I inhale the cheeseburger (no onions) that I ordered and gulp my diet soda. After a Need I find myself completely ravenous. I’m staring down at my plate, still thinking about the funeral, when Sarah says my name.
“What?” I answer, looking up at her.
“I asked if you had to go into the clinic tonight. God, I swear, you don’t listen to a thing I say!”
It isn’t true, but I can understand why she thinks that, especially now. Our normally Sarah-centric friendship has been competing with my increasing Needs. When I disappear on nights we have movie plans or show up late for our shopping trips, Sarah thinks I’m blowing her off. But I can’t tell her how often the Need hits, because if I did, she might rethink her clairvoyance theory. And I don’t have a better one to offer.
“Of course I listen to you,” I murmur, sipping from my drink.
“Then what did I say?”
I smile. “That you’re the hottest thing to ever walk the halls of St. Vincent’s and everyone wants you?”
“Close enough. Now, do you have to volunteer at the clinic tonight or not?”
“I was supposed to, but I asked for it off. Let me check.” I take out my phone and dial up the office, waiting through the easy listening instrumental until the receptionist answers.
“Burnside Clinic,” Rhonda says.
“It’s Charlotte.” I dip my fry in the ketchup. “Is Monroe around?” I eat while I wait for Monroe—Dr. Swift—to get on the phone.
“Tell Monroe I miss him.” Sarah puckers her lips and makes a loud kissing noise. She likes to visit when I’m volunteering at the clinic, mainly to get a look at my boss.
Monroe Swift is barely over forty with slightly graying blond hair and a British accent. The Portland homeless community regards him as a saint. In fact, he’s probably performing a tracheotomy with a ballpoint pen right at this very moment. I personally find him brash and full of himself. Then again, he’s been friends with my family so long it’s like we’re related.
“Yes, Charlotte?” Monroe’s smart British accent rings through the phone. “What can we do for you?”
“Just checking to see how it’s going tonight,” I hint, hoping that if the waiting room is remotely calm, I might not have to go in.
I’ve been volunteering at the free clinic a couple nights a week for the past few years. I mostly enjoy it—filing papers, making copies—and I know it’ll look good on a college application. At least that’s what Monroe tells me. But now I just want more time for myself. Scratch that, more time for Harlin. There’s never enough time for Harlin.
But instead of giving me time off, Monroe added shifts to my schedule. Instead of three nights a week, it’s five. I’ve complained a few times but they pull the whole it’s-for-a-good-cause card. Not. Fair.
More than anything, I just really hate working until ten. A free clinic in the middle of Portland doesn’t exactly attract the best crowd when it’s dark out. And yet, I can’t imagine Monroe working anywhere else. He likes to play savior whenever possible.
I sigh. “Can I have today off or not? I asked you yesterday.”
Monroe’s silent for an excruciatingly long time. “I haven’t had to perform CPR on the sidewalk out front, so it seems to be a slow night. Why, do you have plans?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, then. Don’t let the sick and incapacitated of Portland stop you. Run. Frolic.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Why, thank you. To make it up to me you can come in tomorrow. Six sound good?”
“I knew there was a catch.”
“Always is, sweetheart.”
When I hang up, Sarah widens her brown eyes at me before popping a fry into her mouth. “Time off for good behavior? Monroe is feeling generous tonight.”
“I have to go in tomorrow instead.”
“He’s a bastard.” She pauses in her chewing. “So . . . I heard you and your boy toy whispering about sneaking around. Planning a sleepover, Charlotte?” She grins deviously. “And how will Mercy feel about this plan?”
Mercy Hernandez—my adoptive mother—splits her time between volunteering at a woman’s shelter, working nights as an ER nurse, and raising foster kids as her own. Then again, with a name like Mercy, what else would she do?
“She’s working at the hospital tonight.” I smile, picking up my soda to bite on the straw before sipping. “And she doesn’t get back until after school starts in the morning. And since I’m not going to the clinic tonight—”
“You’re going to get naked. Yeah, I got it, Charlotte. Don’t need the mental picture.”
I nearly choke on my Diet Coke. Sarah has a habit of knocking everything down to the lowest common denominator, which to her usually involves getting naked.
“Will you drop me off at Harlin’s place when we’re done shopping?” I ask.
“Sure, but I have to go to Plato’s. I need an outfit for this stupid benefactors’ dinner out in Hillsboro. Do you think—”
“Yes, you’ll look hot,” I answer before she can finish asking.
Sarah’s mother forces her to attend countless benefit concerts and dinners, all in the name of charity. They’re all worthy causes; I just don’t get the having to entertain people for them to give money. Why can’t they just . . . give?
“Are you thinking self-righteous thoughts right now, Charlotte?” Sarah asks, a smirk pulling at her lips. “Not all saints are created equal, you know. Mercy does her thing physically, and my mother does hers socially.”
It is a valid argument. Sarah’s dragged me to a couple of events before, but they’re like death to me. Stuffy people. Stuffy room. Sometimes I feel like her mother is watching me, as if being poor is contagious. It’s like I’m a stray that Sarah brought home. I wonder if she’s hoping someone else will adopt me soon.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out to see a text message. Harlin.
Still with dead people?
I laugh and run my thumbs over the keys. Worse. I’m sharing ketchup at Frankie’s.
“That Harlin?” Sarah asks, wiping her hands on a napkin and then tossing it onto the table. “Tell him I said to take a cold shower. You’ll be there later.”
“Nice.” Instead I type, Sarah says hi.
After a second Harlin’s text pops up and I press my lips together and look across at Sarah. “Um, he says hi back.”
“Yeah, right.” Sarah starts piling the dirty plates on the tray and reaches over to take my soda out of my hand, shaking the ice around—confirming it’s empty. She drops it on top of the tray and walks over to dump it all in the trash.
I watch after her when another text comes up.
I want you here now.
I cradle the phone in my hand, wishing I could kiss the screen and he’d feel it. It’s tough with Harlin. I think I’d spend every second of every day with him if I could. He’s like a want I can’t describe. And I don’t just mean physically. When I’m not with him, I feel almost empty. Lost. I can barely remember what it was like before him.
When Harlin transferred to St. Vincent’s two years ago with scruffy hair and a leather jacket, it was like I’d been half-asleep for years and then suddenly woke up. Everything came into focus when I was with him. Sure, I had a few friends—I had Sarah. But something about Harlin—the way he looked at me. It was like I could suddenly breathe. He made me feel at peace.
Soon. I love you, I send back, and click my phone shut. I pause for a second, feeling the warmth fade from me, leaving me just a little bit lonely. After a long sigh I stand up and look around for Sarah. She’s at the glass doors, her arm resting on the metal bar, staring at me.
For as long as I’ve known her, Sarah’s been searching for the guy, the one who’ll be good to her. Of course he also has to be hot, rich, funny, sensitive, masculine—but not macho—and want to move out of state after she graduates. With those requirements she’s been looking for a while. Even if it’s gotten her a not entirely deserved reputation.
br />
Sarah knows how I feel about Harlin. Even if we seem a little intense at times, she knows he’s my guy, so she doesn’t complain. We’re too drama-free and a little boring for her taste, but I’m pretty sure Sarah approves. She’s a romantic like that.
“Red or black?” Sarah asks, a dress in each hand as she poses in front of the mirror. Of the eight that she’s tried on, she’s narrowed it down to these two dresses. She holds the black one up to her, tilting her head.
We’re in Plato’s, a hipster secondhand store that has the best selection of used clothing in Portland. Even though Sarah could afford to shop anywhere, she prefers this place. She says the clothes have more personality because people have lived in them. Squinting, she switches to the red dress.
I shrug. “Red is sexier, but the black makes you look smarter.”
“Red it is.” Sarah tosses the black dress across the patterned lounge chair and folds the red one over her arm, turning toward the front of the store. “I have some fabulous Jimmy Choos at home to match this.” She pauses to look me over. “Do you want to shop for something? I have my mom’s charge card.”
I shake my head as I lean against the wall. To be honest, I’m tired. Drained, really. Even if I do like the lime green coat on the mannequin in the front window, I don’t have the energy to ask about it. Sarah likes to say that buying me stuff is payback for being her personal shopper. She doesn’t buy a thing, not one stitch of clothing, until I’ve seen it and commented. Not that she takes my advice. She just likes the second opinion.
I walk with her toward the register. She looks sideways at me, biting her lip. “You know who’s going to be at the dinner tonight?” she asks, as if I wouldn’t know. Like every high school, St. Vincent’s has an interesting mix of jocks, nerds, and everything in between. But there’s only one guy right now who fills at least half of Sarah’s requirements—Seth Reynolds. Seth is the captain of the swim team, and not nearly as obnoxious as his meathead friends. He and Sarah have had the whole flirty-eyes thing going for weeks, so I have high hopes for them. I know Sarah does too.
“Who?” I say anyway, feigning ignorance. I eye the coat in the window as we wait at the register.
“Seth! He’s going with his parents. Isn’t that so sweet?”
“Uh, maybe. Or maybe his parents force him to give to charity too.”
“Oh, shut up,” she says. “Anyway, I think he might ask me out tonight. Especially if I’m wearing this.” She holds up the red dress. “What do you think? Can you see anything about tonight?”
I sigh. “Sarah, I have no idea. I’m not really psychic.”
She waves me off and lays the dress across the counter. “Sure you are.”
The dark-haired cashier with an arm full of tattoos and a barbell through her lip tilts her head like she’s judging the garment. “This is hot,” she says, before she starts to ring it up.
Sarah smiles. “Yeah? Thanks.”
I feel a prickle of warmth across my cheek and I reach up to touch it. My heart slowly starts to speed up. No. It’s too soon.
“I’m wearing it to some lame dinner,” Sarah tells the cashier, but her voice is fading. “Do you think . . .”
I clench my teeth as my bones begin to heat up. Without completely freaking out, I touch Sarah’s arm. I can feel sweat gathering at my temple.
“I’ll meet you outside, okay?” I say, hoping it comes out right.
She glances quickly at me, nods, and then goes back to talking to the cashier. I see her mouth move, but I can’t hear her. I hear my heartbeat.
My legs shift, but it’s like they’re not mine. They’re taking me to the front of the store, to the window. I’m on fire now, especially my shoulder, and my head, it’s like it’s slowly imploding. As I pass the green coat a rush of wind blows through me. I stop.
The coat? I don’t see how . . . but I pause. Behind it is a flyer taped to the window, facing the street. I need to pull the flyer off the glass, but I don’t want to. I want to see Harlin. And if I get my next Need I’ll have to go wherever it leads me. I don’t have a choice.
My fingers shoot forward without my permission and pluck the paper from the glass, breaking the tape. Glancing at Sarah, I see her bent over as she signs her receipt.
With the flyer in my hands, I look down, seeing the image of the front bleed through the back of the white copy paper, but I don’t want to turn it over. I don’t want to have to go anywhere, yet I flip it to the other side.
Greens and blues splash across the page as I try to make sense of the words. But I can only read the address: 5918 W. Broadway. I blink quickly trying to read the rest, but it’s impossible. All I can see is 5918 W. Broadway.
“Ready?” Sarah asks from behind me and I jump, the paper slipping from my hands. It zigzags through the air until it comes to rest just inside the platform of the window.
My muscles release. My body exhales.
“You okay?” Sarah takes my elbow and turns me to her. Her eyes are filled with worry and when she starts looking around, I tell her that I’m fine.
She gasps and I wonder if she can tell—tell that the Need has returned and I can’t stop it. She meets my eyes accusingly and I step back from her.
“Liar!” she says. She stomps past me and for a second I think she’s going to grab up the flyer, but she doesn’t. She practically rips the coat off the mannequin and holds it up admiringly.
“You want this!” she says. “And here you are drooling over it. How many times do I have to tell you, if I didn’t want to spend money on you, I wouldn’t? God, you’re so humble you make me want to vomit.”
She laughs and holds up the coat, looking toward the registers. “Raven?” she calls sweetly. “Can you add this on the charge?”
I don’t look back but I assume the cashier agrees because suddenly Sarah is wrapping a lime green jacket over my shoulders. My fingers have almost stopped shaking and I feel close to normal. Not as good as when I left the funeral, but this is bearable. It’s like a nagging feeling; something you have to do when you don’t want to. But I know that even if I try to resist, I can’t. I’ve never been able to before.
Facing Sarah, I slip my arms into the coat.
“Do you think Harlin will like it?” I ask, tying the waist.
Sarah nods her approval. “Absolutely. Oh.” She claps her hands together. “You should totally show up at his house wearing this.” She smiles. “And only this.”
“Tempting,” I say. “But I think I’ll save that genius plan for when we’re living together.” After next year, Harlin’s going to move out of his brothers’ place and we’re going to rent a one- bedroom apartment in the Pearl District, something small but charming. I’ll be attending Portland State—even though I have no idea what to study. I’m hoping a major will come to me eventually, but so far, it hasn’t. My future is a blank slate, full of possibilities.
I haven’t told Mercy about our plans, but I’m sure she’ll approve. Or at least I hope she will.
“Aw,” Sarah coos sarcastically. “You two will be so cute playing house. Maybe you can adopt dogs to pose as children too. Dress them up in little sweaters.”
“Oh my God, shut up.”
“Harlin can go work at some filthy garage, fixing motorcycles, and then he’ll come home all dirty. And you’ll be there—his little woman—cooking dinner while wearing this jacket. With nothing underneath.”
“Wow.” I laugh. “That’s a bright future you have planned for us.”
“I’m part clairvoyant, too.”
“You’re also part moron.” I grin at her as we walk outside, the noise of traffic immediately assaulting our ears. I don’t mind the sounds, though. At least right now my hearing isn’t plugged by the Need.
Sarah hooks my arm and bumps her shoulder into mine. “I’m just kidding about the playing-house stuff. I know you’re going to be great at whatever you do,” she says, sounding suddenly sentimental.
I look at her. “So will you.” r />
She crinkles her nose. “Don’t think my father would agree with that.”
I don’t respond. Daddy conversations are something that Sarah usually reserves for alcohol-induced moments. She glances away just as the sun pokes out from the clouds, only staying for a second before fading behind the tall buildings.
“Anyways,” she says with a heavy sigh. “Let’s get back to talking about Harlin and how he’d want you to show up naked under this jacket.”
I shake my head. “I think I know what Harlin wants.”
“Hmm . . .” Sarah says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I bet you do.” She snorts and our shoes beat a steady rhythm on the concrete as we head to the garage where her father’s Beamer is parked. Sarah’s been driving her father’s car since we were fifteen—unless you count that time when we were twelve and skipped out on gym class to grab a milk shake at Frankie’s. She nailed a trash can while trying to park and then spent two hundred dollars of her allowance getting it fixed before her father found out.
Sadness washes over me. That was before the Need took over, back when I only had to sneak away once, maybe twice a month. That was when I had more time.
Sarah clicks open the locks of the car, and as I climb in I start to work on my exit strategy to get to Harlin’s. First I’ll check in with Mercy and pretend to settle in for the night. Once she’s gone, I’ll slip out.
Sarah starts the car and drives out of the garage, talking about how she’s sure Seth has been staring at her in physics class. But it’s hard to listen. There’s an image that I can’t shake. And I know it won’t stop until I get there: 5918 W. Broadway.
Chapter 3
A s I push open the heavy wood door to my fifth-floor walk-up apartment, Mercy is there—her black hair knotted tight near her neck, her pale blue scrubs crisp from too much starch.
“And where were you?” she asks in her thick Puerto Rican accent. Even though she sounds brusque, I know she’s just being protective. Sometimes that involves dragging Alex out of a rave on a Friday night, or picking me up at Harlin’s when I’m there too late. But recently her schedule at the ER became more demanding, giving us opportunities to sneak out. Not that we take advantage of it. Much.