“Okay, two truths and a lie,” Ramona says, like she’s flipping through her mental Rolodex in search of the rules.
Teresa raises her hand. “This isn’t going to have anything to do with, um, s-e-x or something, because—and I know this is going to sound weird and stupid . . .” She stares down into her lap. “I can’t talk about that stuff. I know that my grandma isn’t here to actually hear me, but it would take six minutes off her life.”
And the way Teresa says it is like it’s an established thing—this six-minute rule and her grandmother’s life. Like she’s already cost the old woman hours.
“It doesn’t have to be about sex,” Ramona says, but Teresa is still frowning. And, in fairness, we all know that everything with people our age eventually becomes sort of about sex.
“No sex then,” Kelsey says, like we are dumb for not coming up with this obvious solution. “No truths or lies about sex. Period,” she says. “No one should have to be any more uncomfortable than we already are.”
And there, in Kelsey’s unexpected compassion, is the potential. For all of us. If we stick together.
“Fine, whatever,” Ramona says, annoyed. Like she was specifically looking forward to talking about sex. And, meanwhile, I am stupidly surprised that not mentioning sex will be so hard for everyone else. Because it will be so completely easy for me. “Now, can I explain how to play?”
“Yes, please,” Teresa says, beaming.
Teresa isn’t the kind of girl who would ever have been part of a group even if she had gone to school with other kids. So being in here with this group is probably her first chance. The truth is it’s my first chance in a long time to be a part of a group again. Maia and those girls are like another life.
“All right, we’ll start with . . .” Ramona looks around, points to red-haired Trident Gum Elise. “You. You say two things about yourself that are true and one thing that is a lie.”
“And tell the person next to you which is the lie,” Kelsey says, shrugging when Ramona looks at her. “Keep people honest.”
“Yeah, okay, fine.” Ramona looks back at Teresa, then rolls her eyes. “And not about sex or anything actually fun apparently. The girl directly opposite you then guesses which two things are true and which is a lie. We’ll keep score; whoever wins the most can have—I don’t know—there’s a hundred bucks in my wallet if and when they ever give us our shit back.”
Elise looks around the circle nervously, then seems to decide that she will not cave to the pressure of so many eyes. Instead, she pulls her spine tall. She leans over as told and whispers to Teresa, who is next to her, before turning back to the group.
“I once rode a bull. I am allergic to peppermint and I love Brussels sprouts.” She rattles all three off in a single rush.
“Okay, you.” Ramona points at another girl on the opposite side of the circle, one with disturbingly doll-like eyes who I haven’t heard speak. “Which one is the lie?”
“The peppermint,” the other girl answers, sounding much more confident than her stunned eyes would suggest. “She’s not allergic to peppermint.”
Elise lets out a surprisingly exasperated huff. Annoyed that she was found out so easily. “Whatever.”
And so we go like that around the circle for maybe fifteen minutes. The game moves fast. We have people whose favorite color is not green, who hate pizza, and who were once an expert at the balance beam. Somebody else has a phobia of peanut butter, a love of spiders, and hates her dad. Somebody has a girlfriend named Sid. Each time the lie is detected quickly and easily. Eventually, without any discussion, the lies and the truths start to get more elaborate and specific: it was snowing when I was born; my house number is 714. I once had a teacher named Rose. But the results don’t change—because each and every one of us can pick out the lie all the same.
Because we are all Outliers. Every last one of us. And I might have suspected as much before, but now I am sure.
But from where? After what happened with Quentin, my dad has guarded the names of any additional Outliers he found in his exploratory tests. Tests he financed himself with a small loan from his parents. Tests for which there was no public record. No data trail. The only place he recorded them was on an actual piece of paper in his office. Maybe these are the Outliers the military found through their own “secret” research that my dad brought up and then tried to blow off.
I stare over at Becca to see if she suggested this game on purpose, to root out everyone’s HEP, but from the flat look on her face, I don’t think so. And when I look around no one else seems to notice how weirdly good we are at sorting the truths from the lies, or what that might mean.
That is, until I meet eyes with Kelsey and I feel a sharp jolt of recognition. Like Kelsey knows exactly what is up. But almost as quickly she looks away and I feel nothing.
Did that even happen? Did I imagine it?
Everyone should know they are Outliers. Shouldn’t they? Unless knowing it somehow puts them at greater risk? After what happened to Cassie, it’s hard to know whether it’s safer to know nothing. Or everything. It depends on what this is. I need to talk to my dad. I need to call him again.
Trying not to draw too much attention to myself, I scoot back out of the circle, push myself quietly to my feet, and head over to the guards. Even with my eyes down, I can feel them watching me approach and wishing that I would not.
“I need to make a phone call,” I say. And still the guards do not look my way. “Dr. Haddox said I could try my dad again. Where is a phone?”
Finally, they look at each other, trying to decide how to respond. The one who was flirting with Becca glances in my direction. “There’s one on the wall over there,” he says, and not very pleasantly. Our eyes meet only for a minute, but I get an awful, icy feeling. Like he is dead inside. If necessary, he will later deny that he ever said it was okay for me to use the phone.
The whole time I’m walking over to where he pointed, I wait for something to stop me. For someone to keep me from making my call. Or for the line to be dead when I pick up the phone. But a second later, my dad’s phone is ringing again. My heart leaps when he actually answers.
“Hi, Wylie,” he says, matter-of-fact, but a little out of breath. “Just making my way through the terminal. Going to try to find this driver they sent for me. I don’t usually care about this kind of thing, but having my name on one of those little—”
“Dad! Did you get my message?”
“What message?” he asks, still with the breathing hard. “Wait, hold on.” A pause. “There’s no alert yet, sorry. The phone was in airplane mode. Is everything okay?”
I can feel the guards’ eyes on me. I need to choose my words carefully. They are looking for any excuse to step in.
“I’m in a hospital.”
“What happened?” he asks, panicked already. “Are you okay?”
“I’m not hurt,” I say. “But you know Dr. Cornelia from Cornell—he’s got a bunch of us here. They are saying we have something called PANDAS.”
“What?” He’s angry now. Frightened and angry. “Have you where?”
“Boston General Hospital?” The dead-eyed security guard is crossing the room toward me. The fact that I am giving out my location maybe, or how upset I sound—something has made him second-guess his decision.
“Okay,” my dad says, still wound up, but trying hard to pull it together. “And you’re sure you’re not hurt?” I consider telling him about the ambulance, the bridge. But it can wait until he’s here. He’s already worried enough.
“No,” I say. “But I don’t know what’s going on and we’re not allowed to leave. It seems like that Ebola thing.”
The guard is behind me now. His deadness is creeping up my spine. “Wrap it up. You can ask the doctor to use the phone again when he’s back.”
“I’m so sorry that I’m not there, Wylie,” my dad says. “If I had known, I never would have—and I should have known.”
“Hang up the ph
one,” the guard says. The hairs on my arms lift. It’s like I can feel his hands on my neck. “Now.”
“Dad, what should I do?”
And I mean so many things. Do I cooperate? Do I scream and yell? Do I tell the other girls they are Outliers? It’s now a question I am afraid to ask with the guard standing right there. And if so, what do I tell them? I hear my dad take a breath as my heart pounds. He may not be an Outlier, but he must know that I am choosing my words carefully.
“I’ll be on the next flight back. And I’m going to call Rachel, too. There’s no way this can be legal. I’ll send her right away. Until she gets there, I don’t know what to tell you. Part of me wants to say—”
“Dad, I only have a second—”
“Hang up,” the guard says again. More forcefully this time, and he is even closer now. Maybe close enough for my dad to hear him.
“Wylie,” my dad says, more urgently. “Trust your instincts.”
The line goes dead. The guard has put his finger down over the base of the phone, ending the call. “Like I said, you can call back when the doctor gets here.”
When I meet eyes with the guard again I feel it so clearly: violence. He’s hungry for it. Like some kind of animal. A bear, or maybe a wolf. And for the first time, I feel in actual, physical danger. But I need to try to reach Jasper, too. I can’t wait anymore for Dr. Alvarez to do as she promised and send news. I need proof that Jasper is okay. And I need it now.
“I have to call someone else,” I say, because I do. I can’t wait anymore for word about Jasper. “He’s a friend. I need to make sure he’s all right.”
“Like I said: no more calls,” the Wolf says. “Besides, it’s parents only. We can’t have you all tying up the phone talking to boyfriends.” The way he says “boyfriends” sounds so dirty it makes my skin crawl.
“Dr. Haddox let me call him before.”
He glares at me. “Then I’m sure he will let you call again. When he gets back.”
He’s hoping I’ll argue, so that he can shut me up once and for all.
“Fine,” I say finally, handing the receiver back to him. “Here.”
WHEN I TURN back from the phone, the girls have left their game. They are spread across the room in much the same way they were when I first walked in. I drift back to where we had formed our circle, looking around at them. Hoping to feel some kind of sign.
Tell them they are Outliers? Don’t tell them? Tell them all about Quentin and Cassie and my dad. Or just some of it.
It sounds so easy: trust your instincts. But I’ve spent so much time disregarding my feelings, so long telling myself that all of what I’m feeling is suspect and wrong, that I’m not sure anymore how to read those messages that my gut is sending me that are right. And at least some of that cold burn in my stomach right now is still regular old anxiety. And maybe Dr. Shepard is right that someday I will know exactly where that line is between the terror that lies inside of me and that which I can feel in the world. But today is not that day.
I think back to that last night when my mom went out for milk. I did have a bad feeling about her leaving as she walked past me and out the door. I didn’t want her to go. But I had pushed that instinct away. Decided to keep my mouth shut instead, so I didn’t let my worry run the show. And with my anxiety, so many times that is the right call, even now it is. But not always. That time I had been right to worry. Wrong to ignore my instincts.
And I’d been right about Jasper being in trouble. I don’t feel like he is anymore. I am so hoping I am right about that too. I’m just scared I’m confusing my hope with the truth.
The other girls have to be given the same chance to feel their way through this. The way I am trying to now. Little by little finding my footing in this unexpected place They should know about my dad and his research, about Dr. Cornelia and his bizarre ideas. They have the right to know that they might be Outliers.
11
“HAVE YOU READ THIS?”
When I look down, Kelsey is stretched out again on the couch. Was she there the whole time? “What?”
“I asked if you had read this book?” She thumbs through the last pages of 1984.
“Oh, yeah, I guess,” I say, trying to figure out why we are even talking about something so trivial when the world is exploding. “I don’t remember it.”
Kelsey frowns down at the copy of 1984 in her hands. Then she seems to come to some conclusion before holding it out to me. “Take it,” she says, and her feelings are, as usual, a brick wall. I’ve only been knowingly reading people for six weeks, but I’ve never felt anything remotely like it. “You can have it.”
And the way she says it, it’s like she’s giving me this great gift, which annoys me way more than it probably should. “Yeah, no thanks,” I say. “I’m not in the mood to read.”
“No, I mean it. Take it,” she says, waving the book at me again. “You need it. You should read it again.”
The heat rises to my face. Now I am actually getting pissed. “I don’t want it.”
“Except you do,” she says. “But you have to promise me you’ll read it, all the way to the end again. And then after, we should, you know, talk about it. Like a book club or whatever.”
Reluctantly, I take the book from Kelsey and stare down at its worn pages. Pages read so many times that the spine has been repaired more than once. When I look back, Kelsey is reading a new book, Fahrenheit 451.
When we meet eyes again, her feelings suddenly crash over me—anger, outrage, righteous determination. Commitment. Then almost as fast: nothing. Like a light switch. And she has this expression on her face, too. See? That was a demonstration. Proof that she knows what she’s doing—even more, she knows that I do, too.
“Wait, what was—”
But the windowless doors buzz and Dr. Haddox steps through before I can get my whole question out. “I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long. I know I promised you all more information,” he calls to the group. His voice is rushed. “But I do have some good news.”
“Did you find out if my friend is okay?” I ask.
Dr. Haddox looks confused, like he’s forgotten all about Jasper, and I feel that he has. “Well, um, no——”
“We can go home?” Ramona asks, appearing next to me, arms crossed tight.
“Um, well, no, but the series of tests came in from your initial blood work—and I know some of you were never tested. But we already have enough preliminary data to confirm that there is no concern about any of you being contagious,” he says, making a baseball umpire’s safe-on-base motion with his hand.
“Contagious?” Becca snaps, working her neck to the side. She’s pissed, but scared, too. “Who said anything about contagious?”
Dr. Haddox’s eyes get wide, out of his depth again. “Well, um, we were pretty sure it wasn’t communicable,” he stammers. “But it is, um, good to get confirmation. It is strange that there would be so many instances of PANDAS in such a contained geographical area. That was part of why we—or they—wanted to have all of you here.”
I can only imagine now how those living room conversations had gone with the other parents. How easy it would have been to scare them: Do you have other children at home, elderly neighbors? Because we can’t be sure they are not at risk. We don’t know what exactly this illness is. And we can’t be sure that it won’t take a turn for the worse. It would be best to have trained medical staff on hand as a precaution. Yes, only a precaution. Protect their children, that’s what good parents would do. Just in case.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with Ebola, does it?” Teresa asks as she comes to stand next to me. She sounds frightened, but I also feel like she’s—weirdly—smiling on the inside, like some wicked little kid messing with someone.
“Ebola? No, no. Of course not,” Dr. Haddox says, looking confused and a little exasperated by the question. “As I said before, no one with Ebola has ever even been in this building. But it is understandable that you would all like more
information. And luckily”—he crosses the room to the far set of doors, peers back and forth through the small glass windows like he is looking for someone outside—“someone from the NIH is finally here. He can offer you a much better explanation of how you all might have contracted the initial strep infection.” Dr. Haddox exhales. He is relieved, but not for us. He is glad to be relieved of us. We are about to become the NIH’s problem. “Let me step out and see where this elusive Dr. Frederick Mitchell is.”
Dr. Frederick Mitchell. The name trips an alarm in my brain. Dr. Frederick Mitchell, Dr. Frederick Mitchell. Then it comes to me: the huge, barrel-chested man who came to our house a few weeks after my mom died, months before Jasper and I ever went to Maine after Cassie. I remember his strange way of talking and his ill-fitting glasses. I remember how sure I was, even then, that he was not who he claimed to be. And now, here he is. It all but seems to prove the connection to my dad’s research.
Dr. Haddox holds the door open behind him, moving to the side to let another man through.
And there he is. I want to be seeing things, but I am not. The same hair, same eyes. Still handsome, but this time he is in a suit and the way he carries himself is completely different. He has perfect posture and a confident stride. Nothing about him is like a wounded dog.
“Excellent, so this is Dr. Mitchell from the NIH,” Dr. Haddox begins.
But this Dr. Frederick Mitchell isn’t the Dr. Frederick Mitchell who came to our house. No, the man standing there with the handsome face and the steady posture is the one who convinced Jasper and me to trust him. The man we listened to and followed into that dark, abandoned camp. The man who we were grateful let us come along. The man who had such a real-sounding stutter until it vanished instantly.
Officer Kendall of the Seneca police.
In my head, I shout: Everyone run! That is a bad, bad man. But I can’t. I shouldn’t. There’s a chance Kendall doesn’t know that I am here. And so I hide, duck farther out of view. I squeeze my body tight so I don’t tremble.
The Scattering Page 9
