The Love Interest by Cale Dietrich
TO KIA
PART ONE
LOVE INTEREST
CHAPTER
ONE
All four walls of my cell are mirrors.
The light on the ceiling flashes red and pinpricks of crimson bounce around the room. Red, huh? That’s a bit sudden, seeing as the last examination was only a couple of weeks ago. I grin at the light, and my smile is reflected by the endless versions of myself that surround me. The light flashes again.
I drop into a push-up position. The concrete floor is so cold my hands go numb then start to burn. Up, down. Up, down. A strand of mousy-brown hair falls over my eyes. That color will be the first thing they change about me.
If I’m chosen, that is.
If I’m good enough, that is.
On flash nine I jump to my feet. Gritting my teeth, I grab my shirt and pull it up and over my head. The voice of the LIC’s events coordinator rings through my mind: When you’re examined, be proud to display the bodies you’ve worked so hard to create. You’re all incredibly beautiful young men, and you should relish the chance to show everyone how handsome you are.
I scrunch the shirt in my hands for a second—just a second—crushing it beneath my grip. Adrenaline pumps through my torso and my arms, making them feel electric. I toss the shirt into the corner of the room, then lower my eyes and force myself to do what they want me to do every morning: look at the boy/man/whatever I’ve become.
The countless hours I’ve spent working out have obviously had an impact. Still, I’m far from perfect. I mean, I have abs, which took forever to show, and I’m proud of my arms. But my skin is stormtrooper white, I have a mole on my left hip I’m really self-conscious about, and my chest is getting hairy. When did that happen? I touch my now-hairy chest. Oh great, another thing to stress about. I wish I could tell myself that it’s nothing, that they’ll fix whatever flaws I have if I’m chosen, but I can’t. Another boy was once dismissed because they said his nose was unpleasant. If an oddly shaped nose is enough to get rejected, I’m sure my pale, weirdly hairy body isn’t far behind.
I don’t linger on my face. It’s not hideous or anything, it’s just kind of boring. Plus, it’s destined to be changed. I close my eyes and try to get rid of the depressing thought. To make it through, I need to be positive.
I’ve worked frigging hard on my body, though. I open my eyes, then flex my biceps and smile. I’ve definitely bulked up since the last examination, and I hope I’m not too big to be a Nice. All the superfun and superrigorous personality testing they make us do here has shown that Nice is the disposition for me. But they’ve made a mistake. Me, a Nice? Yeah, right. Sure, I try to be friendly and I don’t like hurting people’s feelings, but that doesn’t mean I’m a Disney prince.
The light flashes again. I pull my trousers down, leaving me dressed only in sky-blue trunks. As I throw the pants away, my door hisses and slides open. I wince and raise a hand, my forearm protecting my eyes from the burning whiteness of the hallway.
I walk outside and stop in front of my door. The others are already standing in front of their cells. The floor of this hallway is white concrete, but the walls and ceiling are long, smooth mirrors.
Dozens of guys are visible, all dressed in the same trunks as I am. Most are busy staring at themselves, fixing their hair, practicing their smiles, or flexing their biceps, but a few are looking from side to side, sizing up the competition. Those are the threats.
We don’t talk.
We know better than that.
“Turn,” booms a tinny voice.
With a shuffling sound, we turn to the left and stare down the hallway. In front of me is a guy so ridiculously buff I instantly lose all pride I have in my body and seriously wonder why I even try. His back is muscles on muscles on muscles. How does he even work those muscles out? Extremely complicated yoga?
It turns out the back belongs to a not-so-complicated guy named Robert. He says that name was given to him by his birth parents, but that’s a huge lie. We aren’t the result of loving families: we were taken, probably as infants, from families that couldn’t care for us. Some people think our parents were tricked into giving us up, believing we were going to a family that wanted us. Others think they sold us to the LIC. I lean toward the former because the thought is comforting, and to me, that’s more important than the truth.
Unlike Robert, all I have is a number: 412.
Robert’s a Bad for sure. It’s evident in the confidence-killing meatiness of his back and in the uneven tribal tattoo that covers his right shoulder. Even the people in charge here must think he’s 100 percent Bad, as someone borderline like me would never get permission to destroy his so-called wholesome image as he’s done. He catches me looking and his top lip curls into a snarl.
“You may now proceed to the main hall.”
My feet plod on the icy concrete as we walk down the hall. Moving slowly, we pass through a set of frosted-glass doors into a large rectangular room. There are no windows, so the only light comes from the long fluorescent tubes that run along the roof. The light is just a touch too bright; the dial turned a fraction too far.
At the front of the room is a huge screen. Beside it is the events coordinator, a slim man wearing a tailored black shirt tucked into dark-gray slacks. Usually he’s the pinnacle of male grooming, but today his short hair is messy, spiking up in uneven tufts, and his pants are slightly creased.
“Hey, guys,” he says. “I know you weren’t expecting an examination today, and I’m super sorry about making you do this, but it’s kind of an emergency. A particularly important young woman has shown signs that she’s ready to select a partner, so two of you have to be sent in right away. We’re looking for a boy-next-door Nice and a mysterious, tortured-soul Bad.”
Aren’t they always?
“Five Nices and five Bads from this floor have been identified as a potential match, so, obviously, they’ll be examined. And guys, I know this test is late notice, but I’m your pal, so you can trust me when I say that if your number is on the screen, it’s there for a reason. It means our complex compatibility algorithm has concluded that she will fall for you if you spend time with her. How cool is that? Now, let’s see who made it to the next round.”
The screen flashes and the numbers appear. I scan the list, my heart racing. Come on …
Yes!