The Collide

by Kimberly McCreight

  “Go ahead,” the girl says. “I hope you catch that fucker.”

  RIEL DOESN’T KNOW Marly’s last name or where she’s from, but she does know that she came close to making the Olympic swim team when she was a junior in high school. Kind of makes Riel feel like an asshole now that she didn’t bother to get to know Marly more, even though she was Riel’s most trusted helper—aside from Leo and Level99.

  Leo met Marly in art history, but she was a psych major with plenty of lab work under her belt. She was able to reformat Dr. Ben Lang’s Outlier test into a kind of multiple-choice BuzzFeed quiz. Something like: “Are You an Introvert?” or “Which Game of Thrones Character Are You?” or “In a Zombie Apocalypse You Would . . . ?”

  The quiz Marly designed was “Are You an Outlier?” It gave you a score—Outlier or not. It also explained what being an Outlier was. The quiz laid it all out like the Outliers were an established scientific fact that everyone had been talking about but somehow the person taking the quiz had missed. In the end, more than seventeen thousand people took the test through social media sites and the bare-bones app Riel set up. Way more than they had ever expected.

  They posted the Outliers quiz online on May 1, two weeks after Quentin first showed up and pointed Riel at the bull’s-eye that was Ben Lang. By then, Kelsey had been dead nearly two months. But the full shitshow of the camp had yet to play out. And Riel didn’t know yet that Quentin was way worse than just an ass. Helping him had been one way of Riel getting back at Dr. Ben Lang for what happened to Kelsey. Posting his secret tests online was another. Not that Dr. Lang ever even knew. As soon as the camp happened Riel pulled all the tests down. Who knew whether it had been fast enough. She didn’t think about who she might be putting at risk. But deep down she’d known. That’s why she never mentioned the quizzes when Wylie showed up asking for help with the girls in the hospital.

  That’s the thing about that kind of grief: it can eat you alive, but before it does it can make you blind, and reckless.

  Riel had said once to Wylie that she’d wanted justice for the Outliers. That that was why she’d gotten mixed up with Quentin. And that was true. But somewhere along the line she decided to settle for personal vengeance.

  Riel sits halfway up the bleachers alongside the pool. The air is humid and sharp with chlorine. Trying to pick Marly out from the rows of gliding bodies isn’t hard. Marly is always first. Riel knows it before Marly even climbs out of the pool, M. Pérez printed on her swim cap.

  Marly is an Outlier herself, so once she is out of the water, it doesn’t take long for her to feel something, someone out of place. When she finally spots Riel, she freezes, towel in hand, glaring.

  And, wow, is she pissed. Riel can feel it all the way up in those stands. Shit. Riel hadn’t even thought Marly being angry was a possibility. That’s how wrapped up Riel has been in her own shit.

  As Marly’s eyes dig into her, Riel is careful not to block her own feelings. If Riel wants Marly’s help, she needs to be like a dog rolling on its back—exposed and vulnerable.

  It’s not easy. As Marly heads closer, her anger burns Riel’s skin.

  “What do you want?” Marly shouts up to Riel finally, her voice extra loud on purpose.

  There’s a man sitting twenty feet to the right. He’s watching their conversation now. Listening to every word. A chill runs through Riel. Could he be there for Riel? Could he work for her grandfather? But, no, he was there before Riel arrived; he couldn’t have followed her. He’s staring because Marly is shouting. That’s all. Still, Riel really wishes Marly would lower her voice. She’d ask her to if she wasn’t convinced this would piss Marly off even more.

  But despite her anger, Riel is still sure Marly is the right person. She is honest to a fault, and no one will ever connect them—Riel had started distancing herself from Marly right after the shooting at the camp. Froze her out is probably a better description. After all those people died, Riel had wanted to forget everything. It would have worked, too, if Wylie hadn’t shown up, asking for help getting those girls out of the hospital.

  Of course Riel could have explained some of that to Marly, who’d never done anything but everything Riel asked. The real question now is whether she can get Marly to forgive her. Because she’s standing there, still glaring up at Riel, like she’s hoping to make her bleed.

  “Listen, I get why you’d be—”

  “You get it?” Marly snaps. “What do you think you get?”

  This is a trap. No doubt. Marly’s arms are crossed, her weight back on one hip like she can’t wait to snap a blade shut the second Riel wades inside. But there’s sadness there, too, underneath all Marly’s anger. That’s one of the hardest parts about being an Outlier: realizing that almost every bad feeling is only one degree removed from heartbreak.

  “I don’t know,” Riel says quietly. She holds up her palms. At least that is the truth. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

  “I did every goddamn thing you asked and then, poof.” Marly makes an exploding gesture with her hands. “You were gone. I thought after that girl Wylie showed up looking for you that maybe something would change, that you’d get your shit back together. I thought maybe we’d finally get on with this plan of yours, in which I did all the shit to find the Outliers and you did nothing. But nope, you just stayed gone. You never had a plan for what to do after we found them, did you?”

  And the answer is no. Riel made it seem like they’d post the tests, Marly would contact the girls with the high scores—the real Outliers—and then they’d all “take action.” But really she’d never worked it out beyond the whole ruining-Ben-Lang by posting all his secret research everywhere. Marly is right: there never was a plan. Nothing past phases one and two, especially not after she made the mistake of helping Quentin.

  Riel starts down the bleachers, glancing back once at the guy who is definitely not watching them anymore. He never was.

  At the bottom, she stands in front of Marly on the pool deck, arms open, unguarded and defeated.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “You’re sorry?” Marly asks, with a fresh wave of anger. They are moving in the wrong direction. “You think that’s going to be enough?”

  “I fucked up. I took advantage or took you for granted or whatever. You have every right to be pissed. And I don’t have a good excuse. I just cared more about things other than your feelings.” Riel had expected there’d be a certain relief to admitting this. But saying it out loud just makes her feel shittier. She takes a breath, braces herself. “And I know what will definitely make it worse is asking you for something more—”

  “But you’re going to ask anyway, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “Unbelievable.” Marly shakes her head, disgusted. But there is the faintest glimmer of something else underneath for the first time. Hope. Marly still wants so badly to believe in Riel. To trust her. For this moment right now to rewrite all that has come before. It makes Riel feel like such an asshole. “Come on,” Marly says finally. “You’re not even supposed to be in here.”

  With that, she walks off. And Riel can do only one thing: follow.

  THE LOCKER ROOM is empty. Marly checks under the bathroom stalls to be sure. At least it no longer seems like she is deliberately trying to throw Riel to the wolves.

  “You know, I made contact with at least a hundred of the girls who had self-identified as Outliers with the online quizzes. Do you have any idea how long that took?” Marly asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Used an anonymous untraceable Gmail from the library in downtown Boston, just like you told me to. And to actually make contact with that one hundred? I had to write to thousands who scored high. Literally. More than one thousand messages. And most of them didn’t use real emails when they registered, so there I was, day after day, going to the damn library to write emails that bounced back anyway. But I kept at it, email after email, explaining this crazy thing, all to help your damn cau
se. Because I thought it was our cause. And then, by the time I got them together and got them all to trust me, sort of, you were long gone. And I was like, don’t worry, hang tight, she’ll be back in touch with a plan real soon. Except guess what?”

  Riel takes a breath. “I didn’t come back.”

  “Exactly!” Marly shouts, her eyes bright and wide. “Six weeks and no word. No plan, except that Wylie girl showing up randomly while I was working out. Tell me honestly, did you ever even have a plan?”

  All Riel can do is blink at her. Because the answer is no.

  “Those girls felt alone, you know,” Marly goes on when Riel stays silent. “They didn’t all have anxiety or depression or anything, you know, diagnosable. But they were too sensitive, or too emotional, or just wrong—that’s what they’ve been told their whole lives. And I was like, not only are you fine the way you are—it’s an actual thing. You’re an Outlier. And don’t worry because we’re here now. But then we left them, too.”

  Marly turns to the lockers behind her, jerks out a new towel and some clothes. She is trying to find her anger again. It’s easier than the sadness. But, as an Outlier, Riel can still feel that hope underneath. It’s the only reason she will keep trying to win Marly over, even though all the facts suggest she will never succeed.

  And that’s why it matters, all of this. The Outliers. Even considering what Riel’s lost, who and what the Outliers are is still something worth fighting for. Because knowing how people truly feel—getting to the heart of it—can make a difference. It can make the world a better place. A more honest, hopeful one. Even if it’s not crystal-clear perfection. Even if it’s not a skill anyone will ever be able to line up and dissect.

  “We can reach out to those girls again. I’ll explain to them that us disappearing before was my fault,” Riel says.

  “Why would we do that?” Marly asks.

  Riel hesitates. Takes a deep breath. “Because they could be in danger. Because I am, maybe.” She just needs to get it over with now. There’s no more stalling. “There are people following me. My grandfather, I think.”

  “Your grandfather?” Marly asks. “What the hell does he have to do with anything?”

  And so, standing in that empty, humid locker room, Riel explains what she can about how her grandfather is involved and why. It isn’t much. But she does know that it started with her and Kelsey’s copy of 1984 and that it ends with Wylie’s photos. In the middle is her grandfather becoming a senator. And being on the Armed Services Committee. And running for freakin’ president. And maybe meeting with Wylie’s dad. And the girls in the hospital. And setting Leo’s room on fire and not really caring who he killed.

  “Leo’s room was on fire?” Marly whispers, actually scared now. And really, really listening. “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah,” Riel says, though she realizes she can’t actually be sure of that anymore. “At least he was. But I still have the pictures. Which means I think they are still after me, and—by extension—Leo. I don’t know why the pictures would be worth burning down a dorm full of college students. But I have to figure it out. That’s why I need your help.”

  “My help,” Marly huffs. But that hope is taking up more space inside her now, growing steadily. “Doing what?”

  “Be a go-between. If I get caught reaching out to Level99 and the other Outliers again, I could be putting Leo in even more danger.”

  “And why me?” Marly asks. “Because I was stupid enough to trust you before?”

  “No,” Riel says, careful to hold Marly’s stare. “Because I trust you.”

  WHEN THEY’RE BACK at Marly’s summer dorm room—Harvard swimming preseason—Riel and Marly spread Wylie’s pictures across the bed. There are eleven in all, each the size of a sheet of paper, and exactly as uninteresting as the last time Riel looked at them. Riel counts the photos again. She could have sworn that there were originally twelve. She worries she somehow left one at Brew, but she can’t see how.

  “Are those buckets?” Marly asks, pointing to the series of roundish white objects on what looks like a metal shelf.

  “That’s what I thought.” Riel peers closer. She tries again to make out the writing on them. “Like for plaster or paint or something? Like in construction.”

  “Didn’t you say Wylie’s mom was a professional photographer?” Marly asks, holding up a different photo and frowning at it.

  “Yeah,” Riel says, fingering another—in it is a row of computer screens and a man in profile pointing across the room like he is giving a tour. He doesn’t seem aware of the camera. Beyond the computers is a glass window with more machines, and something like a long table in the center, like for examinations.

  “These don’t exactly look professional,” Marly says skeptically.

  “Maybe she was trying to hide that she was taking them,” Riel says, which feels true, but also not like the right explanation.

  “Okay, so now what?” Marly asks, looking up from the photos.

  “You’ll help?” Riel asks. So far, Marly agreed to let Riel come back to her room to look at the pictures, but that was it.

  Marly looks down and considers the question for a minute more. Finally, she nods.

  “Yeah, I’ll help,” she says. “But to be clear, I’m doing it for the other girls—the Outliers. Because I feel like I owe it to them. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t owe you a thing.”

  TOP SECRET AND CONFIDENTIAL

  To: Senator David Russo

  From: The Architect

  Re: Identification Cards

  April 20

  To summarize, procedural details for the Outlier identification card program will be outlined as soon as possible after the current research integrity threat is effectively contained. Most effective responses to the anticipated legal, economic, and practical obstacles to the identification card program will be addressed at that time.

  JASPER

  FOR TWO HOURS AFTER HE GETS WYLIE’S NOTE, JASPER DRIVES AROUND.

  He’d like to think of himself as the kind of person who—after getting a note like that—wouldn’t go anywhere near the person who sent it. That he’s a person with some self-respect. But at the end of all that going nowhere, there Jasper is: driving past Wylie’s house, more than once, like some stupid-ass, brokenhearted puppy. Thank God he manages to make himself keep driving.

  Jasper would also like to think that he’s the type of person who, after a bunch of embarrassing drive-bys, would feel stupid enough that he’d at least go home and try to sort himself out. But apparently, Jasper isn’t that dude, either. Because ten minutes later, there he is on his way up to the front door of another girl’s house. A girl he definitely has no business being near.

  “OH, HI.” MAIA looks surprised and confused, no doubt, when she opens the door. It doesn’t help that it’s after nine p.m. Late to show up at anybody’s door. “Jasper, what are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since—come in, come in.”

  Maia’s hair is blonder and longer, held back in a wide red headband, and she has on a yellow romper that would look stupid on almost anyone else. But there’s no denying it looks good on Maia. Jasper’s not surprised she’s getting prettier. That’s what girls like Maia do.

  Is that why he’s there? Because Maia’s pretty? He’s convinced himself he’s there honoring the thing Wylie wanted—to see who sent the journal—even though she broke his heart. Too bad he didn’t figure out the real reason before he rang her bell.

  “Well, come in.” Maia reaches out and tugs on his bare arm, fingers lingering on his bicep. Maia is good at that, too—doing things and seeming like she didn’t.

  They stand inside her vaulted marble foyer with its fancy spiral staircase, freezing cold from the blasting air-conditioning. Jasper crosses his arms to stay warm, wonders if all rich people like their houses so cold.

  “So, what’s up?” Maia says, tilting her head farther to the side.

  “I, um, just came by to ask—did you ever send me someth
ing?”

  Maia laughs, pulls her chin back, then narrows her eyes, which weirdly makes her even cuter. “Send you what?”

  There isn’t going to be any good way to explain this without the whole thing sounding like the wild accusation it kind of is. “Some pages from Cassie’s journal?” Jasper asks, and then his stupid voice catches, tearing a massive hole open inside him. And for the second time in as many hours, he feels like he is going to cry. But that can’t happen. Here, in front of Maia, would be totally humiliating.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Maia asks. She guides Jasper over to a bench against that fancy spiral staircase. “Sit. Listen, I didn’t send you anything. How would I have Cassie’s journal anyway?”

  And what can he say to that: that he thinks Maia is so obsessed with him that she somehow snuck into Cassie’s house after she was dead and tore out mean, hurtful pages so that Jasper would be extra needy and want to be with Maia?

  Jasper shakes his dumb-ass head. “I don’t know.” He leans forward and puts his elbows against his thighs, resting his head in his hands. “I don’t know anything anymore. I’m just trying to figure out who would have sent the pages to me. None of it makes sense.”

  Maia puts a warm hand on Jasper’s back and starts rubbing up and down in a way that feels good. Better than it should. And when Jasper turns to look up at her, Maia holds his stare. He wonders for a minute why he never gave Maia more of a chance. She might be different than he thought. She might even be a cool person. And she’s so beautiful right now that Jasper isn’t feeling the ache of his heart, hanging by a thread.

  “Have you thought about maybe Wylie?” Maia asks. “I mean, no offense, but there has been something seriously messed up about her for a long time. You know she was seeing a shrink in, like, middle school.”

  And just like that, Jasper is slapped awake. That’s why not Maia. He pulls away, jumps to his feet. How could he have even let himself think about her for a minute? Is he really that out of control?