The Outliers

by Kimberly McCreight

  “See, Wylie,” my mom said afterward, winded and gasping with laughter. “There are all different kinds of brave.”

  Do I actually remember even that? Or is that just a story I made her repeat so many times that the words became like my own? These days everything important about my mom feels like a memory inside a memory about to collapse in on itself and disappear.

  “I don’t even remember Disneyland,” I say when I notice that Dr. Simons seems to be waiting for a reply.

  “Well, it was such a long time ago and you were so young.” But he seems a little disappointed. He takes a deep breath and shakes it off, then rests his hands down on the table. His fingers are puffy, like a row of swollen sausages. “I do want to be sure you know that you are safe here, Wylie, completely. I don’t want you to feel at all concerned about that.” Anxious, he means—don’t hyperventilate, don’t throw up, don’t pass out. “As I’ve said, our precautions have been extensive. Cassie will be safe here, too.”

  Cassie. Right, I forgot all about that. They brought her here on purpose. “What do you mean, Cassie will be safe?” He said there were three Outliers, didn’t he? He specifically explained where two of them came from: Dr. Caton’s bad instructions. That leaves the third one unexplained.

  “Who is the third?” I ask as my heart beats harder.

  That stupid test in my dad’s basement lab. The way my dad was so quick to tell us afterward that we’d all scored below average. How he got annoyed when Cassie pressed him for details, still hoping against hope that some glass slipper somewhere belongs to her.

  “Yes, Cassie is the other Outlier. But under the circumstances, we’ll need to be careful how we explain it to her, Wylie,” Dr. Simons says, and it’s clear this is a confession he’d been dreading. “I don’t want to frighten her. It was bad enough that we had to bring her here this way. It would have been much better for your dad to simply drive her himself, but there was evidence that his movements were being monitored, and then that Cassie’s cell phone has been compromised. But I am concerned about how Cassie will feel. It would be unexpected for anyone to learn this about themselves, but then to find out it puts you in jeopardy … It could be extremely upsetting.”

  “In jeopardy?” I ask, not much louder than a whisper. “I thought they wanted my dad.”

  “Yes, but if they can isolate an Outlier directly, that would be preferable.” Isolate. Like a disease. Or the weak animal in a herd. “Wylie, I can see that you are upset, and you have every right to be. This would be a great deal of information for anyone to take in,” Dr. Simons goes on, looking me straight in the eye. “But you are safe. Cassie is safe. And so is your dad. After what happened to your mom—I can assure you, no one is taking any risks.”

  After what happened to your mom. There’s a rush of heat to my cheeks. A jolt of cold down my spine. Bang, bang, bang goes my heart.

  “My mom?”

  Here. We. Go. All the alarms in my head sounding at once, so loud I want to cover my ears.

  “Wylie, sit back down,” Dr. Simons says. “Everything is going to be fine. But you need to stay calm.”

  When did I stand up? Because I did. When I look down, I am standing on the other side of the bench. And now Quentin and Cassie have appeared behind me. Cassie’s only a couple of steps away, arms crossed tight. It looks like she’s lost another five pounds. Like she’s vanishing. Soon she’ll be nothing but vapor, a memory. Just like my mom.

  “What happened to my mom?” My voice trembles. Or is that me trembling? My feet are still planted on the ground, but I have started to sway with the pounding of my own heart.

  “These people will be held accountable for what they did to her, Wylie,” Dr. Simons says. “Your dad is going to make sure of it.”

  What they did to her. What they did to her. What they did to her. It’s a piercing howl in my head. And already I am in motion, trying to outrun it.

  Air. I need air. And I need away from these people. Away from those words in my head. Words that no one actually said, but that I already know are true. My mom’s death was not an accident.

  A second later, I’m outside in the dark. Racing across the damp grass toward the trees.

  “Hey!” Stuart shouts from my left as I pass the cabin where we began. “Where the hell you think you’re going?!”

  Stuart. Stuart with his gun. But he won’t stop me, won’t shoot me. I know that now. Because I am my father’s daughter. And no matter how much I hate him right now, these people are his friends. They will protect me. They have to. Protect me from this mess he has created. What they did to her. What he did to her. That’s the truth. Because if what happened to my mom has to do with all of this—with his research—then her dying is actually my dad’s fault.

  My feet move so fast they barely touch the ground. So fast it feels like I could fly.

  “Hey!” Stuart calls once more, but his voice is just an echo on the wind.

  Even if no one stops me, where am I going? I can’t leave Cassie behind, can’t leave Jasper. Nowhere is safe anyway. No place without lies. Not an accident. Not an accident.

  But as I finally enter the woods, I can’t think anymore about that. I don’t want to think about anything except the running away, which is the only thing that feels good and right. Not an accident. I think it over and over as my feet pound across the damp leaves, crack across the fallen twigs. But I can still hear my dad’s voice: Tragic things sometimes happen to beautiful people. He actually said that once, sitting on the edge of my bed a couple of weeks after my mom died. Like there was nothing, no one to blame for my mom’s death. Except there was: him and his work.

  As I race deeper into the woods, my feet slip and catch, on roots and branches and rocks. Like they did back when Jasper and I were running from Doug. But somehow this feels even worse than that, more hopeless. Because wherever I go, the truth will eventually catch me.

  But still I keep on, trying to outrun the thoughts of my mom’s car spinning on that dark patch of ice. Was there even ice? Or was she pushed into that guardrail by another car? Did she see it coming? Was she scared?

  I want to fly through the air the way she did. I want to fall and hit my head. Knock the memories away. Knock me into nothing. So that I don’t have to keep replaying every second of it, knowing that she could have been saved.

  “That’s ridiculous,” my mom said. She was halfway up the stairs from my dad’s basement lab that last night. “Sticking your head in the sand is not an option this time, Ben.”

  It was nine p.m. by then, but only an hour after they had last stopped fighting. After dinner, they had retreated briefly to their separate corners. But now they were back at it. A much faster rebound than usual. Like whatever had been bubbling beneath the surface for weeks was finally hitting a fever pitch.

  Gideon and I were together in the kitchen, but like always he wasn’t listening to their fight. While there I stood breathless, gripping one of my mom’s chocolate chip cookies in one hand—the kind she always made first thing when she got home from a work trip—the milk container in the other hand. I was holding my breath, afraid that this time my mom and dad might break so badly that there would be no putting them back together again. There was silence, and then my dad must have said something to my mom. He was too far downstairs for me to hear.

  “‘All due caution’?” my mom called down the steps. “Are you even listening to yourself, Ben? Do you hear what you sound like? You’re not a scientist, you’re a robot.” Another long beat of silence. “No, this isn’t that simple, not anymore. And I don’t care if it is your study and you’re the one with all the information. What I think still matters.”

  When I heard my mom stomping up the last of the steps, I tipped the milk carton over my glass, trying to look busy. A small puddle of milk splashed into the bottom of my cup, the carton otherwise empty.

  “Oh man, that sucks,” Gideon said, appearing next to me at the counter with a full glass of milk in one hand, a cookie in the oth
er. “Looks like someone needs to go buy some more milk.”

  “I’ll go,” my mom said, breezing through the kitchen with a totally fake smile. She was furious at my dad now. I could see it in her eyes.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t even want milk.”

  “I don’t mind,” my mom said, putting a hand on my arm and smiling. But up close, I could see this sadness buried in her eyes. “I could use a little fresh air. And a couple minutes to myself.”

  An hour later, she’d be alone forever.

  “Wylie!” I’m still running, but there’s a voice behind me now. Not far behind, either. Letting my mind drift slowed me down. Let someone close the gap.

  I try to run harder, faster. But as soon as I pick up speed, my foot catches something—a root, a twig. It stops. And the rest of my body tumbles on, airborne. A second later, there’s a sharp pain in my palms, and my left knee is on fire.

  “Wylie! Are you okay?”

  I grab for my knee, bending myself over the pain. Goddamn it. So stupid. Now I’m stopped. Still alive. Still awake. Still here. Now I will never catch the answers I was running after. I’ll never catch her.

  “Are you okay?” It’s Quentin. He’s crouching down next to me.

  “I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth. Luckily, there’s no blood, only scratches and a lot of dirt. And my shame. How can I have a father who would lie to me this much? “I just needed some air.”

  “And a good sprint,” he says quietly, as he crouches next to me. But not like he wants or needs an explanation. “Are you hurt?”

  My hands are still stinging and my knee is throbbing, but there is still no blood.

  “I’m fine,” I say again, feeling sore and embarrassed.

  “I was yelling your name,” Quentin says, still crouched on the ground. He looks confused. “It’s really not safe to be out here in the woods. We send people out to check once every few hours to see if anybody—but it’s not like we’re experts in walling a perimeter.” He looks around, deeper into the woods. “These people, they are trained.”

  “Yeah, I know. Believe me,” I say. “And you didn’t have to run after me.”

  As nice as Quentin seems, I didn’t ask him to rescue me. Part of me even wishes that North Point would just shoot me. Because I might have halfway survived my mom dying in a car accident, but I will not survive if my dad could have prevented it.

  “I’m sorry.” Quentin looks around, then up at me before finally standing. “About your mom, about all of this. Seems like you’re kind of caught in the middle, and that sucks.”

  “Sucks. That’s one word for it,” I say, and probably too snidely. None of this is Quentin’s fault. But I can’t do this right now, pretend that he’s making me feel better.

  “I guess sucks would be an understatement.” He shakes his head. “Listen, my dad died when I ten, and it pretty much killed everything. Or I wished it had. Even now, it’s like the color of the world is off.” He flicks his eyes toward me, then back down into the leaves. But I know exactly what he means: the world forever shifted off its axis. “Anyway, I’m not saying I know how you feel, because I hate when people do that. But maybe I get it more than most.”

  There is a loud crack then, some distance off in the woods.

  “What was that?” I ask, my heart thumping. Because one thing has jumped to mind: a gunshot.

  “Um, I don’t know. Hunters, maybe?” But Quentin sounds nervous. “We should probably get out of here just in case.” Another crack in the distance, louder this time. “Come on.”

  Quentin reaches down and helps me to my feet. As I follow him through the trees back toward the main cabin, I brace for another pop, but there is only the crunching of leaves beneath our feet.

  “That wasn’t North Point, though,” Quentin says as we finally emerge from the trees.

  “How do you know?”

  “They don’t miss,” he says, half smiling. “Also, I should thank you, because this little excursion has taught me something important about myself.”

  “What’s that?”

  He turns to look at me. “I do not thrive on danger.”

  “What happened to your dad?” I ask once we’re crossing the open grass toward the cabin.

  Because I already know that not all orphans are created equal—an illness, a history of drug use, years of estrangement beforehand. Suffering can be a bomb or a slow burn. Or, in my case, a nuclear winter.

  It’s not that one is necessarily harder than another. Actually, that’s a lie. That’s me being polite. I do think what happened to me—out of the blue, no chance for good-bye, no chance to prepare—is worse. And now it looks like I’ll have the pleasure of my mom dying twice: first the lie and then the truth.

  “He was in this deli around the corner from our walk-up in Dorchester,” Quentin says. “Some guy came in to rob the place, started beating up the old man who worked there. My dad stepped in and got shot in the neck.” Quentin shakes his head and looks down. “Want to know the worst part?”

  “Yes,” I say, probably sounding too glad that there is an even worse part.

  “He went there to buy orange juice for me.”

  The hairs on my arms stand on end. “What did you just say?”

  He looks up from the leaves. “He was buying orange juice for me?”

  “My mom died on her way to buy milk for me.”

  “Seriously?” He looks like he doesn’t believe me.

  “You didn’t know that?” I ask, feeling a little suspicious. “Dr. Simons didn’t tell you?”

  “No,” he says, and like now he thinks I’m the one making up the bit about the milk. “And he doesn’t know about the juice anyway. It’s not something I ever talk about.”

  We’re both quiet then, as we walk on, trying to process the coincidence that’s equal parts creepy and comforting.

  “I’m sorry about your dad,” I say when we finally reach the steps of the main cabin. “Even though me being sorry doesn’t really help. I know that firsthand.”

  “Usually you’d be right.” Quentin looks at me like this is new for him too. “But this time it actually kind of does.”

  The main cabin is buzzing with activity when we step inside, even though it’s past four a.m. Watching them, suddenly all I feel is tired, like my running burned off the coating of panic that was covering up my total exhaustion.

  But the people in that cabin seem like sleep is the last thing on their minds, more proof maybe of just how serious this situation is. They are men and women ranging from their twenties to sixties, clustered in small groups—pairs mostly—talking, hovering over papers. There’s a tall, thin guy in a maroon Harvard hoodie next to a pretty woman with a smooth bob and a fuzzy purple beret. Farther back, against the wall, are two other women my mom’s age, in matching black running pants and fleeces, and a graying man and woman. And then there’s Miriam at the back, organizing the coffee station. Ten people in all, including Quentin and Stuart. Dr. Simons, thankfully, is nowhere in sight. I’m not ready to talk to him again, especially not if he’s going to bring up my mom.

  “Have you guys been planning this for a long time?” I ask. If so, my dad is even better at hiding things than I ever thought.

  “Dr. Simons called me two days ago and asked if I could spare a few days. I don’t know about everyone else.” Quentin points to the man in the Harvard sweatshirt and the girl in the purple beret. “I think Adam is the one who grew up here and knew Officer Kendall. Adam is getting his PhD in cognitive neuroscience at Harvard. His girlfriend there in the purple hat is named Fiona. I’m pretty sure they came up at least a week ago.”

  “And who are they?” I point to the two women in fleeces.

  “Beatrice and Gladys are on the faculty at Smith and Williams, respectively. I think Beatrice might be an old girlfriend of Dr. Simons, actually.” Finally, Quentin points to the slightly older man and woman. “And they are”—he hesitates like he’s trying to remember—“Robert and Hillar
y. He is a psychology professor at”—he pauses again and narrows his eyes—“Boston University, I think, and I’m not sure about her. It’s a lot to keep track of.”

  “What are they all doing?” Everyone seems hard at work—taking notes, studying diagrams. Adam and Fiona have a laptop open in front of them, and so do Robert and Hillary.

  “Drafting a research protocol for the next phase of your dad’s study, I think,” he says. “I know that’s part of it. If your dad can figure out the significance of the Outliers and make it public, companies like North Point will be out of luck.”

  “So all of you were just willing to come up here and hang out with mostly a bunch of strangers and maybe risk your lives?” I ask, and not in the nicest way. I don’t know why I am annoyed by them suddenly. But they feel like enablers. Without them, my dad might have had to tell the truth.

  “I had questions, don’t get me wrong,” Quentin says, and now he sounds defensive. “But the way Dr. Simons laid out the whole thing for me, it seemed really important to protect your dad and his research. Especially from people who profit from war.”

  “So you’re here because you’re antiwar?” Now I officially sound like an asshole. And maybe I am. I’ve never had enough space in my crowded head for a cause.

  He crosses his arms. “And you’re pro-war?”

  “No”—I shake my head—“of course not.” I really do sound like an asshole. “It’s just a lot to risk for an idea.”

  Quentin shrugs. “Something has to matter,” he says. “Or nothing will.”

  I resist the urge to shudder. “My dad says that all the time.” Everything is starting to feel like déjà vu.

  “Really?” Quentin asks, then smiles. “Bet right now sounding like your dad isn’t making you like me more.”

  “Are you okay?”

  When I turn toward the voice, there’s Cassie. And for a second, I feel relieved. But then I see that the color is washed from her face again, the way it was back when we first saw her in the cabin. An Outlier. It’s possible, I guess. I would never have described Cassie as especially good at reading people, but maybe it would explain why she was such a mess, so much of the time.