A
NEED
SO
BEAUTIFUL
SUZANNE YOUNG
Dedication
For my grandmother Josephine Parzych,
who will never be forgotten
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
After
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
I SIT ON THE FRONT STEPS of St. Vincent’s Cathedral and pick at the moss nestled in the cracks of the concrete. I’m waiting for Sarah—as usual. She begged me all through calculus to go shopping with her, even though she knows I don’t have the money for it. She promised it’d be fun. And she promised that this time she wouldn’t be late picking me up. I rarely trust her promises, and yet I’m still here.
Traffic whizzes past the church and I look across the street to the bus stop. A thin woman is alone on the bench, a black umbrella open above her, blocking her face. But it’s not raining. I glance up at the blue cloudless sky over Portland. The rainy season hasn’t started yet. We have until November at least.
Just then a drop of water hits my hand. Then another smacks my cheek. No way. When I look across the street again, the woman has moved to rest the umbrella on her shoulder. She’s smiling at me, her blond hair spilling over her black jacket, her boots zipped high on her calf. She looks familiar. Something about her—
A bus pulls up to the stop, erasing her from my view. The sprinkles continue and I look back at the church, considering going inside for cover. The loud rumble of the bus pulling away startles me, and when I look it’s gone and so is the woman.
And then the rain stops.
“Charlotte,” Harlin whispers in my ear, and I jump. I hadn’t heard him walk up.
I look sideways at my boyfriend as he straightens, grinning down at me. His unshaven chin and messy dark hair are a delicious contrast to me, sitting here in a plaid schoolgirl outfit with my fine, straight blond hair neatly combed.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, standing up. “Sudden urge to confess your sins?” Harlin lives on the other side of town with his older brothers. Six months ago he’d decided to drop out of St. Vincent’s Academy, and although I’d hoped he’d enroll somewhere else, so far he hasn’t.
“Nah,” Harlin says. “Pretty sure you’re the only thing that could get me this close to church again.”
“I sound inspiring.”
He laughs. “Well, that and I thought you might need a ride. Figured I’d swing by and check before heading to my mother’s. I’ve been summoned for a chat.” He looks away, clearly not wanting to talk about her. He never does.
I step closer and take his hand. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.”
He glances at me, his hazel eyes narrowing. “Is that right?” He pulls me into him and I get on my tiptoes, wrapping my arms around his neck. He leans down, his mouth barely grazing mine. “How glad?”
I smile, motioning toward the church. “Maybe not here?” Harlin shrugs and grins wickedly before kissing me again.
“You absolutely need confession,” I whisper, and when he laughs, I take out my phone and check the time. “Sarah’s nearly forty-five minutes late,” I say, exhaling.
“You sound surprised. When in your life has Sarah ever been on time?” Harlin asks.
“Once last summer . . . Wait. Never mind. She sent her driver instead.”
“I’m coming!” Sarah calls from around the corner. Before I even see her, I can hear the sound of her shoes clacking on the pavement until she finally appears near the street sign. She waves to me, gasping dramatically for air.
“And she arrives . . .” Harlin says, putting his arm over my shoulders. He turns and the scruff on his chin prickles my cheek. “Come to my house after?” he asks, his breath warm on my face.
“Mm-hmm.” I close my eyes, loving the feeling of him so close. The security of his arm around me.
“Gross, you two,” Sarah says, smoothing her red hair as she walks up. She’s still in her uniform, although it’s rolled at the waist, the hem well above regulation length. She’s switched out the usual black loafers for a scandalously high pair of spiked heels. Sarah likes to say that St. Vincent’s dress code is only for the fashionably challenged. Maybe that’s why my skirt is currently grazing my kneecap.
Unlike Sarah, I’m at St. Vincent’s on a “tuition adjustment,” which is code for I can’t afford it. It’s not like we’re that poor, but when the yearly private school dues are enough to buy a BMW, it’s a little tough to work into the family budget.
Truth be told, St. Vincent’s is the best school in the state—even if half the people here are snobs. And that definitely includes Sarah. But at least she’s my snob.
“Hey, Harlin,” she says, glancing over at him. “You here for church, or will you spontaneously combust if you walk in?”
“Not today,” he answers. “Seems they have a strict one-Antichrist-per-service rule, and you fill the quota.”
“Ah, well. Guess I’ll save a seat for you in the netherworld, then?”
Harlin grins. “Appreciate it.”
Sarah turns to me, looking impatient. “Are you ready? I have ten zillion things to do before tonight.”
I nod, sure that she’s exaggerating. It’s probably more like five zillion. Sarah’s what the nuns like to call a “social butterfly”—not to be confused with a tramp. Which is what some of the other girls in our class like to call her. Of course, Sarah’s family is richer than all of them combined, so they’d never say it to her face.
As the bells of the cathedral start to chime, I lean down to grab my backpack off the stairs. Suddenly I’m hit with heavy, bone-shaking vibrations that seem to run through my veins. They fill me up, take me over. Oh God. Not now.
“You okay?” Sarah’s voice is far away, and when I turn to her, her eyes widen. “Again?”
Before I can answer, Harlin is next to me, pulling open my backpack. “Do you have your inhaler?”
I don’t have asthma. It’s just easier to pretend that I do. How else can I explain these episodes? No one would ever believe the truth.
Harlin shakes my inhaler and holds it to my lips. My eyes meet his, and he watches as I make a good show of taking the medicine even though the inhaler’s empty.
The bells stop ringing and the humming inside me eases up, giving me time to catch my breath. My body is pulling me toward the cathedral doors, every inch of my skin aching to be inside. I don’t know why. I never do. Not until I’m there. But right now I have to get inside that church.
Harlin puts the inhaler back into my bag, his jaw tight with concern.
“Thanks,” I tell him, trying to sound calm. There are prickles of heat searing my skin. The throbbing will build slowly until I do what I’m supposed to. Resisting isn’t an option.
“You scared me.” Harlin looks away like he’s over it, but I can tell he’s still anxious. We’ve been through this before, but we both know that I’m getting wor
se. It’s happening more often.
The Need.
I’ve been having these episodes since I was seven years old. An intense compulsion to go somewhere, see someone, do something. It’s the most helpless feeling in the world, but I can’t stop myself—like I have no choice. It used to happen only once a year, me telling a kid in my class not to steal, or stopping an old lady from taking the wrong medication. But then it became twice a year. Three times. Each Need becoming more intense. And lately, the compulsions have been coming on once a week. Sometimes once a day. But I’ve told no one. I’m not sure how.
“You use that inhaler way too much,” Sarah says, shaking her head. “Can’t you take a pill or something?”
“She tried,” Harlin answers, not looking back at us.
It’s not true. I’ve never taken any asthma medication, but I told him that to keep the cover believable. I don’t want him to know about the Need. I don’t want anyone to know. I’m still hoping it’ll just go away on its own. But every day—with each Need—it looks more and more unlikely. I don’t know what to do anymore.
On the wire stand next to the double doors of the church is the newsletter with today’s service. I reach over and grab one, looking for a name. Anything that’ll give me a clue.
“Um . . .” When I look up, Sarah’s staring at me. “You’re not going to ask me to go in there, are you? It’s a funeral.”
“It’ll be quick, I swear.” I wouldn’t usually ask her to come, but I’m hoping if she’s with me I’ll be able to keep the Need under control. Get in and out. Besides, if I leave her on the church steps now, she’ll guilt me to death for ditching her.
I used to be able to pull off the Needs with minimum effort, but now they’re harder to hide. Sarah’s convinced herself that I’m partly clairvoyant, like a human Magic 8 Ball. All because she once saw me help a chaperone on a ninth-grade field trip find a lost hiker. She even thinks my visions trigger the asthma attacks.
I’ve considered that maybe I am psychic. But from everything I’ve read about them, they seem like scam artists. And sure, I see visions of people’s future. But it’s not just that. I can see their past. Their feelings. Their . . . souls.
Sometimes I go online at the library and check WebMD, plugging in my symptoms. But the closest diagnosis I get is OCD or schizophrenia. But I don’t triple-check the locks and I don’t hear voices in my head, so I’m resigned to the fact that I’m something else. I’ve even read all the booklets on saints in my religious instruction class, but I don’t fit with them either. They knew their purpose. I wish I knew mine.
Sarah motions toward the church. “I’m not going.”
“I’ll be your best friend.” I smile.
Sarah folds her arms over her chest, thinking about it. Under her makeup I can still see the hint of freckles across her nose. “Fine,” she says. “But you’re lucky that I hate everyone else or your little promises would be worthless.”
“Thank you.”
I look at Harlin and he’s watching me, still concerned. He knows nothing of the Need—what I really do when I leave him. And he’s never asked. I think of it as a silent truce. I don’t press him about his mother, and he doesn’t press me about my unexplained disappearances. It works for us. At least for now.
“I’ll see you soon?” I ask, reaching for him.
He gathers me up in his arms and puts his face against my neck. “Never soon enough.”
I long for him. Then I wonder if anyone has ever felt the way I do about Harlin. Like I’m falling just from the sound of his voice. But at the same time I’m terrified, feeling that at any second he could be gone. That the Need will take me away from him.
“Let’s go!” Sarah says, marching up to take me by the elbow. “The dead aren’t getting any younger.”
I turn and try to wave to Harlin but he’s already down the gray stone steps on the way to his motorcycle. I still remember the first time I saw him at St. Vincent’s Academy, the year before he dropped out. He was different from everyone else. He wore the same uniform, but something about the way he carried himself, he seemed so much calmer than the other guys. Peaceful. He was completely unforgettable.
“Harlin’s looking good,” Sarah says, stopping at the top step. “I like the whole rough-around-the-edges thing he’s got going on. Makes him look dangerous.”
“I like it too.”
“I bet.” She grins and adjusts the waist of her skirt, letting the hem down an inch or so. She glances at me and shrugs. “What? I’m going into a church.” Sarah reaches out to smooth down a strand of my hair. “Promise it’ll be fast?”
“Superfast.”
She exhales. “Fine. But first tell me, will I look hot tonight at the benefactors’ dinner?”
“All signs point to yes.”
“Thank you.” She grabs the handle of the cathedral door. “You know this is completely weird, right? I have no idea why I enable your morbid gifts.”
My shoulders tense. I feel exactly that way. Weird. Out of control.
“I don’t know why you do either.” I put my hand over hers and help pull open the door.
The sweet, smoky smell of incense immediately fills my nose and I close my eyes, taking it in. When I open them, I see the light filtering in from the huge stained-glass windows, casting colors on the mahogany coffin as it sits, lonely, in front of the altar. Father Peter is standing there, grasping the golden chain where the incense holder dangles, chanting and swinging the censer around the coffin where Stanley is surely resting.
I take Sarah by the elbow and move forward down the red carpeted aisle.
“This is humiliating,” she whispers. “I want to sit in the back.”
I pause, but find myself unable to turn away. I have to get closer to the altar, closer to the dead guy, Stanley Morris, and I let Sarah go.
Gaze focused on my black thrift-store Mary Janes, I step quietly toward the coffin. My mouth is dry, my skin feels hot all over—as if I’m sunburned.
A few people shift, creaking the wooden pews as I walk past, and I’m sure they’re wondering who I am, and if I knew Stanley. I didn’t. But I doubt I’m here for him—he’s a bit beyond any help I could give him.
Suddenly, three rows from the front, a familiar rush of air moves through me. It doesn’t ruffle my hair and I can’t feel it on my face, but it’s inside my body. I stop. I move to the pew on my left and look at the woman sitting there, her pregnant belly protruding. She presses her thin lips into a smile and scoots over, making room for me.
I nod thanks and sit. I look to where Stanley lies, his coffin closed. I wonder what he was like and what he would think if he could see all the people here now. It’s sweet, really—how they all remember him and have come to honor his life. It’s almost like he’s not really gone. At least not to them.
“How did you know him?” the young blond mother asks me.
I look sideways at her, feeling dreamsick, nauseated. “I didn’t, unfortunately. You?”
She glances at the casket, and then back at me. “Grandfather,” she whispers. Her sadness fills me and I miss him too, as if I am her. I miss the time we spent at his cabin in Lake Tahoe, and the time he took me fishing in a canoe on the Colorado River. I miss the spicy smell of his pipe as he rocked on the back porch of the house he’d built when I was a little girl.
I cover my face with my hands, startled and comforted by how cold my fingers are. I feel like I’m burning from the inside out.
“Are you okay?” the woman asks, touching my arm.
I turn to meet her red-rimmed green eyes. Her smooth, pale skin is graying slightly and I know why.
“When are you due?” I ask, her face getting hazy as light blots out the corners of my vision completely.
“Three weeks.”
I squint, the radiance too bright. I’m trying to act normal so I don’t scare her, but I know if I don’t say it the Need won’t go away. “Maureen,” I whisper, unable to keep the words inside anymore. “The
baby’s not well. You need to see the doctor. You need to see him now.”
Her face twists in both terror and anger, but I can tell that she knows; that maybe she’s known for a while that something is wrong. She shakes her head at me, her voice rising slightly.
“What? How did you . . . who are you?” Her lips begin to tremble and I can see the familiar glazed look in her eyes. The same look they all get when the knowledge hits them.
I smile softly, the tension in my body fading, releasing me. She’ll go, right now; she’ll leave and go to the doctor. There’s something wrong with her baby. And because I was here, she’ll be okay. It makes me feel good.
“I’m sorry,” I say, bowing my head. “I didn’t mean to bother you.” My body has returned to normal and I know I can walk away. There is no tug to be in this church anymore. I’m free.
I stand up and step out into the aisle. The pew creaks again and I can feel everyone watching me, probably confused and curious.
“Stanley was a good guy,” I say quietly, motioning toward the coffin. I almost wince at my own words, but I don’t know what else to say.
I’m halfway down the aisle, moving toward Sarah, who looks horrified, when I hear the padding of feet behind me.
“Excuse me,” Maureen says, rushing past, not turning to me. She is out the door and into the sunlight by the time I reach Sarah. When I do, she shakes her head.
“‘Stanley was a good guy’?” Sarah repeats, her right eyebrow raised. “Were you trying to look insane and unbalanced?”
I laugh and loop my arm through hers, my tense muscles all relaxed, leaving me almost euphoric. I flinch at a sudden burn on my shoulder, but it fades almost instantly.
“Let’s go grab something to eat,” I say, not looking back. “I’m starving.”
Chapter 2
Sarah dips her fry in my ketchup—why? Not because I have the last ketchup packet on earth, but because she says the smell makes her gag. She can enjoy it only from a distance. And apparently two and a half feet across the table is enough for her.