The Outliers. Kimberly McCreight

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      Supplies. It’s what I think of next. We’ll need supplies. And yes, that is mostly my way of delaying the inevitable: the outside. But also, supplies couldn’t hurt.

      As I head upstairs toward my bedroom, Jasper follows. Uninvited again. Though I didn’t specifically ask him to wait downstairs, because it didn’t occur to me he’d come. But him hovering is the least of my problems. The outside is looming larger and larger with each passing second. With each step, my feet feel heavier on the stairs, my lungs stiffer.

      “What exactly are we doing?” Jasper asks as we continue up the stairs.

      I realize now that he probably followed because I started marching upstairs without an explanation.

      “I need to get some stuff. It might be cold,” I say. “You didn’t have to come.”

      That is true. It might be cold. North on 95 and north on 93. That’s what Cassie said. It’s cold still in Boston even though it’s May. Who knows how much colder it could get. Or how far north we may have to go.

      A change of clothes, warm things—socks, boots, sweaters. And that is partly me being paranoid. But it can’t hurt to be prepared. That’s one thing the Boy Scouts and my mom could agree on.

      Once she finally had some marching orders from Dr. Shepard—help build Wylie’s confidence—my mom was all over it. By then I was in seventh grade and I’d been seeing Dr. Shepard for nearly a year. And my mom was desperate to help, to do something.

      To her, building confidence meant one thing: adventure. My mom had learned all her outdoors skills from my grandfather, the original Wylie, when she was my age. Wylie the First—an actual, real-life explorer always in search of some relic in a far-off land—had to return home for good once my grandmother was hospitalized. After that, he’d take my mom to the woods often, teaching her to build a fire or navigate by the sun, and out there, surrounded by all that wild, they’d both try to forget my grandmother’s untamable mind.

      Those trips with my grandfather had always been fun for my mom. For me? Not so much. They were too terrifying to be considered fun. The second time I ever rock climbed I got stuck halfway up, convinced my mom would have to call the National Guard with a helicopter. But she didn’t. She didn’t rush to rescue me at all like I thought she would. Like I kept begging her to. Instead, she just kept telling me that I could do it. Again and again and again. You can do it. You can do it. Not a shout or a yell or a cheer. Just quiet and steady and sure. Like a promise. You. Can. Do It. Of course you can. And so I closed my eyes and pretended I believed that until eventually—two hours later—I made it to the top of that rock. And for someone bawling, I did feel pretty awesome. I wasn’t cured and I wasn’t exactly having fun, but that trip and others did give me hope. And I needed that more than anything.

      I also loved every minute alone with my mom. Couldn’t get enough of listening to her explain how best to pitch a tent in the rain or how to get a foothold on a steep sheet of rock. And I’ll never forget what she looked like out there in the woods in the glow of a rising sun. Like a goddess. Or a warrior. A warrior-goddess. In my memory, that’s who she’ll always be.

      When Jasper and I reach the top of the steps, the bathroom door flies open and Gideon bounds out on a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped around his waist. He ends up nose to nose with Jasper.

      “Who are you?” Gideon asks. He looks small suddenly compared to Jasper, who has only an inch of height on him, but many pounds of muscle.

      “Jasper.” He holds out a closed fist, but instead of bumping it with his own knuckles like a normal teenager, Gideon tries to shake it awkwardly and СКАЧАТЬ