36 Questions That Changed My Mind About You

CHAPTER

1

There were three rapid knocks, then the door opened and a girl stumbled in, out of breath.

“Sorry. Sorry I’m late. I had to talk to my English teacher about my term paper and he wasn’t in his office and…”

Jeff jiggled his head like no problem.

“… by the time he got there I’d missed my bus and I had to go downtown for—”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. You filled out the form?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry.” She looked around the room for a place to put the live tropical fish she was carrying in a small bag full of water.

“Here.” He patted the corner of his desk.

“Thanks.” She put it down. “Yikes. Wet. Apologies.” She picked up the bag, wiped it on the sleeve of her big gray vintage overcoat, then put it back down. “This stupid fish. Only one place to get it and my brother—Gabe. He’s twelve. He has a… sorry. You don’t want to know. You want the form.” She began rifling through the large leather book bag slung across her chest. A battered copy of Brideshead Revisited fell onto the floor.

“Why don’t you sit down?” He pointed at a plastic chair in front of his desk. “Might be easier.”

She sat, retrieved her book, and began rifling again. “I’m not usually this disorganized. Really. It’s just. What a day. I mean, week.”

“It’s blue,” he said. “Eight and a half by eleven… There it is. Next to the, uh, change purse.”

“Oh. Right.” She rolled her eyes at herself and handed him the form. “I also brought my résumé.”

“No need.” He smoothed the paper she’d given him and did a quick scan.

“Are you sure? Because I added a short paragraph about possibly pursuing psychology as a minor, especially as it relates to—”

“Really. No qualifications necessary.”

While he read her form, she looked around his office. “You like toys,” she said.

He didn’t look up. “Action figures,” he corrected her. They were arranged on his bookshelves according to genre, rarity, age, and a hard-to-quantify X factor: the little buzz he got from the really cool ones. These were not toys.

He made some notes, then said, “So… Hilda Sangster… Citadel High—”

She groaned.

Now he looked up. “Is there a problem?”

“Sorry. The Hilda thing. I should have explained.”

He checked the form.

“I know I wrote Hilda but that’s because it said ‘First Name, Last Name,’ not ‘Name Used,’ and I figured you needed it for official purposes so I just, well, did as instructed despite the fact that I can’t stand the name. It’s so, like, Teutonic or something. Nobody ever calls me Hilda.”

“So what should I call you then?”

“Hildy.”

“Hil-dee, not Hil-da.”

“Doesn’t sound like much but, honestly? To me? Huge. I’ll change it someday—I mean, legally and everything—but my grandmother’s still alive and, well, feelings to consider, family legacy, etc., etc.”

She must have realized she was talking too much. She gave an awkward smile and sat up straight.

“Hildy it is then. I see here you’re a senior. You’re single?”

She laughed in a way that could only mean yes.

“And you’re… what? Eighteen? Good. Because you’ll need to sign a consent form.”

“Sure. No problem but… Um. Maybe I should find out what this is about first? I mean, there is a limit to what I’ll do in the name of science.” She laughed again, but she wasn’t fooling either of them.

“Absolutely. Okay. My name’s Jeff. I’m a PhD student here at the university. I recently got a grant to look at—well, the easiest way to describe it is ‘relationship building.’ Basically, I’m interested in finding out if we can influence subjects such as yourself to develop a close interpersonal bond with another participant, which might then develop into—”

“Sorry. Um. Am I understanding this right?” She put her arms around her book bag as if it were a toddler in need of comfort. “You’re trying to find out if you can make people like each other?”

One side of his mouth smiled. “Not make.” He’d be a billionaire if he could do that. “We’re not interested in brainwashing anyone. We’re just looking to see if it’s possible to—let’s say—facilitate a personal closeness, which could result in a relationship.”

“You mean, like a friendship?”

“Yes. Or, more significantly, a romantic relationship. I’m looking at how people initiate intimate bonds and if that process can be nudged forward in some way.”

Hildy went, “Love?” like it was an accusation. “That’s what you’re talking about?”

He made a note. “Yes, potentially love although—”

“Did Max give you my name?” She sounded annoyed.

“Max? No. Max who?”

“Xiu?”

“What? I don’t even know what that is.”

“Xiu Fraser?”

“No. No one gave me your name. You contacted me. Remember? This is just a psychological study to see if love—”

“Love!” she said again, and jumped up.

He didn’t know how she managed to knock his bookshelf off the wall—she wasn’t that tall—but suddenly Disney-themed action figures were torpedoing down around them as if there’d been an explosion in an animated film.

She went, “Oh. God. No. Sorry,” and turned around to see what she’d done. Her book bag swung behind her and hit a lamp, which slammed against another shelf and sent supervillains flying, too.

She put her hand over her mouth and made the type of whining noise dogs make when they need to go outside.

She crouched down and began picking up action figures and piling them by the handful onto his desk.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have left my room. Seriously. This is what happens when I—”

“It’s just an accident.”

“No. No, no, no, no.” She waved her hand around at the room. “All these little bodies everywhere? All the mess? Perfect metaphor for my life. This is. Exactly. What I do.”

She had a 1930s Prince Charming by the feet and was batting the air with it for emphasis. It was one of Jeff’s favorites. He worried the head was going to come off.

“That’s okay.” He tried to sound relaxed. “No big deal. I can put them away. Really. There’s a system. Please. Stop.”

He had to say it a few times before she nodded, apologized again, and stood up, or at least tried. She stepped on the bottom of her coat and slammed her forehead into the edge of his desk. It must have hurt, but by now she’d regained a weird sort of calm. She took a loud breath in through her nose, lifted the hem of her coat like it was Cinderella’s ball gown, and got to her feet.

“Um. Sorry for that little outburst… And for the mess… And, like, wasting your time and everything, too. I didn’t understand what the study was about. I shouldn’t have signed up.” She arranged her mouth into something like a smile and walked out the door.

Jeff looked at the action figures scattered over the floor. He was too busy to put them back in the correct order. He scooped them all up and put them in a box under his desk where he wouldn’t be able to hear their tiny screams.

He thought about Hildy.

What the hell was that all about? Fight or flight? Conflict avoidance? Some weird religious thing?

He sat down at his desk and checked his notes. Had he foreseen this at all? Had he inadvertently triggered something?

As part of the study, he had a little side bet going with himself. He wasn’t 100 percent sure how ethical it was, but it kept things interesting. He took notes on participants, gave them each a numerical score, and then tried to predict whether sparks would fly when he put them in a room together.

In the course of their conversation, he’d scribbled some notations next to Hildy’s name. He’d done it quickly—he always did—because he figured if participants had to rely on first impressions, he should, too.

WG-PP

HIQ/HM

DG

FLT

By which he meant:

White Girl-Professional Parents

High IQ/High Maintenance

Drama Geek

French Language Tattoo

He pictured an obscure quote from some eighteenth-century philosopher or postwar film director, written in cursive on the arch of her foot.

(In that, at least, he was wrong. An obscure quote might have appealed to her, but Hildy would never get a tattoo. She was afraid of needles and, more importantly, permanence. She liked to think she was still at the pupa stage of existence.)

Coming up with a number was the part Jeff always had the most qualms about. It was, of course, out of ten and it was, of course, based on physical attractiveness. But it wasn’t sexist. He rated the male participants and the transgender ones, too.

He was also, he told himself, only being realistic. Looks counted, although he honestly didn’t know which ones or why. He’d have thought smoldering eyes and impressive breasts or shoulders would win every time but that didn’t seem to be the case. There were a lot of wild cards in the human sexuality deck.

He struggled with a score. Hildy was no beauty—eyes too small, mouth too big—but he knew for a subset of guys that wouldn’t matter. She’d get extra points for interesting. The giant winter coat she was wearing meant he couldn’t tell much about her build. Average, he would guess. Maybe small to average.

Top marks for hair, though. Hers was long and shiny and must have been blond when she was little. Most straight guys are suckers for hair, especially those wispy bits that fall out of braids and make throaty suggestions about having just crawled out of bed.

He gave her a 7.5. Too bad, he thought, she wouldn’t be in the study. She’d have made an interesting addition.

There was a knock at his door. He checked the time. A little early for the next participant.

“Yes,” he said.

Hildy stepped in. She was holding Prince Charming.

“I took this by mistake.” She grimaced apologetically and put it on his desk. “I didn’t realize I had it until I was downstairs.”

“You took Prince Charming by mistake.” Jeff raised his eyebrows. “Wonder what Dr. Freud would’ve had to say about that.”

He meant it as a joke, but Hildy said, “I know. That’s why I came back. I mean, I had to return the action figure and I forgot the fish, too, so it wasn’t the only reason but—” She stopped herself. “Look. I’m not superstitious or anything, but I had a moment to think down there and, um, it just seems like when the universe goes to that much trouble to give you a sign, you should probably take it.” She sat down. “So I’m going to do the study after all. I mean, if that’s okay with you.”

“You’re sure?” he said.

“Yes. Well, as much as I’m ever sure about anything.” She smiled and he scribbled CC for Camp Counselor. He could picture her talking to little kids about trying their hardest and always being good sports.

“So. Mind telling me about the experiment again? I promise not to flip out this time.”

He forced himself not to glance at the undisturbed shelves on the other side of the room. “Great. Well. We’re basing our work on a study called ‘The Experimental Generation of Interpersonal Closeness.’ It was developed in the nineties by a psychologist named Dr. Arthur Aron. His results weren’t conclusive at the time, but this is a different world. We’re wondering how the digital age may—or may not—have changed the way intimacy is experienced. Basically, we want to see how young people who’ve grown up with twelve hundred online ‘friends’ might respond to intense face-to-face emotional sharing. Sound like something you might be interested in?”

“What do I have to do?” That wasn’t quite a yes.

“Not much. We pair you with a random stranger—male or female depending on your sexual orientation—and give you thirty-six questions to ask each other. There’s no right or wrong answer, no good or bad. Our only request is that you respond as honestly as possible.”

“Um. ‘Random’?”

“What?”

“Did you say ‘random stranger’?”

“Yes.”

“So it could be anyone?”

He was worried about another outburst. “Well, could be, I guess, but realistically it’s more likely to be another student than, say, Drake or one of the Olsen twins…”

“Or a serial killer?” Sort of a joke but not really.

“Highly improbable. And anyway, the study is conducted here at the university. We’ll have all the pertinent data about participants but you won’t know each other’s real names or contact information.”

“Well. I guess that should be okay.”

Should be okay.

He let that go and looked at her form again.

“You self-identified as hetero. So you’ll be paired with a male more or less your age. To each other, you’ll just be Bob and Betty. Those are the names we ask male and female participants to use. We’ve taken every precaution to ensure your privacy and physical safety.”

She nodded but her eyes had gone too blinky to ignore.

“You’re not convinced,” he said.

“No, I am. Well. At least about physical safety.”

“But not about?…”

Fluttery hands. Shrug. Sigh. “This probably sounds stupid.”

He waited.

“… but what about, like, emotional safety?”

“Meaning?”

She let out a puff of air. “I don’t know. Anything! Rejection. Disappointment. Crushing heartache. Haha. You know. The usual.”

“I’d say that’s just life.” And one of the reasons he’d always preferred action figures.

“Fine. I know but. I mean, I could get in there with a total stranger and do the thirty-six questions and next thing you know I’m hopelessly smitten with some kind of, like, troll or something.”

“To the best of my knowledge, no trolls have applied.”

“Dumb question.”

He hadn’t said that. She fiddled with the buttons on her overcoat, then sort of laughed.

“Who am I kidding? The real problem would be if the troll didn’t love me back. But, again, as you say, that’s just life. Or at least my life.” She shook it out of her head. “Sorry. Babbling. I get this way when I’m stressed. Just a lot of stuff happening in my life right now. My own fault, of course. Big mouth. Tunnel vision. Faulty social radar. That kind of thing. My friends are always telling me I should—Oops. See? Babbling again. Sorry. Ignore me.”

“No pressure,” he said, and left it at that.

She pulled down her sleeves and scrunched the cuffs into her fists. She stared at Prince Charming for a few seconds, then looked back at Jeff. “Okay. I’ll do it. I should do it.”

“There’s no ‘should’ here. Really. I don’t want you participating just because the universe said you had to.”

That made her laugh for real. “Don’t worry. I won’t let some mean old universe push me around. I want to do it. Seriously. At some very deep level I think I actually do. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ right?”

“Awesome.” He took one final look at her registration. “Everything’s in order here, so unless you have any more questions I’ll just get you to sign the consent form.”

He gave her a moment to look it over. She ran her finger along every line as she read, then scribbled her name at the bottom.

“Okay. My heart’s in your hands!” Hildy smiled and her eyes disappeared into thick tangles of lashes. Her teeth were large and straight and white. Her skin was perfect.

He amended her score to 7.75 and took her form.

“All right then. I’ll get you to go to room 417, just down the hall to the left. Help yourself to coffee. On the table, there’ll be a deck of index cards with the questions, but please don’t turn them over until the session begins. We’ll have a subject partner for you shortly. I’ll do my best to weed out the trolls.”

She pulled the collar of her coat over her mouth and laughed again. She might even be an 8.

“And don’t forget your fish. He’s going to start to take it personally.”