Jasper and I try to keep our conversations light, to help blot out the darkness. Maybe that’s exactly why it doesn’t work. The “what-ifs” of the choices we made that night as we drove north—“what if” we’d told Cassie’s mom right away, “what if” we’d ignored Cassie and had gone to different police earlier—are way too loud and angry by comparison. But all the talking has made Jasper and me closer. Sometimes I wonder how long it will last or how real it can be, this friendship born out of so much awfulness. Other times, I don’t want to think about that. I don’t want to think too hard about anything. There are too many questions I don’t know how to answer.
In her usual therapist way, Dr. Shepard has said she doesn’t think it’s a good idea for us to rehash too much, and neither do I. Jasper can’t help himself, though. We both have our what-ifs, sure, but it was Jasper who straight-out blamed Cassie for getting us locked in the camp. I say the same thing every time he brings it up: No, it is not your fault, Jasper. Cassie is dead because of Quentin, not you. And that is what I think.
Jasper doesn’t believe me, though. Sometimes when I look in his eyes, I feel like I am watching someone slowly starve to death. And I am standing right there, my arms filled with food.
Not that I am totally fine now by comparison. I still have horrible nightmares, and every day I cry at least once. Normal signs of grief and trauma, Dr. Shepard says. My anxiety didn’t disappear the second I was told I was an Outlier, either.
But these days there is less oxygen fanning the flames. I am working on separating out other people’s emotions from my own anxiety. There are little differences, it turns out, in the way each feels. My own anxiety is colder, deeper in my gut, while other people’s feelings sit higher in my chest. And now Dr. Shepard’s breathing exercises and her mindfulness meditations and her positive self-talk—things she has always advised—are actually starting to work, probably because I am more willing to believe they will.
Finally, I lay my hands on my phone, almost knocking it to the ground before I answer.
“Hey,” comes out garbled. I clear my throat. “What’s up?”
“Shit, were you sleeping?” Jasper asks. He sounds almost hurt, betrayed by my lack of insomnia.
“Um, not really,” I lie. “I was just—what’s up?” Then I remember why he’s probably called so late. Because this is late, even for him. “Oh, wait, the dinner with your mom. How was it?”
Jasper was supposed to tell her that he’s having second thoughts about playing hockey for Boston College. And by second thoughts, I mean he’s totally changed his mind. The summer camp for incoming freshmen starts in a few days, and he doesn’t plan on going. And BC isn’t going to pay his way on an athletic scholarship if he isn’t playing hockey. No hockey, no Boston College.
But Jasper is totally okay with this. Completely. He isn’t even sure he wants to go to college anymore. In fact, talking about bagging Boston College is the only time Jasper sounds remotely happy these days. Though I am fairly sure that’s because never playing hockey again is his own punishment for what happened to Cassie. Because as much as Jasper’s mom pushed him into the sport, he also loves it. Turning his back on it is a way to make himself suffer.
“Dinner was okay,” Jasper says. But he sounds distracted, like this isn’t at all why he called.
“What did she say?” I push myself up in bed and turn on the light.
“Say? About what?”
“Um, the hockey?” I ask, hoping my tone will bring him back around. “Are you okay? You sound really out of it.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” It’s totally unconvincing. “The thing with my mom didn’t go well. But, I mean, it’s not like I thought it would.” He doesn’t sound upset either, just totally flat. I wait for him to get into details, but he stays quiet.
“Is she going to let you drop out?” I ask as my eyes settle on my photograph of the old woman and her plaid bag and all those crumbs. The one that Jasper called depressing that first time he was in my house, the day we raced off in search of Cassie. I wonder if he’d see it the same way now.
“Define ‘let,’” he says, and then tries to laugh, but it’s wheezy and hollow.
My body tightens. “Jasper, come on, what happened?”
“Oh, you know, kind of what I expected,” he says. He’s trying to rally, but I can hear the effort in his voice. I can feel it, too, even over the phone. “Except worse, I guess.”
“Worse how?” I ask, though maybe I should be distracting him instead of pressing for details. As usual with Jasper these days, I feel totally out of my depth.
“My mom said if I don’t play hockey—go to the camp and whatever—I can’t live under her roof.” He pauses and sighs. “Listen, it’s not like she was going to change into this totally different person because I almost died.” I’m not sure if he means this as a joke. But the weird tightness in his voice is pure sadness. It makes my own chest ache.
“I’m sorry.” I want there to be something else to say. But anything more would be a lie and I know what those feel like. Jasper deserves better.
“Maybe she’s got a point.”
“So you’re thinking of playing after all?” I sound too hopeful. I can’t help it. I don’t like Jasper’s mother, but I agree that he should go to Boston College and play hockey. He’s too lost right now to cut himself free from the one thing that still brings him joy.
“No way,” he says, like that’s the most absurd suggestion ever. “I’m definitely not playing.”
My heart has picked up speed. Yes, there is a line between me reading Jasper’s bad feelings and me being anxious, but it is still super blurry. All I can say for sure is that this conversation is making me really worried.
Whether that’s because of my feelings or Jasper’s feelings is still up for debate.
“SO I MADE it to your actual office,” I said to Dr. Shepard in our first face-to-face meeting a week after the camp. I was fishing for praise. All that trauma and there I was, getting myself out of the house.
She nodded at me and almost smiled, looking as pretty and petite as she always did in her big red chair. Still like Alice in Wonderland shrunk down to nothing. I was relieved that hadn’t changed.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Dr. Shepard said.
It wasn’t exactly the job-well-done parade I was hoping for. But that was Dr. Shepard’s style: don’t make too much out of anything. Not the good or the bad. She wanted me to have expectations for myself, but she wanted to be sure I knew she didn’t have any of her own.
We chatted then for a while: how was I spending my days, how were things at home? But there was only so much dancing around what had happened at the camp that we could do.
“You know, I felt less anxious while I was going after Cassie,” I said, finally diving into the middle, probably a little too aggressively. “Shouldn’t that have made me more anxious? I was having a hard time leaving the house. Wasn’t leaving the house actually.”
“Anxiety is variable, Wylie. No two people manifest it in exactly the same way. There are no ‘shoulds.’ Even for one person anxiety can change over time depending on life events—your mother’s accident certainly made your anxiety worse to the point that you were unable to go outside for a brief period. The adrenaline of being called upon to help Cassie likely camouflaged your own anxiety temporarily,” she said. “For once the alarm bells going off inside you matched the actual danger of your situation. It’s not surprising that your anxiety would be less noticeable.”
“So that’s my cure? To be in some crazy emergency all the time?”
Dr. Shepard’s mouth turned down. She was never a fan of sarcasm. “People do go through intensely anxious periods and come out the other side. Others have good and bad periods cyclically throughout their lives. With anxiety, there are no one-size-fits-all explanations or predictions, Wylie. No absolutes. The unknown can be frustrating, but also encouraging. You’re here now. Perhaps we should start there.”
“Do you believe my ‘Heightened Emotional Perception,’ this ‘Outlier’ thing”—I hooked quotes around the word and rolled my eyes in a totally transparent attempt to show I wasn’t taking it very seriously—“could be the whole explanation for what’s wrong with me?”
My dad had called ahead to explain to Dr. Shepard what had happened at the camp and its link to his research, including his newly coined “Heightened Emotional Perception,” or “HEP,” which I think he felt had the benefit of heading off any eventual comparison to ESP. He had also told her I was an Outlier and what that meant. It was a relief not to have to go into the details, especially about me being an Outlier, which I found one part thrilling, one part confusing, and two thousand parts terrifying. It was like learning that for years you’d been carrying around some kind of enormous benign tumor in your belly. Sure there was good news: you weren’t sick and you’d lose eight pounds when the watermelon-sized thing was removed. But you still had to contend with the daunting sense that you’d been invaded, occupied. Worse yet, you’d had absolutely no idea.
“Wrong with you?” Dr. Shepard asked. “Right and wrong is not an effective way to frame a discussion about anxiety.”
“You know what I mean,” I said, though how could she? I wasn’t even sure what I meant. I wanted certain answers (how anxious was I really?), but wanted to avoid others (what did being an Outlier really mean?). I wanted to off-load my anxiety without taking on being an Outlier, to cherry-pick my truth. “Do you think it’s possible that I’m not actually anxious at all?”
Dr. Shepard stared at me and I felt with troubling clarity the moment she decided to play it straight, instead of opting for the good old therapy bob and weave. It wasn’t necessarily comforting, this being able to see through people so easily. It made everyone so much weaker, their gifts so much more ordinary.
“I believe awareness is a powerful thing, Wylie. Do you understand?”
I nodded. But then reconsidered. “No, actually, I don’t understand at all.”
“This Heightened Emotional Perception could have exacerbated your anxiety, certainly. It’s possible that in some instances you have mistaken the emotions of others for your own. However, I’d say that it is highly unlikely that being an Outlier is the explanation for all your anxiety. Let me ask you this. Do you feel anxious now?”
I tried to pull in some air. It wasn’t easy. And there was that cold heaviness in my stomach for sure. “Yes, definitely.”
Though my anxiety did feel a little more separate now that I could pick out its peculiar chill. More like a backpack I was wearing than one of my internal organs.
“I can at least assure you that the anxiety you are feeling right now is yours, not mine, Wylie. Bottom line: I think the answer is yes, you are anxious, and, yes, you have this Heightened Emotional Perception. Where the line is will be something for you to figure out.”
But that was the problem. In those first hours after Jasper and I escaped, still reeling from what had happened to Cassie, being an Outlier felt like it might be the answer to everything that had ever been wrong with me. The secret to my freedom. But so quickly “being an Outlier” turned into a bottomless box filled with questions and more questions. So far I had decided to close the lid and lock it up tight. Knowing that I alone reserved the right to use the key.
Not yet, though. I had politely declined to engage in any of my dad’s “follow-up testing” and had taken a pass on him teaching me to “do more” with my Heightened Emotional Perception or “reading” ability. I’d even intentionally avoided learning where my dad’s research was headed. I knew only his two main questions: the “scope” of the Outlier ability (what could we do if we practiced) and the “source” of the Outlier ability (where did it come from).
After he had accidentally discovered the three original Outliers—me and the other two girls—my dad had done additional “exploratory” studies using a handful of volunteers, but nothing that could have been published. It was during these exploratory studies that he had noticed the Outliers were all girls, and only teenagers. All of that was before what had happened up at the camp. Now, my dad had been spending most of his time on applications and proposals to get the money he needed for a proper, peer-reviewed study that would prove the existence of the Outliers. Then, and only then, would he be able to move on to the more complex issues of source and scope. For now, as far as the scientific community was concerned, it was like nothing had even happened.
“And what if I don’t want to be an Outlier,” I said to Dr. Shepard, my throat pinching unexpectedly tight.
“You may not be able to choose whether or not you are an Outlier, Wylie. Or, for that matter, whether or not you are anxious.” Dr. Shepard leaned forward and looked at me intently. “But you can decide what you do with who you are.”
I BREATHE IN to the count of four, trying not to exhale into the phone still pressed hard to my ear. “Jasper, what do you mean, that your mom ‘has a point?’ A point about what?”
“About the not living with her,” he says. “Maybe I’ll just hit the road or something. You know, freedom and all that. Figure it out as I go along.”
“Figure what out?” I snap, my fear rising.
“Figure out everything,” he says. “I’m sorry I woke you, Wylie. It was good you were asleep. We can talk about my mom and everything later, or tomorrow. Or whatever. That wasn’t even why I called. I was awake and wanted to say hi. That’s all.”
This is a lie. Even through the phone I can feel it.
“I’m up now. You don’t have to go.”
We are silent then in a way that I hate.
“You were right, you know,” Jasper finally goes on. “When you said it was my fault that Cassie got so out of control.”
I wince. I did say that—before we even got to Maine—maybe more than once. And, my God, did I mean it at the time. It’s hard now to even remember how much I had blamed Jasper for everything.
“I never should have said that, Jasper. I was afraid it was my fault for being a bad friend. Cassie getting messed up wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t my fault.”
“Even if I liked that Cassie was so messed up?” Jasper says. And I can see now how deep his guilt is. He doesn’t even need to blame himself for what happened in those last moments in the cabin to make himself responsible for Cassie being gone. He sees himself as the one who set the train loose down the tracks. “That way I could keep on saving her over and over again.”
My stomach twists, deep and cold. My feelings, not Jasper’s.
“Who doesn’t like being the hero?” I offer, scrambling for the right thing.
“Yeah,” Jasper says. “But people don’t usually end up dead because of it.”
The awful flatness to his voice is back.
“Why don’t I come over?” I say. “You don’t sound like you should be alone.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“It’s no big deal. I don’t mind.” Already, I’m getting out of bed. My dad will take me to Jasper’s even if he’s not going to be thrilled.
“No, Wylie,” Jasper says, louder this time. “I’m serious. Don’t come. I don’t want you to.” He takes a breath. “I—it’s my mom. She was on a double shift at the hospital, and she just got home. She’ll freak out if anything wakes her up, and she’s already pissed enough at me.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Because I feel like—”
“Yeah, I’m sure. If you come here right now, it will make everything worse,” he says firmly. “Listen, come over in the morning. We can take a walk or something. Talk it out.” His voice is softer, warmer. More convincing. Sort of.
“A walk, yeah,” I say.
“Listen, I’m fine. When my mom works second shift, she usually gets up around ten. You want to come by then?”
“Only if you promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“That you will be okay.”
My throat tightens around the words and I have to swallo
w hard. Jasper is so broken. And he isn’t supposed to be. Despite his messed-up dad and a mom who loves him only for what he can do, he is still the optimist. I’m supposed to be the broken one.
“Definitely,” Jasper says, the flicker of brightness in his voice an obvious cover for how he agreed too quickly. “Now, you have to promise me something.”
“Definitely.”
“Don’t come over without calling first.”
3
I WAKE TO THE SMELL OF SATURDAY PANCAKES AND BACON, AND A FEW SWEET seconds of amnesia. Then it all comes rushing back: Jasper, his house, ten a.m. The pit in my stomach from the night before. I turn to look at my clock; not even seven thirty a.m. Going back to sleep will be the best way to pass the time without letting my mind twist about Jasper.
But then I hear voices downstairs. Gideon and my dad. And they are not happy. I put a pillow over my head to muffle their voices, but it’s no use.
WHEN I GET downstairs, my dad is standing over the stove. His jaw is clenching and unclenching like he’s trying to eat his teeth.
“So that’s it?” Gideon snaps, rocking back in his stool at the kitchen island. My twin brother is once again ready for a fight. He’s hungry for it.
I can read that loud and clear. I might have avoided my dad’s follow-up testing and training, but since that first post-camp session with Dr. Shepard, I have made strides at perfecting my Outlier skills on my own. It was my box. My key.
I started practicing at home, reading Gideon’s and my dad’s feelings until I could do it with near-perfect precision. It wasn’t pleasant. Gideon’s anger can be so toxic that it feels like my skin is being burned and my dad’s sadness is totally smothering. It was also pretty much all they felt. Eventually, I knew I needed to branch out: more people, more practice.
At the Newton Public Library I learned that it’s hard to read people’s feelings when they’re mixed up with the characters in the books they’re reading. So I moved on to restaurants, which is where crap gets real—people break up, they confess, they promise, they argue, they apologize. And they stick around long enough that you can watch the fallout. It was there I learned Outlier Rule #1: Eye contact helps in reading people. And Outlier Rule #2: Crowds make it harder to read people. And before long there came Outlier Rule #3: You get better at reading with practice. Because when I started at the restaurants, all I could make out were the basics—happy, sad, angry. Five weeks later and I can now divide shame from regret, joy from contentment.