My number is there, in the very middle. Thank you, complex compatibility algorithm! I take back all the times I called you rigged. It’s been over a year since my number last appeared, and in that time I’ve totally committed myself to being the perfect Nice. Now I’ll find out if that’s enough to succeed, or if I’m destined to die before I’m even given a chance to fight for my life.
“Nices go through the door to the left, Bads to the right. If you’re not sure what your disposition is, that’s fine, the color of your number will tell you. Nices are blue, Bads are red.”
My number is blue, confirming my suspicions: they think I’m a Nice. I quickly glance at the other chosen guys. I ignore the Bads, because they never pick two Love Interests from the same floor, so these Bads will never be anything to me. The Nices all have light hair and boyish faces. She has a type. Three of them are about my age, but the one directly in front of me is much younger, probably eleven or twelve. He has no chance of passing this examination, but is going to be forced through it anyway.
I clench my hands into fists. He shouldn’t be here. I can’t say anything now, because if I do we’ll both be punished, but if I fail the examination I’m going to take him aside and make sure he knows I care about him. The boy shuffles toward the doorway. I wait for a second, because Nices don’t lead, then I join the line. The glass panes separate, revealing a square room. We enter.
In the doorway I tense. At the back of the room, standing still, is a Stalker. I’ve seen one in person only a few times, but fleeting encounters have been enough to give me nightmares.
It’s a tall robot, standing at around eight feet, with a hulking, all-black body. That’s not the worst part, though; that honor goes to its head, which looks like a mannequin’s: no eyes, no nostrils, lips pursed. Right now, the body is totally black, which means it’s currently dormant. My heartbeat steadies. It can’t move unless its lights are on, so this one isn’t here to hurt anyone. It’s here to keep us in line, and to remind us what will come after us if we disobey.
The door at the back of the room opens, and a short, round man in a striped navy button-down and black slacks enters. They’d kill me if I looked like that. A stethoscope hangs over his shoulders.
He hooks the stethoscope into his ears, then walks up to the first boy, who is flexing his biceps. The doctor ignores the showboating and presses the metal end of the stethoscope against the boy’s chest. After a few moments, the doctor switches the stethoscope for a tape measure and measures the boy’s torso. I was the last to enter this room, so I’m at the end of the line. Now I feel like that was a mistake. What if they find the perfect Love Interest before they get to me?
As I wait my turn, I stand with my back straight and my fists clenched. After what feels like forever, the doctor beckons the boy in front of me forward. The kid takes a tentative step toward the doctor, then raises his hands. He’s so small. The doctor narrows his eyes, and the boy lets out a little sob that breaks my heart.
“Runt,” says the doctor. “Get out of here. Next.”
The kid scurries away. I step forward, taking his place, and the doctor presses the end of the stethoscope onto my chest. The metal is freezing, but I keep my face expressionless. Still, I can’t control my heartbeat, so he must know I’m feeling something, even if he doesn’t know what it is. He’ll probably put it down to nerves, and that’s partially true, but if I’ve done my job right he’ll never suspect that I’m feeling frustration or maybe even anger at the way they’re treating the kid. A Nice would never feel such unsavory things.
He pulls the stethoscope away. “Arms up.”
I raise my arms over my head. He leans in close and wraps the tape measure around my chest and pulls it tight, pinching my skin. I grit my teeth. He smells like cinnamon candy and body odor.
He takes a step back. “Flex.”
I tilt my arms back, arch my spine, and flex my biceps as hard as I possibly can.
As he wraps the tape around my right bicep I notice there’s a blue line drawn on the measure. It must be to make sure I’m not too big. Bads can be as buff as they want, the bigger the better, actually. For a Nice, the aim of the game is lean. I need to look friendly and cute, but when I take my shirt off I need to be ripped. Just in an approachable way that doesn’t look like I work out much. Like these muscles happened accidentally, the result of playing outside with a golden Labrador or good genes or something like that.
My bicep falls within the acceptable bracket, so he moves across and checks my left.
“Good job,” he says as he drops the tape measure. My mouth falls open an inch before I catch it. I’ve never been complimented by a doctor. Not even once. “Now tense.” He places his palm on my stomach and presses. I feel my own firmness against his skin. He pulls his hand away and nods at the hair that covers my chest. “That’ll need to be fixed. Nices can’t be hairy. But other than that, your body is in excellent condition. Great work.”
I want to jump up and down, or pump my fist, or do something to show how freaking fantastic his words have made me feel, but I remain still.
He turns to the guard. “This one and that one—” He tilts his head toward the boy at the front of the line. In the corner of my vision, I see him turn and look at me, sizing me up. I keep my attention focused on the guards, as if not looking at him will wipe him from existence. “—can advance. The others aren’t ready.”
I crack and turn to face my competition. He’s got hazel eyes, and his nose and shoulders are covered in freckles. He looks like an average nerdy-in-a-hot-way Nice.
For my sake I hope that’s all he is.
“You first,” I say with a gesture toward the door.
When he thinks they aren’t watching, he narrows his eyes at me. “How kind of you.”
I blink, startled. I didn’t even think that he might be offended by the offer. Obviously he thinks I was being a smartass or something, but I really wasn’t, it was just instinct.
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to…”
The door opens. He sneers one last time, then steps through.
Suddenly the room is eerily quiet. So this is it. My interrogation, also known as my best shot at getting out of here this year. I exhale. I know I’m as prepared as it’s possible to be, but I can’t shake the feeling that my best efforts aren’t enough, and that I’m doomed to spend my whole life here. The thought makes me shiver.
After an eternity, the door slides open. I gulp, then step forward. The door whooshes closed behind me.
The room is plain, the walls smooth and featureless. Sitting at a stainless steel table is a trim man with rigidly perfect posture and solid gray hair. Despite his hair color, his eyes are bright and his face is mostly wrinkle-free, so pinning his exact age is difficult. I’d guess late thirties or early forties.