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 to push or interrogate, has come as a shock.

But then again, maybe it’s not such a surprise to him that I have to learn this whole Outlier thing on my own. I learned to swim in the same stubborn, lonely way. Gideon ran right up to the pool and jumped in. He almost drowned before my dad rescued him and then showed him how. Meanwhile, it took me weeks of walking back and forth across the shallow end until I could catch even a few strokes. But swim I did, eventually. And all by myself.

“Hi, Wylie,” my dad says when he notices me in the doorway. He smiles, relieved that I have appeared. “Do you want some pancakes?”

Gideon huffs in disgust.

Disgusted that my dad is trying to change the subject. Disgusted by the sight of me. No, that’s not right. Disgusted is too mild. Gideon is enraged by me this morning. It rocks me back on my heels.

And this is partly why I still have not embraced this whole Outlier thing. Who wants to risk knowing what anyone is truly feeling about them? Also, I’m aiming for normal at the moment. Being an Outlier means accepting the fact that I am never going to fit in.

My dad puts a huge plate of pancakes down in front of me as I climb up on a stool next to Gideon, trying to ignore the anger pulsing my way. I wish I hadn’t come downstairs.