the hole in the yard before they leave. “I’d like to keep this as quiet as possible. With everything that’s happened in the last year . . .” She casts a glance at me and sighs as she looks back at the officers. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” Officer Shepens says. “We can—”
“I’ll do it,” I interrupt. “I want to do it.” That way if any of our neighbors look out the window, they won’t wonder what the Nottawa Police Department is doing digging in our front yard. Not that it will stop the news from getting out, but it might spread more slowly. Mom should approve of that.
The police don’t object, so I put on my boots as they leave. Mom looks at me for several long moments. I wait for her to yell or ask if we can talk or tell me she understands why I decided to try to find my father.
“Make sure you wear your gloves,” she says. Then she turns and walks away.
I stand in the kitchen for several minutes, surrounded by reminders of the family we used to be. The scarred wooden table and chairs. The stonework vase my mother bought from a local artist, filled with Popsicle sticks and paper flowers DJ made in school. Report cards and pictures on the fridge. I wish we could go back. To before. When I hear a door close upstairs, I put on my coat and go to the garage to get a shovel.
The neighborhood is quiet. The only sound is the crunch of my boots in the snow as I walk across the front yard. The box with the message is gone. The police must have taken it with them as evidence.
I drop my shovel and pull out my phone. The snow shines bright as I click a photo. The police have pictures. They told my mother we could ask for copies if we needed them, but this one is just for me. To remind me that people can’t be depended on to be kind. No matter what Nate believes, no one is going to step up and offer to donate a kidney to DJ. If I want my brother to live, I’ll have to find a way to save him myself.
NETWORK MEMBERS—632
NEEDS PENDING—628
NEEDS FULFILLED—108
Yvonne
“YVONNE, WHAT ARE YOU doing here? You asked for today off.”
Yvonne jumps as Mrs. Lollipolous comes out from the kitchen in the back of the bakery. She gives her boss a friendly wave. “I know, but my family’s plans fell through and I knew you were going to be really busy getting ready for this weekend. So, I thought I’d see if you still wanted me to help out.”
A relieved grin spreads across Mrs. L.’s flushed face. “You are a godsend, Yvonne. Marta called in sick, and Ricky and I are too busy in back doing the wedding cakes for this weekend to pack all the orders and also man the front of the store.” Mrs. L. wipes her hands on her flour-coated apron and nods. “I’d love you to handle things out here for a couple of hours, but only if you’re sure you want to. You work so hard at school and here and I know how much you wanted a day off.”
“I want to work. Honest, Mrs. L.” Yvonne resists the childish urge to cross her fingers behind her back and adds, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be today.”
“What would we do without you? I should go out and thank your mother for changing her plans and making our lives easier.”
“No. You can’t!” Yvonne almost shouts before Mrs. L. can walk toward the door. “Mom went to the drugstore. I told her I’d call her there if you didn’t need me.”
It could be true. After all, her family can’t afford cell phones. They can barely afford their landline. But Yvonne can tell Mrs. L. has heard the lie in her voice. She wants to apologize an
d explain, but she can’t. She’s not allowed to explain. All she can do is shift from foot to foot as Mrs. L. watches her with narrowed eyes.
Please don’t be mad. Please don’t fire me for one mistake. Please.
Mrs. L. sighs and pats the shoulder of Yvonne’s faded, slightly too small brown winter coat. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to thank her later with several loaves of bread and some of those sticky buns your sisters love so much. Ricky just made a big batch, even though we don’t have orders for half of them. Why don’t I pack some up now so they don’t dry out before you bring them home? And maybe a few other surprises, too.”
Relief is followed by guilt. Yvonne’s throat is tight and her eyes sting when she says, “Thanks, Mrs. L.”
Mrs. L. gives her a warm, sympathetic smile. “It’s my pleasure. What good is running a bakery if you don’t get to feed the ones you care for?” They both jump as a pan clatters in the back and Ricky shouts something in Italian. “I’d better get back there before he destroys the kitchen. Let me know if you need help. I’m coming! You’d better not have dropped my meringues!”
Yvonne takes off her coat, grateful that Mrs. L. left before the guilt got the best of her. She knows her boss thinks her family’s finances are the reason Yvonne chose to come in to work. For once, being the responsible girl who never gets into trouble has paid off.
She hates lying to Mrs. L., but what she said isn’t that far from the truth. Although this money isn’t for her family. It’s for her. College applications are expensive, and some of the schools recommend personal interviews on campus. There are hardship waivers, but her parents have already said they don’t want to use those. They have their pride, and Yvonne wants them to keep it. But she’d also like to apply to more than the two schools they can afford.
And this one thing she has to do is kind of strange, but not bad.
Mouth dry, muscles tight and jumpy, Yvonne walks over to the door to the kitchen and peeks through the small glass window to make sure Mrs. L. and Ricky aren’t headed up front. Then she walks to the register and pulls out the old-fashioned handwritten order book that Mrs. L. refuses to give up. Quickly, she writes yesterday’s date in the top corner and an order for seventeen chocolate chunk cookies with ground peanuts. Next to the order goes the name Kaylee Dunham. Filled. Paid in full. Picked up.
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?
Sameena
SAMEENA 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.
Amanda
“YOU 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 hand
le 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.”