I find them in a corner of the room. Mandy is leaning against the edge of a desk piled high with books and a laptop, and Taylor is sitting in the chair. Both girls have their hair piled up in artfully messy buns and are wearing Juicy Couture sweats.
“Taylor!”
Her name comes out almost as a gasp.
She and Mandy both turn to look at me. Mandy’s nose wrinkles. Taylor wears a blank expression.
“Can I help you?” Taylor asks.
She has no idea who I am.
I draw closer. “It’s me, Jess.”
“Jess?” Mandy echoes.
“The makeup artist,” I say. “From BeautyBuzz.”
Taylor looks me up and down. I’m still in my work outfit, but my shirt has become untucked and I can feel the errant strands that have escaped from my low twist sticking to my neck.
“What are you doing here?” Taylor asks.
“I need to talk to you.”
Shhh! someone hushes us from a few desks away.
“Please, it’s important,” I whisper.
Maybe Taylor can sense my desperation, because she nods. She shoves her laptop into her bag but leaves her books. We take the elevator down to the lobby with Mandy trailing behind us. When we reach the main doors, Taylor pauses. “What is it?”
Now that I’ve finally found her, I don’t know where to begin.
“So, remember when I was doing your makeup and you mentioned a questionnaire?”
She shrugs. “Sort of.”
It’s been weeks since I took Taylors phone and listened to her voice mail. I try to recall what I knew back then.
“The one with the NYU professor about morality. It paid a lot of money. You were supposed to go the next morning . . .”
Taylor nods. “Yeah, that’s right. I was too tired, so I canceled.”
I take a deep breath.
“So . . . I ended up doing it.
Wariness fills Taylor’s eyes. She takes a step back.
Mandy makes a little sound in her throat: “Well, that’s weird,” she says.
“Yeah, anyway . . . I’m trying to find out a bit more about the professor.” I try to keep my voice steady as I look at Taylor.
“I don’t know her; a friend who’s a psych major took her class and told me about the study. C’mon, Mandy.”
“Wait, please!” My voice is shrill. I soften my tone. “Could I talk to your friend?”
Taylor assesses me for a moment. I try to smile, but I know it probably looks unnatural.
“It’s complicated, and I don’t want to bore you with all the details,” I say. “But if you like, I can tell you the whole story—”
Taylor holds up a hand: “Just call Amy.”
I’m glad I remembered these girls hate to be bored. It was the right tack to take.
She looks down at her phone, then recites the number as I tap it onto my own screen.
“Would you mind repeating that?” I ask. I’m pretty sure Mandy rolls her eyes, but Taylor gives me the digits again, this time more slowly.
“Thank you!” I call as they walk away.
Before they even turn the corner, I’ve dialed Amy.
She answers on the second ring.
“She was a great teacher,” Amy says. “I had her last spring. A tough grader, but not unfair . . . She really worked you. I think only two people in the class got A’s and I wasn’t one of them.” She gives a little laugh. “What more can I tell you? She has an amazing wardrobe. I’d kill for her shoes.”
Amy is in a taxi, on her way to LaGuardia Airport to fly home for her grandmother’s ninetieth birthday celebration.
“Did you know about her study?” I ask.
“Sure,” Amy says. “I was in it.
She isn’t suspicious about my questions, probably because I implied Taylor and I are friends, too. “It’s a little weird, because she must have realized who I was when I signed up, but she didn’t call me by my name. It was something strange . . . what was it again?”
She hesitates.
My breath catches in my lungs.
“Subject 16,” Amy finally says. My skin tingles.
“I remember the number because that’s my younger brother’s age,” she continues.
“What did she ask you?” I interject.
“Hang on a sec.” I hear her say something to the taxi driver, then the sound of rustling and a trunk slamming.
“Um, there was one about whether I’d ever lied on a medical form—you know, like, how much I drink, or my weight, or how many sexual partners I’ve had. I remember that one because I’d just had a physical and I’d lied about all those things!”
She’s laughing again, but I frown.
“I’m at the airport. I gotta go,” Amy says.
“Did you ever meet with her in person for the study?” I blurt.
“Huh? No, it was just a bunch of questions on a computer,” Amy says.
The ambient noises are so loud—people calling and chattering, a loudspeaker blaring an announcement about unattended bags—that I have trouble hearing her clearly. “Anyway, I need to check in; it’s total chaos here.”
I press on: “You never went to her office on Sixty-second Street? Did any of the subjects go there?”
“I don’t know, maybe some people did,” she says. “How cool would that be? I bet it’s totally chic.”
I have more questions, but I know I’m about to lose Amy.
“Could you do me a favor?” I say. “Could you think about it a little more and call me if you remember anything unusual?”
“Sure,” Amy says, but her voice is distracted and I wonder if she has even registered my request.
I hang up and feel something in my chest unclench.
My most important question has been answered, at least. Dr. Shields is a pro; she’s not only a professor, she’s a well-respected one. She wouldn’t have this position if she were doing anything shady.
I’m not sure why I got so worked up. I’m hungry and tired, plus the stress I’ve been feeling about my family might be affecting me. My father’s final day of work was November 30; his buyout is four months’ salary. They’ll run out of money by the time the Phillies have their first at bat of the season.
I’m exhausted by the time I turn the corner onto my street. My mind is whirling and my body feels simultaneously weighty and restless.
As I pass the Lounge, I look through the big glass windows. I can hear the faint strain of the music, and I see a group of guys playing pool.
I find myself looking for Noah.
I reach for Noah’s card and pull it out. Before I think about it too much, I text him: Hey, just walked by the Lounge and thought of you. Has that offer for breakfast expired?
He doesn’t respond immediately, so I keep walking.
I think about stopping by another bar. The Atlas is close by and it’s usually packed around this time, even on weeknights. I could go in alone, sit at the bar, order a drink, and see what happens, like I’ve done before when the pressure gets to be too much and I need an escape.
Since I can’t afford a spa day and I don’t do drugs, this is the way I find a release. I don’t do it all that often, although the last time I had to tell my doctor how many sexual partners I’ve had, I lied about it, just as Amy did.