An Anonymous Girl(11)

As before, the slim, silver laptop is set up in the first row. Your instructions are visible on the screen, along with a greeting: Welcome Back, Subject 52.

You take off your coat and ease into the chair. Many of the other young women who have occupied this seat are almost indistinguishable, with their long, straightened hair, nervous giggles, and coltish frames. You stand out, and not only because of your unconventional beauty.

Your posture is almost rigid. You remain immobile for approximately five seconds. Your pupils are slightly dilated and your lips are pressed firmly together; classic symptoms of anxiety. You take a deep breath as you press the Enter key.

The first question appears on the screen. You read it, then your body relaxes and your mouth softens. You lift your eyes to the ceiling. You give a brisk nod, bend your head, and begin to type quickly.

You are relieved the final query from yesterday, the one you struggled with, is not on the screen.

By the third question, any remaining tension has evaporated from your body. Your guard is down. Your answers, as during the last session, do not disappoint. They are fresh, unfiltered.

I didn’t even leave him a note when I snuck out, you write in response to the fourth question, the one that asks: When was the last time you treated someone unfairly, and why?

The survey questions are deliberately open-ended so subjects can steer them in the direction of their choosing. Most female subjects shy away from the topic of sex, at least this early in the process. But this is the second time you’ve explored a subject that makes many people self-conscious. You elaborate: I figured we’d sleep together and then I’d leave. That’s what usually happens on nights like this. But on the way to his place, we passed a pretzel vendor and I started to buy one because I hadn’t eaten since lunch. “No way,” he said, pulling me away. “I make the best French toast in the city.”

But I fell asleep on his couch when he ran out to get eggs.

You are frowning now. Is this due to regret?

You continue to type: I woke up around midnight. But I wasn’t going to stay, and it’s not just because of my dog. I guess I could have left my number, but I’m not looking for a relationship.

You don’t want a man to get too close to you right now. It will be interesting if you elaborate on this, and for a moment, it seems as if you will.

Your fingers remain poised above the keyboard. Then you give a little shake of your head and you touch Enter to submit your answer.

What else was it that you were tempted to write?

When the next question appears, your fingers fly back to the computer. But you don’t respond to it. Instead, you pose a query of your own to your questioner.

I hope it’s okay if I break the rules, but I just thought of something, you type. I didn’t feel guilty when I left that guy’s place. I went home, walked Leo, and slept in my own bed. When I woke up this morning, I’d almost forgotten about him. But now I wonder if I was rude. Is it possible that this morality survey is making me more moral?

The more you disclose about yourself, Subject 52, the more compelling the picture of you becomes.

Out of all the subjects who have participated in this study, only one has ever directly addressed the questioner before: Subject 5. She was different from the rest in many other ways, too.

Subject 5 became . . . special. And disappointing. And ultimately, heartbreaking.





CHAPTER


SEVEN


Wednesday, November 21

Moral questions lurk everywhere.

As I buy a banana and water for the bus ride home, the weary-looking cashier in the terminal kiosk gives me change for a ten instead of a five. A woman with pockmarked skin and crooked teeth holds a flimsy piece of cardboard that reads: Need $$$ for ticket home to see sick mother. God Bless. The bus is crowded, as it always is right before the holidays, but the thin, longhaired man sitting across from me puts his backpack down on the empty seat beside him, claiming the territory.

I pick a seat and immediately regret my choice. The lady next to me spreads out her elbows as she reads on her Kindle, edging into my space. I pretend to stretch, then bump her arm and say, “Excuse me.”

As the bus driver turns on the engine and pulls out of the terminal, I think about my Sunday session with Dr. Shields again. The question I dreaded never resurfaced, but I still dug into some pretty serious stuff.

I wrote about how a lot of my friends call their dads when they need to borrow money, or to get advice on how to handle a difficult boss. They dial their moms when they come down with the flu, or for comfort during a breakup. If things had been different, that’s the kind of relationship I might’ve had with my parents.

But my parents have enough stress; they don’t need to worry about me. So I carry the burden of needing to construct a great life not just for one daughter, but for two.

Now I rest my head against the seat back and think about Dr. Shields’s response: That’s a lot of pressure to endure.

Knowing that someone else gets it makes me feel a little less alone.

I wonder if Dr. Shields is still conducting his study, or if I was one of his last subjects. I was addressed as Subject 52, but I have no idea how many other anonymous girls sat in the same uncomfortable metal chair, pecking away at the same keyboard, on other days. Maybe he’s talking to another one right now.

My seatmate shifts, crossing the invisible boundary into my space again. It’s not worth battling. I edge closer to the aisle, then reach for my phone. I scroll through some old texts looking for one from a high school classmate who was organizing an informal reunion at a local bar the night after Thanksgiving. But I scroll down too far, and instead pull up the text that came in from Katrina over the summer, the one I never responded to: Hey Jess. Can we meet for a cup of coffee or something? I was hoping we could talk.