I hit Enter, not knowing if this is the kind of response the professor wants. But I guess I’m doing it right, because the second question appears quickly.
Describe a time in your life when you cheated.
Whoa. That feels like a presumption.
But maybe everybody has cheated, even if just at a game of Monopoly when they were little. I think about it a bit, then type: In the fourth grade, I cheated on a test. Sally Jenkins was the best speller in the class, and when I looked up and chewed on the pink rubbery eraser of my pencil, trying to remember if “tomorrow” had one r or two, I caught sight of her paper.
Turns out it was two r’s. I wrote the word and mentally thanked Sally when I got an A.
I press Enter.
Funny how those details came back to me, even though I haven’t thought about Sally in years. We graduated from high school together, but I missed our last few reunions, so I have no idea how she turned out. Probably two or three kids, a part-time job, a house near her parents. That’s what happened to most of the girls I grew up with.
The next question hasn’t materialized yet. I tap the Enter key again. Nothing.
I wonder if there’s a glitch in the program. I’m about to go poke my head out the door to see if Ben is nearby, but then letters begin to appear on my screen, one by one.
Like someone is typing them in real time.
Subject 52, you need to dig deeper.
My body gives a sudden start. I can’t help looking around. The flimsy plastic blinds on the windows are pulled up, but there isn’t anyone outside on this drab, gloomy day. The lawn and sidewalk are deserted. There’s another building across the way, but it’s impossible to tell if anyone is in it.
Logically, I know I’m alone. It just feels like someone close to me is whispering.
I look back at the laptop. There’s another message:
Was that really your first, instinctual answer?
I almost gasp. How does Dr. Shields know?
I abruptly push back my chair and start to stand up. Then I get how he figured it out; it must have been my hesitation before I started typing. Dr. Shields realized I rejected my initial thought and chose a safer response. I pull my chair back toward the computer and exhale slowly.
Another instruction creeps across the page:
Go beyond the superficial.
It was crazy to think Dr. Shields could know what I’m thinking, I tell myself. Being in this room is obviously playing with my mind. It wouldn’t feel as weird if other people were around.
After a brief pause, the second question reappears on the screen.
Describe a time in your life when you cheated.
Okay, I think. You want the messy truth about my life? I can dig a little deeper.
Is it cheating if you are just an accessory in the act? I write.
I wait for a response. But the only movement on my screen is the blinking cursor. I continue typing.
Sometimes I hook up with guys I don’t know all that well. Or maybe it’s more like I don’t want to know them all that well.
Nothing. I keep going.
My job has taught me to carefully evaluate people when I first meet them. But in my personal life, especially after a drink or two, I can deliberately dial back the focus.
There was a bass player I met a few months ago. I went back to his place. It was obvious a woman lived there but I didn’t ask him about it. I told myself she was just a roommate. Is it wrong that I put on blinders?
I press Return and wonder how my confession will land. My best friend, Lizzie, knows about some of my one-night stands, but I never told her about seeing the bottles of perfume and the pink razor in the bathroom that night. She also doesn’t know about their frequency. I guess I don’t want her to judge me.
Letter by letter, a single word forms on my computer screen:
Better.
For a second, I’m glad I’m getting the hang of the test.
Then I realize a complete stranger is reading my confessions about my sex life. Ben seemed professional, with his crisp oxford shirt and horn-rimmed glasses, but what do I really know about this psychiatrist and his study?
Maybe it’s just being called a morality and ethics survey. It could be anything.
How do I know the guy is even a professor at NYU? Taylor doesn’t seem like the type to verify details. She’s a beautiful young woman, and maybe that’s why she was invited to participate.
Before I can decide what to do, the next question appears:
Would you cancel plans with a friend for a better offer?
My shoulders untense. This query seems completely innocuous, like something Lizzie might ask me if she were seeking advice.
If Dr. Shields were planning something creepy, he wouldn’t have set this whole thing up in a university classroom. Plus, he didn’t ask about my sex life, I remind myself. I’m the one who offered it up.
I answer the question: Of course, because my jobs aren’t regular. I have weeks when I’m swamped. I sometimes do seven or eight clients a day, ricocheting around Manhattan. But then I can go a few days when I only get a couple of call times. Turning away work isn’t an option for me.
I’m about to hit the Return key when I realize Dr. Shields won’t be satisfied by what I wrote. I follow his instructions and dig deeper.
I got my first job in a sandwich shop when I was fifteen. I left college after two years because I couldn’t take it. Even with financial aid, I had to waitress three nights a week and get student loans. I hated being in debt. The constant worry about whether my ATM receipt would show a negative balance, the way I’d have to sneak a sandwich to take home when I left work . . .
I’m doing a little better now. But I don’t have a cushion like my best friend, Lizzie. Her parents send her a check every month. Mine are pretty broke, and my sister has special needs. So sometimes, yeah, I might need to cancel plans with a friend. I have to take care of myself financially. Because when it comes down to it, I’ve only got myself to rely on.
I stare at my final line.
I wonder if I sound whiny. I hope Dr. Shields gets what I’m trying to say: My life isn’t perfect, but whose is? The hand I’ve been dealt could be worse.
I’m not used to expressing myself like this. Writing about hidden thoughts is like washing of makeup and seeing a bare face.
I answer a few more, including: Would you ever read a spouse’s/significant other’s text messages?
If I thought he was cheating, I would, I type. I’ve never been married, though, or lived with anyone. I’ve only had a couple of sort-of serious boyfriends, and I never had reason to doubt them.
By the time I’ve finished the sixth question, I feel different than I have in a while. I’m keyed up, like I’ve had an extra cup of coffee, but I’m not jittery or anxious anymore. I’m super-focused. I’ve completely lost track of time, too. I could have been in this classroom for forty-five minutes, or for twice that length.
I’ve just finished writing about something I would never be able to tell my parents—how I secretly pay some of Becky’s medical bills—when letters begin to surface on my screen again.
That must be difficult for you.
I read the message a second time, more slowly. I’m surprised by the comfort Dr. Shields’s kind words give me.
I lean back in my chair, feeling the hard metal press into the space between my shoulder blades, and try to imagine what Dr. Shields looks like. I picture him as a heavyset man with a gray beard. He’s thoughtful and compassionate. He’s probably heard it all. He isn’t judging me.