The Outliers

by Kimberly McCreight

  “I have no idea what’s going on. I came here because that’s what her text said to do,” Jasper says, and now he sounds angry at me. “But who knows? Cassie has been acting weird lately.”

  “What does that mean: ‘weird’?”

  “Are you asking me the definition of the word ‘weird’?”

  I just glare at him. At least it’s obvious now. He doesn’t like me either.

  “Like distant or whatever,” he goes on. “I don’t know why.”

  “And what does she mean about the police: ‘you know what will happen’?”

  “I can’t tell you,” Jasper says.

  “So you can come here and pump me for information, but not give any away?”

  “It’s just—she was really embarrassed about some stuff that went down,” he says finally. “She wouldn’t want you, of all people, to know.”

  Fuck you, Jasper Salt, I want to shout. You don’t know anything about me. And you don’t know anything about the real Cassie, the awesome person she was before you helped destroy her. But I can’t tell him off yet, not when he knows things that I don’t. Things that might help find Cassie.

  “Trust me, I know lots of embarrassing things about Cassie,” I say. “We have been friends a really long time.”

  And there are definitely secrets I know that Jasper does not. Things that Cassie would have been way too embarrassed to tell him. For instance, maybe Cassie peed her bed again, but this time her mom caught it. She did that after one of her first “hangouts” with the Rainbow Coalition before she and Jasper started talking.

  She was really freaked out about it, especially because she’d also blacked out at the party. Didn’t even remember getting home. Blacking out had been one of her dad’s signature moves. Cassie was convinced he didn’t remember half the messed-up things he’d done. It was how Cassie managed not to hate him. Anything he didn’t remember didn’t get held against him. But even blacking out didn’t scare Cassie straight the way I’d hoped it would. Instead, the next time it happened, she decided it was funny.

  “I know you guys are close, but—” Jasper looks down at his hands, presses his fingertips together. “She specifically said she didn’t want you to know this one thing. She was worried you’d look down on her, I guess. And I have to respect that, right?”

  “You cannot be serious,” I laugh. Or sort of laugh.

  Jasper holds up his hands. “I’m not saying you would look down on her.” But I can tell from the way he says it that he totally does think that. “That’s just what Cassie was afraid of. She’s not always the best judge of people.” Him saying that to me makes me want to spit. “Anyway, I think the part that matters is that she’s done something her mom would be seriously, seriously pissed off about. And she was already talking about sending Cassie to some crazy boot camp boarding school.” He takes a deep breath. “Anyway, I guess Cassie having done something wrong is at least better than someone having kidnapped her or something.”

  “Kidnapped?” That had not even occurred to me. “What do you mean kidnapped?”

  My phone vibrates loudly on the coffee table before Jasper can explain whether he’s got some actual reason to consider kidnapping, or if he was just throwing that out there. Because now Cassie getting snatched off the street is all I can think about. As I reach for my phone, I feel like it might bite me.

  Please, Wylie, I need your help, the text reads. I messed up big. I need u to come get me. I sent Jasper so he can drive. But the person I really need is you. More soon.

  I take a shaky breath. At least she’s okay enough to text. That’s something. And “messed up big” does not sound like being kidnapped. And even after everything between us, I have to admit there is a tiny part of me that likes that Cassie feels like she needs me specifically.

  “What does it say?” Jasper asks, peering over my shoulder.

  “‘I need your help. I messed up big,’” I say, feeling this sadness sink over me. Like I’m finally realizing that Cassie might never be okay. “Can you drive? I don’t have my license.”

  Of course, there is one additional, teeny-tiny problem with this plan. A problem that I’m trying not to think about. Or really less of a problem, because that sounds like the kind of thing that can be worked around. This is more of a brick wall.

  There is no way I’m going to be able to get myself to leave the house. Haven’t stepped outside in three weeks. It started with not being able to get myself to school, then having a hard time running errands in the car. Then just taking a walk was pretty uncomfortable. Like Dr. Shepard had feared, the home tutor was the top of a very steep hill and I’ve already rolled fast to the bottom. I am a full-on agoraphobic. Only three weeks in the making, but I am here to report that three weeks is plenty long enough for something to feel like the way you always were. At some point during this Project Rescue Cassie discussion, I am going to have to give this problematic little tidbit some thought.

  “Come get her where?” Jasper asks. “What happened?”

  “She messed up, that’s all it said. Like the text you got.”

  “This is so fucked,” he says. “How do we even know that’s really her texting? It could be anybody. Maybe somebody stole her phone.”

  Of course, he’s right. And him being suspicious like that definitely goes down in his not-guilty column. But I’m not ready to let him off the hook completely. Not until I know what’s really going on. I turn back down to my phone.

  “What are you writing?” Jasper asks as my fingers fly over my phone’s touch screen.

  “A question,” I say. “To make sure it’s really Cassie.”

  Are you pulling a Janice? It’s the first inside joke that popped into my head. An oldie, but a goodie. It makes me miss Cassie just thinking about it.

  Jackie Wilson—not Janice Wilson—was a tiny sprite of a girl who came to Newton Regional High School at the beginning of freshman year. She only stayed three short months before her parents moved on again, but Cassie and I had both really liked her. We had specific conversations about Jackie turning our twosome into a threesome. That was, until we realized that Jackie lied about everything. Including stupid pointless things like the color of the socks she had on. It was hard not to feel bad for her. She must have really needed all those lies for something. Anyway, after she left, Cassie and I started using “Jackie” as shorthand for lying: pulling a Jackie. But I’d written the wrong name now—Janice—on purpose. Otherwise, even if it wasn’t Cassie, the person on the other end still would have had a 50 percent chance guessing right—yes or no. If it is really Cassie, she’ll mention me using the wrong name.

  It takes a little longer for the reply this time.

  U mean Jackie? No, not pulling a Jackie. Please, for now head north on 95. Then take Route 3 to 93 north. More details 2 come. Hurry, Wylie. Please, I need you.

  “It’s her.” And saying it makes me feel much, much worse. “Definitely.”

  “Okay,” Jasper says. “So what do we do?”

  I could call Karen, tell her that Cassie has gotten herself into some mess again. I could be the reason Cassie is sent someplace where she’s forced to march for fifty miles in the burning desert to teach her respect or whatever. Or I could be the friend that Cassie has asked me to be: someone she can trust.

  I look up from my phone and straight at Jasper. “We go.”

  Supplies. It’s what I think of next. We’ll need supplies. And yes, that is mostly my way of delaying the inevitable: the outside. But also, supplies couldn’t hurt.

  As I head upstairs toward my bedroom, Jasper follows. Uninvited again. Though I didn’t specifically ask him to wait downstairs, because it didn’t occur to me he’d come. But him hovering is the least of my problems. The outside is looming larger and larger with each passing second. With each step, my feet feel heavier on the stairs, my lungs stiffer.

  “What exactly are we doing?” Jasper asks as we continue up the stairs.

  I realize now that he probably followe
d because I started marching upstairs without an explanation.

  “I need to get some stuff. It might be cold,” I say. “You didn’t have to come.”

  That is true. It might be cold. North on 95 and north on 93. That’s what Cassie said. It’s cold still in Boston even though it’s May. Who knows how much colder it could get. Or how far north we may have to go.

  A change of clothes, warm things—socks, boots, sweaters. And that is partly me being paranoid. But it can’t hurt to be prepared. That’s one thing the Boy Scouts and my mom could agree on.

  Once she finally had some marching orders from Dr. Shepard—help build Wylie’s confidence—my mom was all over it. By then I was in seventh grade and I’d been seeing Dr. Shepard for nearly a year. And my mom was desperate to help, to do something.

  To her, building confidence meant one thing: adventure. My mom had learned all her outdoors skills from my grandfather, the original Wylie, when she was my age. Wylie the First—an actual, real-life explorer always in search of some relic in a far-off land—had to return home for good once my grandmother was hospitalized. After that, he’d take my mom to the woods often, teaching her to build a fire or navigate by the sun, and out there, surrounded by all that wild, they’d both try to forget my grandmother’s untamable mind.

  Those trips with my grandfather had always been fun for my mom. For me? Not so much. They were too terrifying to be considered fun. The second time I ever rock climbed I got stuck halfway up, convinced my mom would have to call the National Guard with a helicopter. But she didn’t. She didn’t rush to rescue me at all like I thought she would. Like I kept begging her to. Instead, she just kept telling me that I could do it. Again and again and again. You can do it. You can do it. Not a shout or a yell or a cheer. Just quiet and steady and sure. Like a promise. You. Can. Do It. Of course you can. And so I closed my eyes and pretended I believed that until eventually—two hours later—I made it to the top of that rock. And for someone bawling, I did feel pretty awesome. I wasn’t cured and I wasn’t exactly having fun, but that trip and others did give me hope. And I needed that more than anything.

  I also loved every minute alone with my mom. Couldn’t get enough of listening to her explain how best to pitch a tent in the rain or how to get a foothold on a steep sheet of rock. And I’ll never forget what she looked like out there in the woods in the glow of a rising sun. Like a goddess. Or a warrior. A warrior-goddess. In my memory, that’s who she’ll always be.

  When Jasper and I reach the top of the steps, the bathroom door flies open and Gideon bounds out on a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped around his waist. He ends up nose to nose with Jasper.

  “Who are you?” Gideon asks. He looks small suddenly compared to Jasper, who has only an inch of height on him, but many pounds of muscle.

  “Jasper.” He holds out a closed fist, but instead of bumping it with his own knuckles like a normal teenager, Gideon tries to shake it awkwardly and upside down as he struggles to keep up his towel.

  “Jasper is Cassie’s boyfriend.” I wave for Jasper to follow me down the upstairs hall.

  Gideon squints at Jasper. He’s jealous, of course. He thinks he should be Cassie’s boyfriend, though he would never, ever admit this.

  “Hey, wait!” Gideon calls after us. “Does that mean Dad found Cassie?”

  I flinch as I continue on down the hall, hoping Jasper won’t put two and two together and realize that I must have known that Cassie was missing when he got there. That I played dumb when I answered the door. But as soon as we’re in my room, I can tell by the look on Jasper’s face that he didn’t miss a thing. No one actually ever said he was stupid.

  “You pretended not to know Cassie was gone?” He doesn’t sound angry, only seriously confused.

  I shrug and look away. “I wasn’t sure what you knew.”

  His eyes open wide, then squint shut. He’s not confused anymore. He’s pissed. “Wait, do you think I had something to do with what happened to her?”

  “I didn’t say that.” But I’m also not going to say that I don’t think it’s possible. I’m not going to lie to make this less uncomfortable. I’m used to uncomfortable. It’s the only way I know how to be.

  “But then why would she text me to come get her?” he asks.

  “I didn’t say you did something to her.” Because there are other ways to be responsible. “And I can’t drive, you know. If she wanted me to come, she’d have to figure out a way for me to get there. Anyway, Cassie has gotten herself into stuff before, but nothing as bad as this. She has kind of fallen apart, you know, since you two started dating.”

  “And that’s my fault?” Jasper’s eyes are wide and bright.

  “I didn’t say that.” Though I do kind of mean it. I cross my arms. “Anyway, do you really want to do this? To waste time having some kind of situation between the two of us? You don’t like me and I don’t like you. But we both care about Cassie, right? What matters is getting her out of whatever mess she’s in.”

  “How can I not like you?” Jasper blinks at me. Like that was the only important part of what I just said, the part about him. “I don’t even know you.”

  I’m relieved when my phone vibrates in my hand again, saving me from saying something I shouldn’t. But it’s not Cassie. It’s my dad: Be home in ten minutes.

  Shit. The time for stalling is over. We have got to get going. And I have to get myself out the door.

  Any sign of Cassie at her house? I write back.

  Not yet. But I’m sure she’s fine. Don’t worry.

  Am I really going to do this? Not tell him or Karen that I’ve heard from her? I don’t want to keep it from them, but I don’t feel like I know enough to overrule Cassie. At least not yet. Besides, it’s not like we can’t change our minds. We’ll wait for more details. Once we know exactly what kind of mess Cassie’s in and how deep it goes, then we’ll decide who needs to know.

  “Listen, we have to go. My dad will be home soon.” I grab my small duffel bag and start tossing things inside: a change of clothes, sweatpants, one of my bandannas. The bandanna reminds me of my hacked hair that Jasper has still been doing a decent job of pretending not to notice.

  “Does your dad or brother maybe have a sweatshirt or something I could borrow? I ran out to come here when I got Cassie’s text.” Jasper looks down at his short sleeves. “If we stop back at my place, my brother will never let me leave again with his car.”

  “Sure, yeah,” I say, feeling a little guilty that I’d assumed he was showing off his bare arms on purpose. “I’ll see what I can find.”

  My mom’s Doc Marten boots are still sitting in the middle of my parents’ carpet. I stand in front of them for a minute, staring down. Finally, I push my feet in and jerk the laces tight—they’re a size too big, but not terrible. I also grab my mom’s favorite sweatshirt off the back of the door. It’s not an accident that it’s been hanging there for the last four months, right where she left it. But right now, I need it more than my dad does. Besides, he was the one who didn’t care about her shoes.

  The last thing I take is from my mom’s nightstand. Her Swiss army knife. A gift from my grandfather when she was sixteen, it has her initials on it. Good for everything, she always said. I turn it in my fingers, feeling its weight in my palm.

  When my hands start to tremble, I jam it deep in my front pocket.

  Back in my room, Jasper is walking around looking at my photographs. Black and white, they’re hanging from a string that runs around the edge of my room. It’s been so long since I’ve even noticed them, probably since the day of the accident. Once upon a time I lived with my fancy, birthday-gift digital camera in my hands, seeing more of the world through that lens than with my own eyes. My mom always said I had this way of capturing the real person hidden inside, the mark of a true photographer, she assured me. Now, I can’t imagine taking a picture of anyone ever again.

  “They’re kind of—” Jasper searches for a word, his eyes on a photo of an
old woman sitting on a park bench near Copley Square with a big plaid bag next to her. She’s staring straight up at the camera, not smiling, a pile of crushed saltines between her feet. “Depressing.”

  I hate how naked I feel. Because they are depressing. I’m depressing. But Jasper didn’t actually have to say that to me, either. I wonder if that was him being clueless or if he was trying to be rude. With him, it’s kind of hard to tell. But either way, I want him to stop looking at my pictures. I want him out of my room.

  “Come on.” I shove a long-sleeved shirt and a fleece of my dad’s at him. “We need to go.”

  Amazing how confident I sound. Like this outside thing is a real, legitimate possibility. Like it hasn’t been three weeks since I’ve stepped out the door. Sure. Right. No problem.

  Once we’re downstairs, I try to stay in the moment like Dr. Shepard has taught me. Not to get ahead of myself to where the dread lies. I feel the scratch of the fabric as I pull the heavy coats from the closet, the cool metal of the doorknob. Those things are real. Everything else is in my head. But the panic monster—Outside! Outside! Outside!—is still screaming. And my heart is beating so fast it feels like it’s going to explode.

  “Here, take this.” I shove my dad’s parka at Jasper.

  Already, he’s studying the side of my face as I turn toward the garage. Jasper has noticed there’s something wrong with me, of course he has. He’d have to be a total idiot not to. For all I know, Cassie’s told him all about my “issues” anyway. And they’ve gotten way worse than even she knows.

  I suck in a mouthful of air as I pull open the door to the garage. As I step out, the air is so thin and sharp. Like we just entered outer space. And that’s with the door to the outside still closed. I put one hand on a nearby shelf for balance and catch sight of my mom’s camping gear. The stuff I will never let anyone ever give away. I’ll take some of that gear too. I need to suddenly. I grab one of the compact tents, a plastic tarp, a sleeping bag, some flares, a compass, the water purifier. I stack half on the floor; the rest I clutch against me.