He gestures toward the seat. “Congratulations on making it this far. My name is Rodger Craike, and I’m the manager of the Love Interest Compound. You will call me Mr. Craike or sir, nothing else.”
He picks up a tablet and starts scrolling. I sit and peer at the screen. Huh. It’s filled with reports from my monthly integration exams. Because the LIC is so isolated, we have to take classes to keep up with pop culture, and each month we’re quizzed to make sure we’re keeping up to date. It’s usually about big movies, popular TV shows, and hit songs, which we are required to know by heart in case of karaoke or sing-alongs. For Bads and select Nices, sports are included, but I don’t have to learn about that because they decided I’m more of a nerdy-boy-next-door type. Thank goodness. Anyway, we do all this so we can “integrate seamlessly” with the real world when the time comes. Their words, not mine. I know my test scores are good, but he’s frowning at them like I failed every single one. Why?
“I should thank you, sir,” I say, trying to draw his attention away from whatever is wrong with my scores. He keeps reading. “For giving me the gym equipment and the food. I wouldn’t look this way without you.”
“We provide the equipment, you do the work.” His eyes flick down over my body. “And you’ve done an exceptional job. You’d be surprised how many Nices ruin their bodies by making themselves too big. But you understand what it means to be Nice, don’t you?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I hope so.”
He tilts his head back and laughs. Recovering, he leans forward. “Maybe, after all this time, we’ve found a genuinely nice guy.”
Or someone smart enough to know how to play the system.
“Enough pleasantries. As the manager of the LIC, it’s my job to make sure every Love Interest is the right man or woman for the job. So I’m going to ask you a few questions to see how well you’ve applied yourself to your time here. Are you ready to begin?”
I nod.
“What disposition are you?” he asks.
“Nice.”
“Why do you think that?”
“All the tests told me that’s what I am.”
“You think they made a mistake?”
Yes.
“No, it’s not that,” I say. “It just feels weird to call myself Nice; it seems boastful. I’m not perfect by any means, but I think I’m a nice person. Plus, I’m so obviously not Bad. I’m good at making people laugh, not manipulating or intimidating them.”
“Some people would say making someone laugh is manipulating them.”
“Some people,” I say, “would say if laughter is a manipulation it’s the best one there is. It makes people feel good. Who cares how that end is achieved?”
He looks down and starts typing something on his tablet. The room fills with the sound of his fingertips hitting the screen. I breathe in through my nostrils, then exhale slowly.
Finally, he lowers the tablet and rests it on the table. “A lot of Nices have told me they’d give their life to save their rival if they could. Would you be willing to do that?”
I look down at my hands. The true answer to this question is the reason I know I’m not a genuine Nice: I’m not ready to die, and I’m not willing to give up my life for anyone else. I’ve always known that if I made it out of the LIC I’d fight as hard as I could to make sure I got the girl and survived. It’s what I hate about myself the most.
I meet his stare. “I would be willing to do that. Sacrifice myself, I mean. I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
He grins. “You know what I think? I think you’re a great actor. I know you’re lying, yet I find myself believing you. It’s truly a rare gift.”
I tense, and it spreads through my entire body, with cold dread creeping down from my cheeks to dwell in the cords of my shoulders. He knows.
“Oh, don’t look so scared; it’s a good thing. You’re going to be a spy, after all, so being able to act is one of the most valuable skills you could have. And you clearly are a natural liar. But I’m not interested in an actor who needs to memorize lines; you need to be able to improvise. So answer these questions with the first thought that enters your mind. If you pause, you’ll fail. Now, why do you think your Chosen should pick you over your rival?”
“I don’t. I just hope she does.”
In his eyes, I see him ticking the boxes.
Modest? Check.
Humble? Check.
“Elaborate on that,” he says.
“I want her to pick whoever will make her the happiest. And if she’s a better fit with him, I’ll gladly accept my fate.”
A total pushover? Check plus.
I imagine myself standing naked in a massive steel room: the incinerator. Feeling the cold dry air on my skin, the metal beneath my feet. The split second of agony before the roaring orange flames turn me into ash. Stop thinking about that. Focus!
“There must be some good things about you,” he says. “Tell me about them.”
“I’m a good listener. And I can be funny sometimes, I guess.”
“If you caught your Chosen kissing your rival, what would you do?”
I lower my eyes and bring on the tears. When I feel them behind my eyelids I look up at him, my entire body radiating hurt. I stare at him for a moment, drop my mouth open a fraction, then turn my head away.
“I’d look at her like that. Then I’d walk away. Next time I saw her she’d probably apologize if I were still in the running, so I’d tell her she doesn’t ever have to explain herself to me, and that I only responded in that manner because I love her so damn much. I’d tell her I’m glad it hurts because it proves how much I care.”
“Would you fight for her?”
“If I had to, yes.”
“When will you first try to kiss her?”
“I won’t. I’ll wait until she kisses me. But I’ll kiss her on the cheek after our first date.”
“What would you do if she texted you in the middle of the night and said she was lonely?”
“I’d drop everything and run to her as fast as possible. I’ll be there for her whenever she needs me. No matter what.”
“Now, I have one last question, and in many ways, it’s the most important one, so think for a second before answering. If you get it wrong, you’ll be dismissed.”
I wipe my sweaty palms on my legs. This is it. One last question.
“I’m ready,” I say.
“Do you think you will fall in love with her?”
I smile, because I know the answer, and that means I’m finally getting out of the LIC. There’s no way I can get it wrong, because the answer to this question has been drilled into me every single day I’ve been here.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “She’s the hero of this story, so how I feel is irrelevant.”
He leans back on his chair and grins.
“Correct.”
CHAPTER