The Scattering

by Kimberly McCreight

  Jasper. He is the only other person who was there with Kendall. Who knows him like I do. I need Jasper there to tell me I’m not imagining things. That this man really is Kendall.

  “Thank you, Dr. Haddox,” Kendall says, stepping forward. “And thanks to all of you for your patience and understanding. This is quite an unusual situation, and it’s taken us a moment to get our bearings.”

  He sounds like he has spoken to hundreds of patients, hundreds of times before. Comforted them and reassured them, dispensed complex medical information and delivered damning diagnoses. Who is this man? For all I know, he is an actual doctor. Maybe he was lying before up in Seneca.

  “Please,” Teresa says. Her voice is high and shrieky. But I am still close enough to feel that excitement underneath. Like she’s waiting for the real show to begin. “What’s going on?”

  “First of all, I want you to know that you will all be fine,” Kendall says.

  “Yeah, not buying it,” Ramona says, resting a hand on her hip and pursing her lips. “What are you going to say? That we’re all going to die?”

  “That is a totally reasonable question,” Kendall says. The picture of calm. And then he looks from Ramona to the other girls as I tuck myself farther out of sight. I want so badly to be able to read him, to have some feel for whether he’s telling the truth. But I am too far away and there are too many other people. “All I can do is give you the information we have and hope that we can earn your trust. You all are truly going to be completely fine. The NIH is merely concerned about how you would have contracted this particular strain of highly unusual strep, not the severity of your illness.”

  “‘Highly unusual’ how?” Ramona asks.

  “Unusual in its high percentage of conversion to PANDAS and in its transmission. It seems the strep you contracted must have been either food or water borne. Strep can be contracted that way, but it is not typical.”

  Becca’s face puckers, then she points at Dr. Haddox. “He told me that we probably got it because people are gross and don’t wash their hands.”

  “That would certainly be one possibility,” Kendall says.

  “And what are the others?” Kelsey asks, shifting forward a bit so that I have to be careful to stay behind her.

  “Our working theory is that the strep was introduced at one or perhaps several local food establishments you all frequented—a frozen yogurt shop in Barkwell Shopping Center is one possibility—in an intentional act of bioterrorism. After getting the initial heads-up from some online chatter, it was the credit card receipts from your parents, combined with the fact that you have all been out of school, that led us to you.”

  I know the yogurt place, and I have been there. But then, most teenagers in a thirty-mile radius have probably been there—it constantly has a line out the door. And from the way everyone is muttering and looking at one another, we were all on that line at one time or another.

  “Terrorism?” Teresa yelps, which is weird after the delay. She even clamps a hand dramatically over her mouth. Excited. I still feel it though. Why do I keep feeling that? It does not make sense.

  “Bullshit,” Ramona says skeptically. “If these are ‘symptoms,’ why have I always been this way? Also, why would a terrorist make a weapon that doesn’t actually kill anybody? That would be so stupid.”

  “First of all, PANDAS can exacerbate preexisting conditions,” Kendall goes on, so polished and smooth. Even Dr. Haddox seems unnerved by his ease. “Secondly, we have credible and specific intelligence that suggests this was merely a test run. Their intent could be to try again with a more effective agent or simply to unnerve the community by demonstrating their capacity to introduce an infection.”

  Kendall is so persuasive, even to me, and I know better. Is it possible that any of this is true? That we are sick because someone made us sick on purpose? I feel someone staring at me then. When I glance over, it’s Kelsey. This is bullshit, that’s what she’s feeling. Total bullshit. And maybe I can’t read those exact words. But I don’t have to. Her emotions are completely clear.

  Kelsey turns back to Kendall and raises her hand. “Excuse me, but if we’re not contagious and we’re not going to die, then we can go home, right?”

  “I want to go home!” Becca cries out suddenly. That same switch has flipped as before when she had to leave the game. “I have to go. I can’t be in here. I feel claustrophobic.”

  “Listen, this is a lot of information to take in at once,” Dr. Haddox says, stepping forward and raising his hands. He feels responsible for all our bad feelings. “You will all be fine. It’s important to remain calm.”

  “But if this is an act of terrorism, we need to gather as much information as we possibly can from you,” Kendall says. “So we can find the people responsible.”

  Now, that is definitely a lie. I had second-guessed myself, but this whole thing fits way too perfectly with Dr. Cornelia’s career in need of a rebuild. And I am the only person in this room who knows Kendall is lying about who he says he is. I have to say something. My instincts are shouting that loud and clear.

  “Did you tell everybody’s parents about Dr. Cornelia and his book?” I ask. But I know too quietly. I am going to have to speak up. I am going to have to raise my voice.

  “Sorry, did someone say something back there?” Dr. Haddox asks. “We couldn’t hear you.”

  I take a deep breath and square my shoulders as I step forward.

  “Did you tell the parents that the doctor in charge here has a book he is trying to sell about this exact scenario? Pretty big coincidence, right?” And my voice is loud and strong, vibrating in my chest. I keep my eyes on Dr. Haddox. I am not ready to face Kendall. “Also you can’t keep people locked up against their will because that’s better for your investigation.”

  I know that much thanks to Rachel, who made it clear that I never had to talk to anyone about what happened up at the camp in Maine if I didn’t want to—not that Agent Klute and his friends had ever returned. Unless they have. Maybe this is them in one way or another.

  “No, I suppose we can’t,” Kendall says, eyes locked on mine. I am still too far away to read him, but I can see from the look on his face that he knew I was here the entire time. That he is here for me. “This situation has many moving parts, however. Many things are not what they seem. It can be difficult to follow, but you should try.”

  It’s a message directed right at me. Difficult to follow, but you should try. But it’s not a threat. I feel like he is trying to help me.

  “Wylie’s right,” Ramona says, stepping over to stand next to me. She flicks her bracelet once, but in a way now that’s almost imperceptible. “It’s a free country. You can’t pretend you’re helping us so that you can make us help you.”

  “Yeah, you can’t keep us here,” Becca says.

  “Yeah,” Kelsey says, next to me now, too. Committed to commotion, I get the sense, more than cause. “Let us go.”

  And I don’t know who starts it, but soon everyone is chanting: “Let us go!” Everyone but me. I stand silently. My eyes are locked on Kendall in the swell of a revolt of my making. “Let us go! Let us go! Let us go!”

  Kendall’s face is calm and still, as if this is exactly what he planned. Like he is already focused on the next steps.

  “Okay, everyone calm down,” Dr. Haddox calls.

  The security guards seem annoyed by the noise but not actually concerned. “Quiet!” the Wolf shouts.

  Kendall glances away then, distracted by something. He digs around before pulling his phone out of his pocket.

  “I apologize,” he says, looking first at Dr. Haddox and then right at me. “I have to step out and take this.”

  It’s a sign: It can be difficult to follow, but you should try. Officer Kendall has already turned elegantly for the windowed doors, toward the Wolf and his partner in front of them. The doors to the outside. In a moment he will be gone. I need to go after him. I need at least to try. That is my instinct right
now. And I need trust it, just like my dad said.

  I walk quickly but calmly—at least that’s what I try for—toward the water fountain. It’s in the general direction of where Kendall is headed, the water fountain, but a good enough excuse that no one will wonder where I’m going. I get there just as Kendall reaches the guards.

  There will be the buzz and then the doors will open. Not for long. I’ll have to bolt between the guards and hope they are too surprised to grab me.

  It takes longer than I expect, though, for the guards to get the doors open for Kendall. Their key cards don’t work until the third try. Waiting, my lips get icy in the flow from the fountain. Finally, I hear the buzz. And then the doors are open, and Kendall goes through.

  It is my moment. Go. Go. Go.

  I lunge after Kendall into the brightness of the hall. I brace for some kind of pain: a baton cracked against my knee, my face smashed against a wall. A hand on the back of my neck, pulling at my hair.

  But there is this moment, this sudden gap in time. Then somehow I am through the doors. I am in that hall. And there is Kendall, already some distance ahead.

  There’s a loud shout behind me. One of the guards finally. “Wha—Hey!”

  But the door clicks shut before they can grab it.

  “What are you doing here?” I shout after Kendall as I start down the hall. “What is this?”

  He does not speed up, but he doesn’t slow down either. Instead, he just walks on in his nicely tailored suit and his hard leather shoes—pound, pound, pound. And, yet, somehow he is still so far away.

  “Hey!” I shout again, and I sound so angry. Because I am. I am filled with rage. Kendall might not have killed Cassie, but he played a part in her death. “Who are you?”

  But still Kendall ignores me. He will not do that. I will not let him, not this time.

  The door finally opens behind me. I can hear fast footsteps behind me as I start to run.

  I need to reach him before they reach me. I can feel my heartbeat in my ears as I sprint until I’m finally close enough to lunge for him. Fingers outstretched. And I want to do more than stop him. I want to scratch him, to tear into his skin. But instead I am suddenly too close. My face bangs against his shoulder and then we are somehow falling forward. On purpose, that’s what I think. We are falling not because I knocked Kendall over, but because he wants it that way.

  When my knee hits the floor, the pain is a jolt of electricity. Kendall somehow lifts me effortlessly off him as he spins around then holds me hard by the forearms and jerks my head close.

  “Get out now,” he whispers in my ear as he shoves something into my hand.

  A piece of paper, cardboard, something folded and sharp and square. And then I feel how Kendall feels: desperate and regretful. Sorry. This is his way of making amends.

  I manage to tuck the paper into the band of my underwear just as the guards pull me away from Kendall. He gets to his feet calmly and smooths out his clothes.

  “Let go!” I shout, kicking at them, which only makes them tighten their grip. There is no point in fighting, but I can’t stop myself. “You’re hurting me!”

  When the Wolf appears over me he is all squinted eyes and gritted teeth.

  “Wylie!” It’s Dr. Haddox, his face suddenly there, too. He has a needle in his hand. “We need for you to calm down.”

  And I feel his regret then. Different from Kendall’s, which is about the past. Haddox’s is about now. About this. It’s not what he signed up for. Not at all what he wanted to do.

  12

  I OPEN MY EYES TO DARKNESS. WHEN I TRY TO MOVE, MY FACE ACHES. KENDALL’S shoulder, the officers wrestling me to the ground—there are many possible explanations. The drugs have blotted them out.

  Get out now. That’s what Kendall said, and he’d meant it. He was worried for me, too. He’s lied about so much. But in that one moment in the hall, he was telling the truth. I have no doubt about that.

  When I lift my arms, I brace for them to be strapped down once more. But they are not.

  I get out of bed slowly in the dark, a hand on the wall as I feel my way toward the light switch by the door. The fluorescent bulb overhead flickers before it finally catches. I’m in a small room with a bed like the one I first woke up in, but I don’t think it’s the same one. This one smells like fresh paint. It makes me woozy all over again.

  When I turn back toward the bed, something sharp pokes into the skin above my hip bone. It isn’t until I’ve dug it out of the waistband of my underwear that I remember Kendall’s note. I can’t believe it’s still tucked in there.

  My hands shake as I unfold it. I don’t know what I expect. Some terrible explanation? Some new detail that makes everything worse. But there is only an address and some instructions: 323 Gullbright Lane, press buzzer in this order: 1.5.3.4.2. Ask for Joseph Conrad.

  I don’t know what is more insane, the fact that Kendall thinks I might go where his note says, or the fact that I am actually considering it. But my gut is telling me I should. Trust my instincts. That’s all I can do.

  I’m feeling even more unsteady as I make my way back toward the bed and spot Kelsey’s copy of 1984 on my bureau. I put it down in the common room before I went after Kendall. Kelsey came back and left it for me while I was sleeping? That’s awfully insistent. I pick the book up as I make my way to the bed.

  I need to call my dad again. Need to talk to Jasper. For either I’ll need Dr. Haddox’s permission, otherwise the Wolf will surely stop me again. But will Dr. Haddox be on my side anymore? I’ve tried to run for a second time. I’ve made him feel bad for having to drug me again. People can hold their guilt against you.

  Still, I have no choice but to try. I’ll just need to march out to the common room and demand to see Dr. Haddox. And I will right after I’ve worked myself up for another fight. I take a deep breath, exhaling as I flip absentmindedly through the pages of Kelsey’s book.

  And then my heart catches.

  There’s handwriting. Notes all over the pages of Kelsey’s copy of 1984. The word BLOCKING, and under that, a list in all caps and dark print, deep grooves left by a ballpoint pen. BELIEVE THE LIE is number one.

  My hands tremble as I turn the pages—two parts scared, one part relieved. I’ve already glimpsed enough to know that what’s written in the pages completes a loop. It explains why Kelsey was so hard to read and the way she was looking at me. Like we shared a secret.

  I flip randomly through the pages, trying to figure out where to start. I settle on page 83. In the margin, there’s a date: June 12, and a one-line entry as if from a diary:

  I knew you were going to start crying before you actually did.

  It’s signed K. Kelsey doing the writing, probably. I don’t know for sure who the you is yet. The next entry is from June 21.

  I knew Mommy and Daddy were going to have a fight before Daddy got home. I knew that Daddy would tell a lie during the fight about his job. But that Mommy would believe him.

  This one is signed G. Kelsey’s sister maybe, I’m guessing from the way she refers to her parents—as if they share them. Another minute of flipping through the book and it’s obvious that they used it as a journal traded between the two of them. And G is apparently Gabrielle. There is one place where it is fully spelled out. Looking at the dates, it seems like the entries start on the front inside cover, then jump to the back inside cover, then over the title and end pages before eventually starting again randomly at page fifty-six and running almost to the end of the book up and down the margins.

  Why are we using a book? G asks at one point. We could get a blank notebook. WITH MORE SPACE.

  The next day, the answer: Because they’ll come looking for it eventually. K

  Kelsey and Gabrielle keep pretty detailed notes: when they seem to know things before they happen; when they are right about somebody’s feelings; when they suspect someone is lying; when they finally have proof. They treat it all like a game. Each time they are proven right, t
hey record it in all caps and with a star. DOUBLE POINTS!

  I wonder how Gabrielle has been lucky enough to avoid being locked in here. I flip back to the beginning to see how it started. How they first figured out reading people was an actual thing they could do. Because Quentin told me, and then my dad confirmed it, and even then it took weeks for it to feel real. And Gabrielle and Kelsey didn’t have anyone telling them anything, much less their scientist dad.

  I told you today. And the weirdest part was how you said “me too” right away like you’d been waiting. K

  And so it had started small with trust and a secret confession from Kelsey, and from there they tried reading people together, seeing if they were right. They had practiced on each other, too. They learned most of the things that I had about crowds making it harder and eye contact making it easier. The only difference was that they’d had each other to share it with. It makes my chest ache imagining Gideon and me, or better yet Cassie and me, or some sister that doesn’t exist, going through this whole thing together. Having each other.

  It’s the first that time I realize me not wanting to be an Outlier comes down to that one sad fact. I don’t want to feel more alone. I don’t want to claim this new part of me if it means putting more distance between me and the rest of the world. Not when we are already so far apart. But maybe if there were Kelseys and Gabrielles, maybe if being an Outlier meant becoming part of something, I’d feel differently. Maybe being an Outlier could mean finally finding a place where I belong.

  Pretty soon, I start to skim. There is way too much to read, and I am too impatient. But I do pause on this list:

  1. Get better with concentration and practice

  2. Blocking; pretend it’s the truth

  3. Hard in crowds; eye contact helps

  4. More than just reading feelings? Someday, the Future??? ☺

  Blocking. That must have been what Kelsey was doing when I couldn’t read what she was feeling, when she was like a brick wall. It takes a couple of minutes of looking to find the spot where Kelsey and Gabrielle go into more detail on the whole idea of “blocking”—controlling their own feelings so that others won’t be able to read them. In theory it sounds simple, but without another Outlier to test me, how will I ever know that I’m doing it right?