The Outliers by Kimberly McCreight
My mom crossed her arms. “And so that’s it?” she asked him. “You don’t have anything else to say.”
“Yes, Hope, that’s it.” Now he was glaring at her.
I’d stopped eating. Whatever they were fighting about, it was not campus data security. I looked over at Gideon, but his eyes were on his chemistry homework. I was never sure if he didn’t notice our parents fighting or if he just didn’t care.
“So I guess that means you still didn’t talk to Dr. Simons about the Outliers?” my mom pressed on. “I thought you said you were going to mention it the next time you spoke.”
My dad took a deep breath and put down his knife and fork to look at her.
“What are the Outliers?” I asked, hoping his explanation might make me less worried about them getting divorced.
“They’re the ones who can do Dad’s test blindfolded and with the headphones,” Gideon said without looking up from his homework. He was an expert on my dad’s work, had read every one of his papers, was always peppering him with questions. Partly that had to do with Gideon being interested in science, and partly that had to do with Gideon wanting my dad to be more interested in him. “You know, the ones with ESP.”
“It’s not ESP, Gideon!” my dad shouted.
Gideon startled, his cheeks flushing a blotchy pink. For a second I thought he might cry.
My dad closed his eyes, took a breath. “I’m sorry, Gideon, but you know how much I hate that comparison. It’s inflammatory, and it degrades the real potential of my research.” He reached out a hand but didn’t actually touch Gideon. “I shouldn’t have shouted, though. I’m sorry.”
In my dad’s defense, even I knew that ESP was not a word anyone was to use in our house. The number of times I’d heard my dad trying to explain to others that ESP was not what he studied was too many to count. And whenever he did, I could hear the defeat in his voice.
“Who are the Outliers then?” I asked again, because I needed that answer now.
“Outliers are the subjects whose results are outside the normal range. That’s all,” my dad said. “Outliers occur in all kinds of studies.”
“But not every Outlier is created equal,” my mom said. “Are they, Ben?”
And there was this way she said his name: like maybe Outlier was another word for mistress or prostitute.
“And ESP is literally reading someone’s thoughts, Gideon,” my dad said, ignoring her and turning back to Gideon. “In the old tests for ESP, they’d give one subject a picture of a shape to concentrate hard on, to think only of that thing—blue triangle, blue triangle, over and over again. And then they’d ask the other subject to guess what shape that person was thinking about. And no one can do that. That test has nothing to do with emotional intelligence. To an extent, ESP and the perception aspect of emotional intelligence are related: they are both about reading people. The subjects in my study exhibited a range of capacity for perceiving emotions, which did seem heightened when observing live conversation compared to their ability with static images. The Outliers exhibited an exceptional ability unrelated to the actual focus of my study—they could perceive emotions while blindfolded and wearing noise-canceling headphones. It certainly warrants further research.”
“Got to keep on studying and studying and studying before you say anything to anyone? Is that it, Ben?”
Again my dad ignored her. But I watched his face tighten.
“If I was you, all I’d want to study would be the Outliers,” Gideon said, oblivious still to the tension between them. “I’d want to know how they do it, so I could learn to do it, too. And then I could rule the world.” He shoveled more food into his mouth, then grinned.
“You can’t learn to be an Outlier, Gideon. Like with IQ, you can improve your ability to perceive emotion, but only to a very small degree,” my dad said, but quietly now. Sad almost. “And inserting yourself into the scientific research is dangerous and unethical. I fired Dr. Caton for becoming too personally invested. What a scientist wants is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is the truth.”
“Okay, jeez,” Gideon said quietly, jabbing at his pasta with his fork. “I was just joking.”
“The only thing that matters is the truth?” my mom asked sharply. She got up to refill her water glass. Kept talking with her back to us. “Ironic, don’t you think, Ben?”
“Wait, so Wylie’s dad had you bring us here to be safe?” I hear Jasper ask, but he sounds really far away. “Safe from what?”
Focus. I need to pull myself together and focus. This answer is important. I am the only one who will know if it makes any sense.
Quentin looks even more uncomfortable. “There are some people at a company, I guess, a defense contractor?” His voice rises at the end like it’s a question. “Honestly, I don’t know all the details. But I know that they want your dad’s research or his help or something. I guess they are prepared to do a lot of bad stuff to get what they want. Even actually hurt people, with their actual hands.” He looks down at his own hands like he can’t imagine that kind of thing. “Or with weapons, maybe. People from a defense contractor must have weapons, right? Like I said, I’m not really an expert.”
Did my mom know about this, whatever it is? Is this what she and my dad were fighting about? Funny, how you can think that all you want is an answer. Until you realize that to get to the bottom, you’ll need to go way deeper and darker than you ever imagined.
“But he acted like he wanted me to come home,” I say.
“Because he wanted you to, very much. It wasn’t his original plan to have you come here. At least not all of you,” he says, flicking his eyes in Cassie’s direction. “But then here Jasper and you were, already on your way. And it didn’t seem safe to have you out there on your own.”
“Wait a second,” Jasper says. “What do you mean ‘all of you’? And why did you just look at Cassie?”
I’m afraid to hear the answer, but I am glad that I didn’t imagine Quentin looking at Cassie. When I look over at her now, she has the weirdest, blankest expression on her face.
“Listen, this is complicated, and I’m already way out of my depth here. I am nobody, really.” Quentin waves his hands. Seems glad to be able to say that. “Dr. Simons is really the person—”
“Dr. Simons is here?” I ask.
“Yes, he’s up at the main house right now.” And Quentin looks so relieved to be letting me know.
But I’m not relieved. Because if Dr. Simons is here, any hope of this being some kind of misunderstanding and my dad not being involved is officially gone.
“You know him?” Jasper asks, and he sounds suspicious of me now. “This Dr. Simons person.”
I nod. “He’s my dad’s friend.”
“Then take us up there so this doctor guy can explain what the hell is going on,” Jasper says, taking a couple of steps toward the door.
“Definitely,” Quentin says, but then seems embarrassed. “And I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but with the power off—I’m not supposed to take all of you at once. The people from that company I mentioned—well, too many of us together on the open lawn. We’re kind of a bigger target?”
Everything he says sounds like a question.
“A target?” Jasper asks. And he sounds mostly angry, but a little scared, too. “Are you kidding?”
Quentin shakes his head. “I mean, we don’t know if they’re here yet, but they’re trying to find us. We know that. But Wylie, I can take you up alone. Then I’ll come back and get everybody else?”
I’m already shaking my head. No, No, No. And I can’t get myself to stop shaking it, even though I can feel everyone is staring at me. But I do not want to go to Dr. Simons. I am too afraid of what he might tell me about my dad.
“No?” Jasper asks, like he doesn’t understand. And why would he?
“No,” I finally say out loud. Part of me actually hopes I’ll get away before I ever have to know what’s really going on.
“
“No,” Cassie says, and loud. “I mean, take me. I’m the one you brought here on purpose. I should be the one to talk to Dr. Simons.”
“I’d rather go first,” Jasper says, stepping back to squeeze Cassie’s fingers before heading again toward the door. Just in case he gets picked off crossing the lawn, that’s what he means. “Don’t worry, I’ll be okay.”
Cassie and I stare in silence at the closed door for a long time.
“My dad’s research?” I ask finally. “No one has ever cared about his research in my entire life. And did you hear that? You were the one they really wanted? Why?”
Cassie shrugs, shakes her head. “Don’t look at me,” she says. But she doesn’t sound angry at my dad. Not nearly as angry as I want her to be.
Because I’m furious. Your condition. How fucking dare he? Especially when all this time his bullshit research was the reason for this entire situation. All I want to do is get him back on the phone and tell him again just how much I really wish he’d been in the car that night. How can he be the parent I’m left with? A liar, so obsessed with his stupid job that he doesn’t even warn us that we might get mixed up in it.
“You know your mom was completely freaking out when she came to see us? My dad acted the whole time like he had no idea what was going on,” I say, in case Cassie isn’t getting the full picture of why he is a total monster.
“Whatever, my mom deserves to worry.” Cassie shrugs again. “Anyway, shouldn’t we at least wait until you know the whole story? Maybe your dad can explain.”
“That’s awfully generous of you,” I say, because she’s drifted into annoying territory. Cassie would never give Karen the benefit of the doubt about anything.
“I just don’t want you to worry, okay?”
And she means worry, worry. Like only I can. Her eyes then drift up to my hair. Like it proves her point, which, of course, it kind of does.
“What the hell did you do?” she asks.
“I looked like her,” I say. And it’s a relief to tell someone that pitiful truth. “In the mirror, she was all I could see. And I just—I couldn’t take it anymore.”
Cassie nods, still contemplating my hair, more matter-of-fact than concerned.
“Hold on, I have an idea,” she says, heading over to her bag on the floor.
I watch Cassie pick up her underwear and tuck it discreetly inside. When she stands up, she’s smiling, two hair ties raised in the air as she makes her way back over to me. “These are your only hope. Now, sit.”
I do as I’m told as Cassie’s hands move over the hacked strands of my hair like they are searching for a foothold.
“What was your underwear doing on top of your bag?” I ask, because I can’t shake the image of it sitting there. I mean, is she not wearing any?
And even if this whole thing has something to do with my dad’s research, there is still that disgusting guy outside guarding the door. It only makes me more worried when Cassie doesn’t answer my question. Instead, she stays quiet, fussing around my hair. I look up at her and put my hand over hers. “Cassie, seriously?”
She bites on her lip for a minute. When she finally looks at me, her eyes are glassy. “I wasn’t just downtown to get away from my mom when they picked me up. I went down there to see this guy. Another guy. I was going to go stay with him for a few days, try to freak my mom out. I guess it got pulled out when I grabbed my sweatshirt earlier.”
“Oh,” I say, trying not to sound disappointed.
“We weren’t together long,” she says. “A few months, I guess.” A few months? She and Jasper hadn’t been together much longer than that. “You want to know the most messed-up part?”
No, is what I think. “Sure,” is what I say, like nothing could be too messed up for me, her super-awesome, nonjudgmental best friend.
“I think I did it because Jasper is so great. At the beginning, I thought he was kind of an asshole, like you do. And even I deserve an asshole.”
“But he’s not an asshole,” I say. And even I’m sure of that much now.
“Nope, he’s like this exceptionally good person. Principled.” Cassie wipes at the tears that have filled her eyes. “Do you know he still sends the money he makes washing dishes at the IHOP to the guy his dad almost beat to death? Can you imagine washing dishes at an IHOP and not even keeping the money?”
“No,” I say. “I can’t.”
“Yeah, neither can I.” Cassie’s quiet again, looking at her fingers. “And so what does a guy like that, a really good guy, possibly see in me? Except, you know.” She motions to her body. The way she looks, she means. “But I practically had to force him to have sex with me, he was all ‘no pressure, no pressure.’ It was just too—perfect. So what did I do?” She makes an exploding motion with her hands.
“Everybody makes mistakes,” I say, which reminds me of Jasper. And makes me feel even worse for him.
“I didn’t go looking to meet somebody, though,” she goes on, like that makes anything better. “I was just working my shift at Holy Cow one afternoon, minding my own business, when this guy came in.”
“It doesn’t make you a bad person if you met someone you like better than Jasper,” I say, which is true enough, though it would have been a lot better if Cassie had broken up with Jasper before dating this other guy.
She shakes her head and stares down at her balled-up hands. “It’s over now anyway. I was totally wrong about him.” The tears are flowing down her face now. “He’s actually a really, really terrible person. I see that now.” She smiles this sad smile, then shakes her head. Disgusted at herself.
“Oh,” I say. Because that sounds bad, even factoring in how Cassie exaggerates. She’s not faking that she’s upset. Really, really upset. “Are you okay? I mean, what happened?”
Her eyes search mine for something she seems not to find. She presses her lips together and stares down at the ground.
“I’ll tell you, but I just … I can’t right now,” she says, motioning to the cabin like: with everything else going on. But there’s also this weird tone to her voice. Like I’ve said the wrong thing or like I’m not really getting it. She scrubs at her damp cheeks. “Anyway, I would have told you about him when it started, but we weren’t talking then. And I guess part of me was glad that I didn’t have to see that look on your face again. That disappointment.”
“I wouldn’t have—”
“Come on, you’re looking at me that way right now.”
She’s right. I can feel the look on my face. I can’t help it.
“Who cares what I think?” I say. “I mean, look at me: I’m a mess. What do I know about anything?”
“More than you think, Wylie,” she says quietly. Then forces a smile. “But obviously, not about cutting hair.”
As she clucks and hums her way around my head, it reminds me so much of when she came and braided my hair right after my mom died. Something about her doing it again now makes me want to cry.
“Perfect,” she says finally, pulling back to assess her handiwork. “Come, come look.”
She waves me over to the window, then holds up the lantern so that I can see my reflection. There was barely enough hair for her to braid, so little to arm me with for battle this time. But she did. My hair is still very short and super choppy, but Cassie has put a small French braid on a diagonal across the top of my head, gathering up all the most uneven bits. It looks boho chic, and almost flattering. More flattering maybe than before I cut all my hair off.
“Not bad,” Cassie says, though her voice sounds sad.
“Thank you.” And it does make me feel better to look normal. Even if I already know it won’t make me feel that way. Nothing ever will.
“No, thank you,” Cassie says, hugging me tight from behind. “For always coming to my rescue.”
Cassie still has her face pressed against mine when the door opens again. Quentin looks embarrassed that he’s interrupted.
I feel the acid rising in my throat as I try to suck in some air. No, not ready.
“Yes,” Cassie says.
And who knows? Maybe Cassie is right. Maybe I just need to wait until I know and see before I decide what my dad is guilty of. Finally, I step forward next to her. “We’re ready.”
In silence, we follow Quentin. It’s the middle of the night still—after midnight definitely, maybe even later—but brighter with the main cabin glowing warmly in the distance. Still, as we make our way across the open grass, I have the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. Dangerous people from some military company looming in the trees seems both totally ridiculous and totally possible. That could even explain Lexi and Doug, maybe. Doug especially could easily be some kind of professional. If there are more like Doug on the way, we will be no match.
But when I glance over my shoulder to see if there is some army headed for us, there is only Stuart and his one gun, pacing back and forth in front of the cabin.
“I’m sorry about Stuart,” Quentin says, catching my eye. “Our security measures have been—well, there weren’t a lot of options up here. Your dad definitely won’t approve when he meets him.”
My dad doesn’t know about the toothless guy with the gun? Maybe he doesn’t know other things. Maybe he didn’t know that his friends already had Cassie when Karen came knocking at our door. Or maybe I’m just desperate to find something, anything that makes him less of a liar.
“What about that police guy?” I ask.
“Officer Kendall? Yeah, he’s friends with somebody here. I’m not sure exactly who,” Quentin says. “But he’s a good guy. He helped us clear out the camp, said he would keep people away for a few days. We needed a place off the grid. Until we can get things figured out.”