“You should go home, Dr. Alvarez. Take care of yourself,” Dr. Haddox says, and he does not mean by drinking some ginger ale and going to bed early. This talk of sickness is a cover for something else. And they both know it.
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Alvarez says to Dr. Haddox before walking on.
He nods. “It’s not your fault.”
Dr. Haddox and I watch as Dr. Alvarez heads back the way we came. We are quiet until she disappears around the corner.
“Come on, the common room is down this way,” Dr. Haddox says.
AT THE END of the hall is a set of locked windowless doors. Dr. Haddox touches an ID to the keypad, and the doors buzz open. He waves me in ahead of him.
The common room is even more inviting than the fancy lobby. Sparkling white and spacious, the room has floor-to-ceiling windows running across its length and modern furniture—a low sectional with bright pillows and an earthy, burnt-orange shag carpet. The furniture is organized in three separate seating areas and the back has a half dozen café tables near a galley kitchenette, complete with refrigerator and sink. It’s like the lobby area of a fashionable but inexpensive hotel. And—as promised—there are more than a dozen people clustered around the room in different groups. They are all girls, all wearing matching gray sweat suits. Just like mine. Though some of them have already adapted the sweats to suit their own taste—sleeves rolled, legs pulled up over the knees. They are still wearing their own shoes, too, which in the cases of high heels, look outright weird.
All girls. And Dr. Cornelia is involved. Dr. Cornelia of the Outliers-are-all-sick school of thought. These things are not unrelated. These girls aren’t unrelated, even if I don’t yet understand how they connected us.
They are leaning up against the windows, flopped across the fancy-ish couches. A couple laugh and point at something as they stand too close to the big-screen TV on the back wall next to the emergency exit. I think I might recognize some of them.
At least one goes to Stanton Prep, class president or something. I saw her speak at the annual awards ceremony last year when Gideon won the science prize. She had on the same bright-red lipstick that she’s wearing now, seriously out of place with the sweats. She is pretty with a dark, blunt bob, setting off her chalk-white skin. There’s another girl I definitely recognize from Newton Regional. She is tall and model-thin and strikingly beautiful with thick black hair and flawless skin—Becca, I think her name is. She’s one of the girls in heels, platform sandals to be exact. Somehow, though, she manages to pull it off. Becca ran in the same circles with Maia, but I don’t know whether they were actually friends. There was a rumor Becca was a heroin user. A pretty believable one if I recall.
I wonder if Jasper was friends with her. The thought of him makes my chest ache. But he is okay, he has to be. I know it, too. Don’t I? I think so. I hope so.
There are two other girls on the far side of the room that I think I also might recognize from school. I am pretty sure the one with the red curls under a bandanna and freckles is named Elise. She started at school right before my mom’s accident, in the middle of the year. Cassie told me later that Elise had gotten in trouble for stealing huge boxes of Trident gum from the Rite Aid and reselling them at school. Cassie also told me Elise was a transgender girl, pleased to be in the circle of people who were first trusted with that information.
Dr. Haddox’s phone rings then, startling me. “Ah, I’m sorry,” he says, digging in his pocket for it. “This is Dr. Cornelia. I called him earlier to tell him what happened to you. I should speak with him.”
“But please, check again about my friend, too. Jasper Salt is his name.”
Dr. Haddox nods. “I’ll do everything I can.”
And then he steps way out of earshot as if it’s not at all suspicious that he doesn’t want me to hear his conversation with Dr. Cornelia.
I don’t doubt Dr. Haddox is well intentioned. But wanting to believe you are doing the right thing does not actually make it so. And I may not know exactly what is going on here—where it starts or where it ends—but I feel certain that Dr. Cornelia being involved is a very bad thing. For all of us.
It isn’t until Dr. Haddox steps back out the doors he came in that I notice the two large, muscular men standing on either side of another set of doors across the room. These have a small window in each. Doors to the outside or the main section of the hospital. The men are wearing dark, fitted uniforms with lots of pockets, and they’re staring straight ahead. They seem armed, though I don’t actually see any weapons.
A couple of the girls have noticed me—the girl with the bright-red lipstick from Gideon’s school looks especially intrigued. And I feel anxious—the regular old, Outlier-unrelated kind—with their eyes on me. Though, as was true when I raced after Cassie, trying to get my footing in this emergency, five-alarm situation is keeping the worst of my anxiety drowned out.
Apart from the two girls watching TV together, everyone else is keeping their distance from one another. Actually, the rest of the girls seem completely separate and alone. Unhappy, but also not terrified.
I watch Becca make her way over to one of the guards. Stalking more than walking, like some sinewy cat creature even in the unflattering sweat suit. The one guard looks delighted but not surprised that she has come over. Like he has beautiful girls seeking him out all the time, though he is short and balding and has a bit of a paunch. Becca props herself on the back of the couch nearby, one leg swinging back and forth like a metronome. I try to imagine her with a needle in her arm, and—oddly—I can, though I am not sure this makes the rumor any more true.
Even from all the way across the room, it’s obvious that this flirting is an act. You don’t need to be an Outlier to see that. Still, the guard is buying it completely. He leans in close to say something to her, his chin lifted in this absurd, cocky way.
“Hey, what’s your name?” comes a voice from behind me.
When I turn, there’s a petite girl swallowed by her big sweat suit and even bigger glasses. And she’s standing right next to me. She’s only a couple of inches too close, but those last inches are the most important ones. Maybe because of her nearness, the girl’s emotions wash hard, and unavoidably, over me, and they are a scattered mess. She’s a little scared and a bit worried. And a lot excited? Why is she excited? Am I even right about that? I feel dizzy trying to get a better fix on her. Her feelings are flashing at me like strobe lights, too bright and then gone. All I want to do is back up and close my eyes.
“Hello? What’s your name?” she asks again. Louder this time.
“Wylie.” I take a step back, hoping she doesn’t follow.
She looks skeptical. “What kind of name is that?”
“My grandfather’s,” I say, trying to stay polite. I can’t afford to offend people yet.
“I’m Teresa,” she says, then rolls her eyes. “You know, like Mother Teresa. My grandmother is super religious.” She stares at me for a minute longer, then smiles in a way that makes me queasy.
“Do you go to Newton Regional?” I ask, though I don’t recognize her. Anything to create some noise that might distract me from her the piercing static of her jumbled feelings.
“Oh no,” she says, like that is the most absurd suggestion ever. “I’m homeschooled. My grandmother used to be a high school science teacher, so she thought she could do a better job herself. She’s all over it.”
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“Four long-ass hours.” Another voice from behind. When I turn, it’s the class president from Gideon’s school. Up close she has elaborate, perfectly applied eye makeup. When she tucks her hair behind her ear, I catch sight of her bracelet—diamond encrusted. I am guessing they are real. Gideon always was the poorest kid at his school. “Hey, do I know you?”
“No, but my brother goes to Stanton Prep,” I say, surprised that she recognizes me. Or maybe she recognizes Gideon in me. We are twins after all.
“What’s his
name?”
“Gideon.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Nope, never heard of him.” She snaps the woven, black bracelet on her other wrist. Nervous and sad—she’s very easy to read—annoyed, too, but that seems secondary to being nervous. “I’m Ramona.”
When I turn, I see that Becca has slunk her way over.
“And I’m Becca,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, already dreading the awkwardness. “I think we went to Newton Regional together. I used to be friends with Maia, a long time ago.”
“Oh yeah?” Becca asks but not like she’s especially interested. “I don’t remember anyone from there. I was so high all the time. And then I stopped going.”
“Stopped?” I ask. And it comes out so weirdly judgmental. I will myself to stop talking. Because what I really want to do is ask her if she knows Jasper. And I have the nagging feeling she might say something that would make me even more worried about him.
Becca shrugs. “Getting clean is a full-time job. But I am now. I’ve been doing everything they said I had to do to graduate on time. I’ve been seeing my therapist, and I have a tutor and whatever.” She shakes her head. “Which is why this is such bullshit.”
“Almost nobody in here has been in regular school for a while. We’ve figured out we have that much in common on our own,” Ramona says. “They keep saying they’re going to explain everything, including, like, why us. Why are we here? But they haven’t told us shit. They just keep on saying that it’s somebody else who has to tell us. First, it was Dr. Haddox, now he says it’s the NIH. So we’re guessing it has something to do with the not being in school, even if it is all for different reasons—Becca’s got the drugs, Teresa’s homeschooled, which—let’s face it—seems best for everybody.” I look over at Teresa to see if she’s noticed the dig, but she doesn’t seem to be listening. “That girl over there had some kind of eating thing. That girl has some klepto thing. I was ‘bullying’ somebody. Which, by the way, I totally was not.”
“They didn’t tell you about the PANDAS?” I ask, not thrilled that I might have to explain it.
“Oh, they told us that.” Ramona waves a hand. “That’s their story. But we all think that’s bullshit. My parents were super psyched, though, that there might be some ‘explanation’ for what’s ‘wrong’ with me.” She shrugs. “They’d take hearing I have the plague as long as it was proof that it doesn’t have anything to do with them. I told my parents this crap had holes in it and they were just like, whatever, fix her.”
What Ramona hasn’t mentioned, though, is being an Outlier or Heightened Emotional Perception or anything like that. I should tell them, at least offer it as a possibility. But something stops me. It will sound slightly insane. And it will be hard to explain. But that’s not what’s holding me back. I’m also not ready to hand over the only thing I have: my secret. Keeping it doesn’t make me feel like a good person. But that doesn’t make it any less of a good idea. And, in my defense, “reasons for me to trust people” have been in short supply.
“This is so dumb,” comes a voice from below me. It’s only then that I notice the pair of feet propped up on the edge of the couch to my right, legs stretched out the length of it. There’s a book blocking the girl’s face. George Orwell’s 1984.
“What’s dumb?” Becca asks whoever is behind the book.
“All of you, trying to figure out what these assholes are actually up to,” the voice goes on. I look at her hands, the tattoo of an infinity symbol visible on the inside of one wrist. “Whatever you think, the truth is probably a thousand times worse. And they aren’t going to come clean because you guess right.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” Ramona asks, annoyed but a little wary, too. At least I think that’s what she’s feeling. With so many girls around it’s impossible to get a clear read on anyone.
“Depends on the situation,” the girl behind the book says. “They as in: not us.”
She has a point. One thing I have definitely learned since what happened at the camp in Maine is that who is “in charge” can be way more complicated than it looks.
“I saw you talking to that guard, too,” Ramona says to the girl with the book. “You sure he hasn’t told you anything?”
“I haven’t been talking to anybody,” she says.
“I saw you,” Ramona presses.
“Then I suggest you get your eyes checked.”
“Hi,” I say, hoping the girl will lower the book. The eye contact might help me get a read on her. As it is, the buzz of the group is deafening. “I’m Wylie.”
Finally, the girl puts her book down. She has gorgeous, amber eyes and long, dark brown curls. She is unnervingly pretty. She raises a thick, arched brow. But I still can’t read her. Like, at all. Sometimes people’s feelings are muddy, but this girl is like a brick wall.
“Yeah, I know what your name is because you told Teresa less than a minute ago,” she says sharply. But while she sounds annoyed, I can’t feel it. “And, you know, if that’s your way of tricking people into telling you their names, you should come up with a new strategy. Because that one is dumb.”
“Don’t mind Kelsey,” Ramona says. “She’s kind of . . . a bitch. It seems like she can’t help it.”
Kelsey’s eyebrows bunch. “Just because I don’t feel like playing doomed Nancy Drew with you assholes doesn’t mean I’m a bitch.” She readjusts herself on the couch and lifts her book again. “They have two days to do their stupid tests and observe us or whatever. At least that’s what my parents agreed to. And that’s it. We’re all just going to have to hope that they don’t implant some shit in us or poison us while we’re here.”
“They said no one with Ebola was ever actually in here,” Teresa says, sitting on the floor now and gripping her knees as she peers around. I am glad the collective static is at least keeping me from reading her. I’d be glad to never again feel what’s going on inside of her. “Do we think that’s true? Maybe they want to infect us on purpose or something. Like Kelsey said.”
“I did not say infect,” Kelsey mumbles. “I said poison.”
“Stop it,” Ramona says, rocking on her heels again. This time it’s three tugs at the bracelet and then three more. A little OCD maybe, but what I feel coming from her is more complicated. It’s mixed with rage, the kind that could make you bully somebody. “Why the fuck would you even bring up Ebola, Teresa?”
“Besides,” Becca points to the security guards. “They’d at least be wearing masks or something.”
“Right, good point,” Ramona breathes. “See, Teresa. Now shut the hell up.”
“What does Ebola have to do with anything?” I ask, and I don’t like how it is ringing a bell with what Dr. Haddox said earlier.
“This part of the hospital.” Becca motions to the room. “Remember when people in the US were getting Ebola a couple years ago? They built it to quarantine Ebola patients. Dr. Haddox told us they never ended up using it because people stopped getting sick.”
“Oh,” I say, and all of that would make sense.
“You feel worse knowing that, don’t you?” Kelsey asks me. I look at her, but don’t answer—she’s right. I can’t say why that Ebola detail is so unsettling, something too real about it maybe. I did hear they built a hospital to be some kind of quarantine center a couple of years ago when Ebola was all over the news. I do remember being shocked about how they could just lock people up that way. And now here we are. Locked inside, just like they were. “Well, that’s why I don’t want to play detective. Because most of the time, the truth is even worse than whatever you’re afraid of.”
10
SOMEONE RIGHT BEHIND ME CLAPS LOUDLY THEN. IT’S BECCA, WHO’S MOVED TO the center of the room. She claps again, two more times, like she is calling a classroom of little kids to attention.
“Okay, two truths and a lie,” Becca says. “Let’s go. Everybody’s in, period. I need a goddamn distraction.”
There’s some unhappy grumbling. But mostly pe
ople seem glad for something to do. And my initial reaction is no. How can I play a game when I don’t know yet whether Jasper’s okay. But, at the moment, what I really need, too, is a distraction. It feels like my sanity might depend on it.
“What’s two truths and a lie?” Teresa asks, like she’s afraid playing it might involve getting in trouble.
No one answers her. Instead, everyone crowds around Becca, including me. Even Kelsey is standing now, though she doesn’t look like she’s making any promises about playing along.
“Jesus, back up and sit down,” Becca says as we push closer like starving mouths to feed. “Give me a little room to breathe. I usually play this game with way more drugs and way fewer people.”
Eventually, everyone sits in a large circle on the floor, legs crossed, shoulders hunched like much younger girls. Becca is the only one still standing in the center now, all of us waiting for her. And expecting much more than a simple game. Like we want her to lead us to real answers. Becca isn’t ready for all that pressure, though. Soon her face gets stiff and loses color.
Looking at Becca, I wonder how things might be different if she knew that she was an Outlier—assuming that I’m right and she is. If she knew that part of what she is feeling in that moment could be what we are all feeling. It’s been different for me since I found that out. Each one of us might still be broken in our own way, maybe even in ways that won’t be easy to fix. But understanding this one part of ourselves could make us see our whole as something more complicated than just wrong.
Maybe having one another—not being alone—would make a difference, too. And, no, I don’t know for sure yet that these other girls are Outliers, but even thinking that they might be, that I could be with people just like me, has made the ground feel steadier underfoot.
“I’ll do it,” Ramona says, stepping up and waving Becca away with warm, sisterly annoyance. Like freezing up is the kind of thing that happens to everyone all the time. “You sit.”
Becca shuffles away and takes Ramona’s spot at the edge of the circle, then hugs her long legs into her chest and presses her mouth against her knees. Becca is too far away for me to be able to read exactly what she’s feeling. But whatever it is: she looks like she hates herself for it.
The Scattering Page 8