I don’t want that to happen again.
I wait outside Hunter Hall, peering in the direction of Taylor’s apartment. It’s cloudy and the air is thick and gray, so for a moment I mistake another young woman rushing in my direction for her. But it’s just someone out for a jog. When it’s five minutes past eight and it appears that Taylor is still asleep, I enter the lobby, where a guy in khakis and a blue button-down shirt is checking his watch.
“Sorry I’m late!” I call.
“Taylor?” he says. “I’m Ben Quick.”
I’d correctly gambled on the assumption that Taylor wouldn’t phone to cancel.
“Taylor is sick, so she asked me to come and do the questionnaire instead. I’m Jessica. Jessica Farris.”
“Oh.” Ben blinks. He looks me up and down, examining me more carefully.
I’ve traded my ankle boots for Converse high-tops and slung a black nylon backpack over one shoulder. I figure it won’t hurt if I look like a student.
“Can you hang on a second?” he finally says. “I need to check with Dr. Shields.”
“Sure.” I aim for the slightly bored tone Taylor used last night.
The worst thing that’ll happen is he’ll tell me I can’t participate, I remind myself. No big deal; I’ll just grab a bagel and take Leo for a long walk.
Ben steps aside and pulls out his cell phone. I want to listen to his side of the conversation, but his voice is muted.
Then he walks over to me. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight,” I respond truthfully.
I sneak a glance at the entrance to make sure Taylor isn’t going to saunter in at the last minute.
“You currently reside in New York?” Ben asks.
I nod.
Ben has two more questions for me: “Where else have you lived? Anywhere outside the United States?”
I shake my head. “Just Pennsylvania. That’s where I grew up.”
“Okay,” Ben says, putting his phone away. “Dr. Shields says you can participate in the study. First, I need to get your full name and address. Can I see some ID?”
I shift my backpack into my hand and dig through it until I find my wallet, then I hand him my driver’s license.
He snaps a picture, then takes down the rest of my information. “I can Venmo you the payment tomorrow at the conclusion of your session if you have an account.”
“I do,” I say. “Taylor told me it’s five hundred dollars, right?”
He nods. “I’m going to text all this to Dr. Shields, then I’ll take you upstairs to the room.”
Could it possibly be this simple?
CHAPTER
TWO
Saturday, November 17
You aren’t the subject who was expected to show up this morning.
Still, you meet the demographic criteria of the study and the slot would otherwise be wasted, so my assistant Ben escorts you to Room 214. The testing space is large and rectangular, filled with windows along the eastern-facing side. Three rows of desks and chairs line the shiny linoleum floor. At the front of the room is a SMART Board, its screen blank. High on the back wall is an old-fashioned round clock. It could be any classroom in any college campus in any city.
Except for one thing: You are the only person here.
This venue has been selected because there is little to distract you, facilitating your ability to concentrate on the task ahead.
Ben explains that your instructions will appear on the computer that is being provided for your use. Then he closes the door.
The room is silent.
A laptop waits on a desk in the first row. It is already open. Your footsteps echo across the expanse of the floor as you walk toward it.
You ease into the seat, pulling it up to the desk. The metal leg of your chair grates against the linoleum.
A message is visible on the screen:
Subject 52: Thank you for your participation in Dr. Shields’s morality and ethics research project. By entering this study, you agree to be bound by confidentiality. You are expressly prohibited from discussing the study or its contents with anyone.
There are no right or wrong answers. It is essential that you are honest and give your first, instinctive response. Your explanations should be thorough. You will not be permitted to move on to the next question until the prior one is completed.
A five-minute warning will be issued before the conclusion of your two hours.
Press the Return key when you are ready to begin.
Do you have any idea of what to expect?
You bring your finger to the Return key, but instead of touching it, your hand hovers over the keyboard. You are not alone in your hesitation. Some of the fifty-one subjects before you exhibited varying degrees of uncertainty, too.
It can be frightening to become acquainted with parts of yourself that you don’t like to admit exist.
Finally, you press the key.
You wait, watching the blinking cursor. Your hazel eyes are wide.
When the first question blooms on the screen, you flinch.
Perhaps it feels strange to have someone probing intimate parts of your psyche in such a sterile setting, without disclosing why the information is so valuable. It is natural to shy away from feelings of vulnerability, but you will need to surrender to this process if it is to be successful.
Remember the rules: Be open and truthful, and avoid pivoting away from any embarrassment or pain these questions provoke.
If this initial query, which is relatively mild, unsettles you, then you might be one of the women who wash out of the study. Some subjects don’t return. This test isn’t for everyone.
You continue to stare at the question.
Maybe your instincts are telling you to leave without even starting.
You wouldn’t be the first.
But you lift your hands to the keyboard again, and you begin to type.
CHAPTER
THREE
Saturday, November 17
As I stare at the laptop in the unnaturally quiet classroom, I feel kind of anxious. The instructions say there are no wrong answers, but won’t my responses to a morality test reveal a lot about my character?
The room is cold, and I wonder if that is deliberate, to keep me alert. I can almost hear phantom noises—the rustle of papers, the thud of feet against the hard floors, the jostling and joking of students.
I touch the Return key with my index finger and wait for the first question.
Could you tell a lie without feeling guilt?
I jerk back.
This wasn’t what I expected when Taylor mentioned the study with a dismissive flip of her hand. I guess I didn’t anticipate being asked to write about myself; for some reason, I assumed this would be a multiple choice or yes/no survey. To be confronted with a question that feels so personal, as if Dr. Shields already knows too much about me, as if he knows I lied about Taylor . . . well, it rattles me more than a little.
I give myself a mental shake and lift my fingers to the keyboard.
There are many types of lies. I could write about lies of omission or huge, life-changing ones—the kind I know too well—but I choose a safer course.
Sure, I type. I’m a makeup artist, but not one of the ones you’ve read about. I don’t work on models or movie stars. I get Upper East Side teenagers ready for prom, and their moms ready for fancy benefits. I do weddings and bat mitzvahs, too. So yeah, I could tell a high-strung mother that she could still be carded, or convince an insecure sixteen-year-old that I didn’t even notice her pimple. Especially because they’re more likely to give me a nice tip if I flatter them.