“Good news! Looks like the NIH might fund Dad’s official Outlier study!” Gideon shouts. As if this is the final comeback in some long argument we’ve been having.

And in a way maybe it is. Gideon’s own test results were average. My dad couldn’t lie about that. Which means his nonvisual, nonauditory emotional perception was normal and fine when the auditory and visual limitations were each tested separately, but he—like the vast majority of people—has no HEP. He’s not an Outlier. And Gideon might have been able to accept that if there’d been some hope of changing it. But my dad insists that Gideon cannot be an Outlier because the Outliers are only girls. He may not know why yet, but that has not made him any less certain of this crucial fact.

At first, Gideon outright rejected the whole “only girls” thing, convinced that my dad had made some small but critical miscalculation. But when my dad refused to waste energy confirming the gender disparity, it sent Gideon into a rage spiral. Like how dare all males be denied.

It makes me want to point out all the other things boys get the better part of the deal on: like height for instance or running speed or being able to procreate without their bodies being ripped apart. Or, I don’t know, having only the most remote chance of getting raped when girls have to think about it every time they walk out the door.

But I know how Gideon would take that: as a declaration of war. And who wants to go to battle with a lunatic?

“The NIH response to our funding proposal has been encouraging,” my dad says. “But nothing is guaranteed.”

“Aren’t you going to tell her the rest, Dad?” Gideon goes on. “I mean, it is her brain after all.”

My eyes fly wide open. “Tell me what?”

My dad takes a loud breath, then looks up at me and forces a totally unconvincing smile. “Everything else is very preliminary. But there is a neuroscientist from UCLA who thinks she might be onto something on the source question. It sounds promising, but it is very early days.”

Already, my heart has picked up speed. Here it is, sooner than I thought: the dread final diagnosis. I am not prepared. I can maybe accept that I am an Outlier, and I can almost have a little fun learning what that means. But I am still afraid to know why. There is something too permanent about that. I have the urge to put my hands over my ears. It’s only the thought of how much this would please Gideon that keeps them balled at my sides.

“So tell her,” Gideon says. “Tell her what the neuroscientist thinks.”

“Gideon, if Wylie wants to know those kinds of details she can ask me,” he says sharply. My dad turns to me. “And you should take your time.”