A Need So Beautiful (A Need So Beautiful #1)(2)
Author: Suzanne Young

“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 worse. 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.