The Scattering Read online

  No. Whatever that feeling is—it’s one instinct I will not follow. Jasper and I are friends. We are better off that way.

  “Anyway,” Jasper goes on. “I walked down the far side of the bridge to check out the drop. And I was on my way back up already wondering what the hell I was doing when I saw them putting you in an ambulance with Boston General’s name on it. And you were totally out cold. Like lifeless.” He shudders, remembering. “I started to run up to stop them. But there were too many of them. So I decided instead to steal some poor kid’s bike and come here.” He is staring at the side of my face. And I can feel that he isn’t going to stop staring until I look up at him. And so I do. “Two seconds on that bike and I realized that I wasn’t thinking clearly. That I wasn’t thinking at all. The scary thing is how it feels now like someone else was on that bridge. I can’t even believe I thought about it. I don’t think I ever would have actually done it. It was just this moment in time. And now it’s gone.”

  I nod. “Make sure it stays that way,” I say. “I can’t—” My voice catches. “Just—no time-outs. For anybody.”

  “Okay,” Jasper says, and I feel him about to reach out to touch me—a hug maybe, a hand on my arm. But he doesn’t. Part of me wishes he had. The smarter part is glad that he did not.

  “Do you think I can get back out with you?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “This is only an ID. They’ll have to buzz me back out.”

  “There are fire stairs,” I say. “I saw them in the common room. There’s an alarm over there, too. What if we pull it and then take off down the fire stairs? Don’t they always have to leave those doors unlocked?”

  Jasper frowns. “The stairs and alarm are a good idea, but isn’t that right in view of the guards? But there’s got to be another alarm, over here maybe. If you head over to the stairs out in the main room, I can find it and you can take off out the fire exit. Even if I get hung up, I have the ID. You’re the one who needs to get out without anyone seeing.”

  The other girls. I still haven’t told them anything: not about being Outliers or my dad, or people like Quentin. I didn’t warn them about the danger I am sure they are in. How can I leave them there so totally unprepared?

  “I can’t,” I say.

  “Weren’t you the one just asking—”

  “I know. I know,” I say. “And I do need to get out, definitely. But the other girls—they don’t even know that being an Outlier is a thing.”

  “Then we can get out and send your dad back to tell them all about it,” Jasper says, and he’s annoyed. I can tell. Maybe it’s even fair. After all, he went through a lot to get in and now I am refusing to leave. Or, you know, also maybe because he cares about me. “It doesn’t have to be you who stays, Wylie.”

  And maybe I feel overly responsible for these girls because of what happened to Cassie. That doesn’t necessarily make the feeling any less real, or right.

  “But it does have to be me,” I say quietly.

  “You and I both know what happens when you hang around to see this shit play out, Wylie. It doesn’t end well. Ask Cassie.” Jasper’s voice catches on her name. He looks down. “Listen, I get that you care about the people here.” He hesitates, looks away as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “But I only care about you.”

  He’s confused now. Like I was when I thought he was gone. Once all this bullshit is past, and the world is quiet, Jasper is going to realize what I already know: that he is better off without me.

  “It’s not just that they are my friends or something,” I say, steering this conversation hard back to the point, and away from us. Jasper will thank me later. “I had an actual chance to tell all of them about being Outliers. And I didn’t. Partly because I was worried for them. But partly because I was worried for me. I have to stay and warn them, then I will go.”

  Jasper stares down. Finally, he nods. Before he can say anything else, there is a noise in the hall.

  “You should go before somebody finds you in here.”

  “Okay,” Jasper says. But not like he thinks it’s okay at all. He just seems sad. And that feels like proof somehow that I’m right. That he will be better off if we keep things between us clear and simple. That I will be too.

  “Can you do something for me, though?” I ask.

  “Anything.”

  “Stop by my house and check for my dad? It seems like he should have been here by now.”

  “Sure, yeah, of course,” Jasper says, glad to have something to do.

  There’s another noise in the hall, like a door opening and closing. Jasper stands.

  “Can you take this, too?” I hand him Kelsey’s copy of 1984. “Hold on to it.”

  He looks down at it skeptically. “Really?”

  “It has some notes in it that are important.” Kelsey might be mad that I gave it away. But it is for safekeeping.

  “Okay, but on one condition,” he says.

  “What?” I ask, reminded of that last phone call Jasper and I had before the bridge.

  “That you promise me you’ll be okay.”

  “Definitely.” I smile. Whatever I say won’t be any more true than what Jasper said to me. Right now, the truth is out of both of our hands.

  “And get out soon,” Jasper says. “Because I’ll be waiting.”

  14

  I WAKE TO LOUD VOICES IN THE HALLWAY. JASPER CAUGHT? MY HEART IS RACING as I lurch out of bed and throw open the door. But outside it’s only Becca and Ramona laughing loudly right across the hall from my door.

  “Wylie, you have got to hear this shit,” Becca says, striding over to me and waving for Ramona to follow. I catch the time on the hallway clock: seven thirty. Morning. I feel relieved to have survived the night. Becca looks up and down the hall like she wants to be sure no one is listening, leans in close. “That asshole guard said he would let me go if I had sex with him.”

  “What kind of idiot says that outright?” Ramona chimes in. Once, then twice she plucks at her bracelet.

  “Men are so stupid,” Becca says.

  “What an ass,” Ramona adds before her eyes shoot over to me like she’s just remembered something. “Hey, wait, speaking of asses, what the hell was that, you running after that guy yesterday? That was whacko. And I mean for real. Like fucking nuts.”

  “Yep, full-on psycho,” Becca says.

  They are both looking at me like they want an actual explanation for my outburst.

  “I didn’t believe what he was saying.” I shrug. “I wanted him to tell us the truth about why we’re here.”

  “No offense,” Ramona says, crossing her arms and seeming more suspicious now, “but isn’t that the second time they had to drug you?”

  “Yeah, didn’t you do the same kind of thing when they were bringing you here?” Becca asks. And it’s the opposite of the you-go-girl compliment it could be. “I heard you beat the crap out of the EMTs.”

  They aren’t on my side anymore, at least not necessarily. There is still a line between crazy and crazy, and I might have thrown myself on the wrong side of it.

  “Chanting ‘let us go’ is one thing,” Ramona says. “Attacking people is kind of another.”

  This particular moment—when I have zero credibility—doesn’t seem like the best time to tell them about being Outliers and my dad’s research and all of it. But I have no choice. All I’ve done is wait.

  But when I step forward out into the hallway, my foot knocks into something on the floor.

  “What’s that?” Becca asks, pointing to something white and balled-up in my doorway.

  I crouch down to look. It’s one of the scratchy, hospital-issue towels they’ve given us. When I put my hand on top, there’s something hard inside. Something bigger than my spread-fingered hand. I press down, trying to figure out what it is without taking the towel off. Already I have the most awful feeling I know.

  “Why don’t you look?” Becca asks—a totally reasonable question. One that I can’t possibly answe
r.

  “I . . .”

  Instead, I scoop the towel up, bolt back inside my room, and slam the door. I can hear Ramona and Becca whispering on the other side for a minute. It sounds like they are debating whether one of them should go after me—it’s a “you do it,” “no, you do it,” kind of exchange. Finally, they decide against it altogether. Soon their voices are drifting away.

  My ears are ringing as I step to the bed and rest down the towel and its mysterious cargo. I take one last deep breath before I tug hard on the towel like I’m performing a magic trick. I try to quickly close my eyes. But it’s too late. I’ve already seen what’s rolled out: a plastic baby, covered in red.

  My heart surges as my stomach pushes up into my throat. A baby like the ones left on our porch? Here? Now?

  Who left it? Absurdly, I think of Quentin torturing me from the grave. I think of Jasper doing it in some twisted act of betrayal. My mind spins frantically forward.

  Wait. No. I will not do this. This must be exactly their point—whoever they are. This must be what they want: to make me suspicious and paranoid. But I will not line up the suspects. I will not try to get to the root of this mystery. No more. Not after everything. The whole point is to make me afraid, or to make me lose my mind for real. And it will not work. Not this time. I will show them. I am not scared. I am not going to hide. Not anymore.

  I jam my feet into my flip-flops, grab the baby by a leg, and yank open the door to my room. I stride hard down the long hallway, heading straight for the common room. My heels strike the ground harder with each and every step. Boom, boom, boom. Until it hurts. Until I am glad for the pain.

  Go to hell. Go to hell. Go to hell. I chant in my head. You will not make me feel worse. You will not make me more afraid. You will not make me hide or doubt myself. And I do not care who you are. I do not care why. Because I decide. I choose how I feel.

  My face is hot when I finally race out into the common room and the security guys startle to attention. The Wolf is there. If I were closer, I could probably feel him thinking his awful thoughts about me, imagining my neck in his hands. But I am glad he is here. I want him to see how little I care, too.

  My eyes move from the guards to Ramona and Becca, standing next to each other toward the back of the room. And Kelsey is there, stretched out on the couch, a book in her hands. All of the girls are there. All watching me. It’s hard to believe we have any connection anymore. Not with the way they are all looking at me.

  Becca and Ramona are shaking their heads a little. Open mouths. Appalled. Almost as if they are saying: Don’t. Don’t do it. Whatever you’re thinking. Dr. Haddox is at the back, talking to Elise, and he looks concerned. Probably that he will have to act again to stop me.

  Their eyes are all still on me when I finally stop in the center of the room and lift that baby high over my head. Despite their staring. Despite their disapproval. And just like that, a valve opens up inside me, and out pours only rage.

  “Whoever left this for me can go to hell!” I scream so loud it burns my throat. I look around some more, wave the baby again over my head. “And when I find out who you are, I will make you sorry. I promise I will.”

  Cassie. That’s who I feel like. When she climbed up on top of that stranger’s car all those months ago on my behalf. At the time, I had wanted nothing more than to feel that kind of anger. Had believed it would devour my fear. And I’d been right: I am not scared anymore. But I hadn’t considered the cost. Because when I look out around the room, at all those startled eyes, I don’t feel strong. I feel trapped. Like whoever left the baby wanted exactly this to happen: for me to look like I was finally losing it. Now there is no way that anybody is going to listen to me about anything—Outliers or otherwise.

  And so, I turn toward the tall garbage can nearby and crack the baby down into it. So hard that for a second I think I’ve broken the bin. But the top just sails round and round until finally it slows to a stop.

  I’m still glaring down at the trash can’s spinning lid when I hear a whimper close to me on the floor. When I look over to the side there’s Teresa, knees clutched to her chest, trembling.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, feeling a hot wave of guilt. “Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean—I didn’t see you there.”

  But when Teresa looks up, her face is so swollen and red and tear streaked. She looks like she’s been crying for a while, way before me and the baby and the trash can.

  “Can you help me get out of here?” she begs.

  “Um, I don’t think there’s any way—”

  “I mean out of this—back to my room? I don’t want everyone to see me upset like this.”

  And the truth is, I don’t want them staring at me anymore either. Slamming that baby into the trash was the end of my rage. But without it, I am no longer invincible. I’m not sure I am all that strong.

  “Yeah, okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  TERESA’S ROOM IS at the end of the hall. With its two windows, it is much brighter than mine. Outside, the sky is a sharp blue, and sun streams through. It’s so cheerful that I might even be able to forget there ever was a doll. That is if my hand weren’t throbbing from where I was gripping it.

  “Thank you for helping me,” Teresa says. And she is weirdly peaceful now, which is almost as unsettling as her excitement. Or her sobbing. I realize now that none of Teresa’s feelings ever seem to fit the situation. That’s what makes them so uncomfortable.

  “No problem,” I say. “What happened? I mean, why were you so upset out there?”

  “I spoke to my pastor on the phone.”

  She was allowed to call her pastor? I think, but try to stay focused.

  “And he made you cry?”

  She shakes her head. “He’s not like that. That’s why I started going to meetings instead of my grandmother’s church. He’s more progressive. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, though. Some sins you can’t make up for.”

  This sadness is real and, for the first time, crystal clear. And it runs so deep that it makes my chest ache.

  “What sins?” I ask. After her grandmother’s six-minute rule. It’s hard not to feel like she’s exaggerating about what kinds of things she might have done wrong.

  “Boys. Most of them I didn’t even know.” She glances over at me, and I try not to twitch. Sex? I didn’t see that coming. But it could explain some of her jumpy, chaotic feelings. Maybe she’s pushed some secrets so far down that when they pop back up, they spray out like fireworks. “One time, I even hitchhiked to a rest stop and let this one old guy pay me. I don’t even know why.” She takes a breath, and this time when she exhales her whole body sags. “I felt so bad all the time about myself even before that. Doing terrible things just gave me something specific to hate myself for.”

  “People make mistakes,” I manage, grabbing out of thin air Jasper’s words to me all those weeks ago. But I need to say something more. The thing they all need to know, but right now Teresa especially. “Also, I think there’s a chance that all of us here—that we’re extra sensitive to other people’s feelings. My dad researches it. Anyway, that could be part of why you felt bad about yourself.”

  I wait for the onslaught of questions. What do you mean, extra sensitive? What research? Instead, I feel a new wave of peace when she smiles at me. And then sympathy—for me. Like I am even more deserving of pity than her. It makes me super uncomfortable. Teresa reaches up and takes off her necklace.

  “Here, take this. As a thank-you for being so nice to me.” She extends a small gold cross on a delicate chain. “My grandmother gave it to me. She said it would protect me from all bad things, even the ones in my own heart.” I eye the chain, which I do not want to put on. Like completely don’t want to, though I can’t exactly explain why.

  “You should keep it,” I say. Force a smile. “If your grandmother gave it to you, it must be special.”

  “No, really.” Teresa steps closer, already holding out the two ends of the necklace so that sh
e can put it on me. “You need it right now more than I do.” I resist the urge to stop her as she clasps the delicate chain around my throat, then leans back to see how it falls on me. “Perfect.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “And I wouldn’t worry about the things you did in the past, or how you’ve felt. I don’t think any of us are sick, not like they’re saying.” Hearing myself say it out loud is a relief. It’s not so insane after all. It’s simple even. The other girls will believe me. They’ll have to. “Anyway, I think sometimes not understanding yourself can make you feel worse.”

  “That’s what my therapist says. Or I guess she didn’t say that. She made it so that I would figure it out by myself.”

  “Ah, I’m familiar with that technique.” I smile, for real. It is nice having this in common. “When my therapist does that, I fall for it every time. Usually, she’s right.”

  Teresa actually smiles a little for the first time. “Is yours pretty, too?” she asks. “Sometimes I think that’s why I fall for it. Because my therapist is like this perfect china doll in her big red chair.”

  15

  OUT IN THE HALLWAY, I LEAN BACK AGAINST THE WALL. PRESS A HAND TO MY chest to try to slow down my pounding heart. Teresa is one of Dr. Shepard’s patients? Does that mean everyone else is? Is that what actually connects us? But it doesn’t explain so much else: like how we also just happened to all be Outliers. Whatever the truth, I don’t believe for a second that Dr. Shepard intended me—or us—to be locked away. No possible way.

  Still, I would feel much better if I had proof.

  WHEN I COME back into the common room, I feel all eyes on me again—the guards, all of the girls except for Teresa. Luckily, I don’t see Dr. Haddox anywhere. One less person to be self-conscious in front of. And everyone else has shifted around some, is preoccupied now. Kelsey is stretched out on the couch, Fahrenheit 451 in her hands. I try to ignore the Wolf’s eyes digging into me as I cross the room to her.

  “Hey,” I say to Kelsey, not sure where to begin.

  She looks up and raises an eyebrow at me. “You seriously know how to lie low, don’t you?” I try to read whether that’s an insult or a joke. But there’s the brick wall again. At least I know now what it is: she is blocking me.