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 swallow 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.”
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.
The better I’ve gotten at reading, though, the less I want anyone to know. And the fact that my dad has worked so hard to respect my boundaries, not
