The Outliers. Kimberly McCreight

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СКАЧАТЬ to confess. I do. To get me out the door.

      “You never know,” I manage, then motion for Jasper to grab up what’s left on the floor. I point to the button on the wall next to him. “Can you press that? It opens the garage door.”

      I twitch when the door grinds up loudly, squeezing my supplies so tight that they cut into my ribs. The pain is weirdly reassuring, though. Before I pass out always comes the numbness and then the tunnel to blackness. And I don’t feel any of that, not yet. Just deep underwater, the pressure crushing my skull.

      As the door rattles the rest of the way up, maybe Jasper says something, maybe he doesn’t. Because I can’t hear anything but the roar of that door. Can’t feel anything but the thumping of my own heart.

      There’s a rush of cold air on my face as the night sky finally rises before my eyes. I can see the house across the street, the front yard I played in so many times as a little kid. The side yard that was once my shortcut to school. Memories now from someone else’s life. The air smells good, too, like wood smoke and snow. Safe. And yet all I feel is more afraid.

      Jasper is already out on the driveway, marching toward his car like the totally normal person he is. Loading up his trunk with the rest of my useless supplies. A second later he’s back, standing next to me, staring. But even with the shame of Jasper’s eyes boring into me, the pain of knowing that I could be wasting Cassie’s time, my feet still will not move.

      There’s only one way out of this garage: to believe that I can. You can do it. You can do it. I hear my mom’s voice in my head. I can feel her fingers crossed as I inch my way for hours up the side of that stone. It got me up that stone. It’s what will get me out that door.

      “Give me your arm,” I say to Jasper without looking at him. He hesitates, then holds a bicep out toward me. I wrap a couple of fingers around his bare elbow, which was supposed to feel less weird than actually holding his muscular arm. But does not. “I just need you to walk me to your car. Don’t ask why, please. I’m not going to tell you anyway.”

      And then I close my eyes. Because pretending I’m not actually doing this couldn’t hurt either.

      “Okay,” Jasper says, almost like a question.

      My eyes are still closed tight as we walk forward through the garage. Still, I can feel the darkness rush in around me when we finally step outside. Breathe, I tell myself as we make our way down what I’m guessing is the driveway. I don’t open my eyes until I feel the cool metal of the car in front of us. Finally, I suck in some air, dropping Jasper’s elbow and opening my eyes only long enough to dump everything inside the open back of his old Jeep. I squeeze my eyes shut as I feel my way over to the passenger door. Behind me, I hear Jasper close the trunk.

      I climb into the car, heart pounding. But for the first time it’s a rush of something good: I made it. I almost don’t believe it, looking down at myself sitting in the Jeep. I brace myself for all the questions Jasper will have when he finally slides into the car next to me. The ones I told him not to ask. And I can feel him staring at the side of my face again for a long minute, like he’s considering.

      “Okay, then,” is all he says when he turns the key. Like maybe he thinks I’m a little crazy, but has decided to be polite and keep it to himself. And I can accept that. I’ll have to.

      Instead of starting, Jasper’s car makes a loud coughing sound. “Don’t worry. It does this. It’ll catch eventually.”

      And I’m so relieved when it finally does turn over. Because if I have to go back inside, there’s zero chance I’m ever coming back out. And then a second later we’re pulling out of the driveway, and another second more and we’re already halfway up the street. We’re really going. I’m really going. And I am almost starting to—well, not relax. No, that would be a huge overstatement. But nothing is getting worse. I haven’t passed out, haven’t thrown up, which in this case—in my case—just might count as better. That is, until I see headlights at the top of our street: my dad coming home.

      I feel an unexpected stab of guilt. He’s going to be so worried when I’m not there. He wanted me to lock all the doors, and instead, I leave? And my note: Be back soon? It’s not like it explains anything. He’s going to freak.

      It’s true my dad isn’t my mom and he never will be. He doesn’t get me. And sometimes I feel like he doesn’t miss my mom enough. Like maybe they had fallen apart for good before the night she died. But he is trying his best now. I have no doubt about that.

      Still, I duck down as we roll past my dad’s car, moving fast in the opposite direction. I again choose protecting Cassie’s secret—whatever it is—over waving him down and telling him everything. Right now, I am Cassie’s friend first, a daughter second. And I could pretend that’s about me doing what’s right for her, but the dark truth is it feels a whole lot more selfish. Like it’s a lot more about proving her wrong about me.

      On cue, my phone vibrates in my hand, and I brace myself for a text from my dad, begging me to come home. But the text isn’t from him. It’s from Cassie. And it says so very little. But also way more than I want it to.

       Hurry.

      

      We do as Cassie has told us. Jasper and I drive briefly north on 95, then to Route 3 and onward north on 93 for almost an hour. The lights of Boston fade out behind us quickly and soon we pass out of Massachusetts and into New Hampshire. The highway is still wide, but pitch black on either side. Jasper and I each text Cassie again, more than once, hoping she’ll tell us something. How far north on 93? What next after that? What town are you in? Anything that might get a response. Are you okay? Please, answer us. But Cassie hasn’t. Not a single time.

      The only person I have heard from is my dad. He’s already sent half a dozen texts, all of which sound pretty much exactly the same as the one that just came through: Please, Wylie, tell me where you are. Please come home. I’m worried. He’s called a couple of times, too. Left a message once, though I haven’t been able to bring myself to listen to it.

      Not surprisingly, my dad found the Be back soon note I left in our kitchen lacking. But he’s trying so hard not to freak out. To even act like he’s also kind of proud of me for making it outside. To be honest, I felt pretty good about it, too. For a whole twenty minutes after we pulled away from the house, I was on an actual I’m-cured high.

      Now, that prison-break rush is gone, but I still feel better than I have in months. Like being in the middle of this actual emergency is exactly the cure I’ve been searching for. Or maybe it’s just harder to hear all the alarms sounding in my head now that they match reality. Because there I am, hurtling north to an unknown destination for an unknown reason to save a friend whom I love, but whom I also know cannot be trusted—and I feel calmer than I have in months.

      Jasper and I don’t talk much as the miles pass except “Are you cold?” and “Can we change the station?” Pretty soon almost every alternative on Jasper’s old-school radio is static, except some talk-radio program about the evils of psychiatric drugs and teens, which under the circumstances—my circumstances—feels pretty awkward.

      Luckily, it’s hard to hear much of СКАЧАТЬ