Most people loved the Ego Room, but Derrick was not happy about being there. Not happy at all.

It was his birthday, his fifteenth. He should have been able to say no to a gift. Instead, his mom had made him come, saying that turning down a gift was rude, and she had already paid a ton of money. Besides, it would be “good for him,” a way to build his confidence. When he protested further, her eyes had flashed with anger, even though he was the one who had every right to be mad.

As usual, he had lost the battle with his mom and filled out the dumb questionnaire for him to reveal more personal information than anyone had a right to know. But he had heard all about the Ego Room and knew how fake it was. Fake as hair dye or a toupee. Fake as breast implants. A fake place for fake people who did and said fake things.

But even he had to admit, the ego room looked interesting. Standing at the threshold of the first door with his well-dressed host, he saw how clouds of gold dust hovered over the great room, sparkling like a room full of lightening bugs.

“Are you ready to get started?” The man said. “Ready to have your confidence built?”

Derrick had a perfect frown for occasions such as this. It went beyond turned-down lips. He had perfected a narrow-eyed glare that showed a level of scorn the haughtiest house cat could only dream of achieving. “I was never ready,” he sighed wearily. “My mom made me come.”

The man let out a small amused chuckle. “At great cost to herself, I assure you. You would do well to take advantage of this opportunity, as few people will ever get to enjoy it.”

The man stepped into the room. Upon closer observation, Derrick could see that the glittering particles of air were originating from some place in the ceiling and falling slowly like leaves. “Come closer,” the guide said, “and let me show you something.”

Derrick crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared at his tormenter, a man whose face were all smooth planes and sharp angles beneath a thatch of silver hair. Then, with an elaborate shrug, Derrick sighed, rolled his eyes, and stepped into the cloud of descending tiny gold droplets.

After a moment of entering the effulgent cloud, the room changed. Derrick found himself in a room full of oval mirrors on stands. “What is this?” Derrick asked. “Some kind of fun house?”

“More than fun. Each mirror shows a potential version of you,” said the guide, who steered Derrick toward one of the mirrors for a closer look. “Each of them is a version of you, a potential self.”

Derrick looked inside. The “reflection” was of a lean muscular young man whose chin was tilted up. The expression on his face went beyond confidence. There was a barely discernible smirk on his lips that said he secretly mocked the whole world and thought it should thank him for tolerating it at all. But somehow he still seemed to come across as charming.

He was dressed casually but his sweater looked made of a plush expensive material that stopped just short of being effeminate. A pretty dark haired girl standing behind the haughty version of Derrick stared at him with eyes full of longing. Derrick lowered his eyes to a plate on the base of mirror. It said “The Preppy.”

The “Preppy” was odd because Derrick recognized many features as his own: the shape of his mouth, the green eyes, the shallow mole on the right side of his neck. As a test, Derrick moved his arm, and so did his twin, matching his movements exactly. But it was all wrong. It was not him, and definitely not who he wanted to be. “Not me at all,” he said.

All the same, he could not seem to stop looking in the mirror. There was something fascinating in the illusion of impregnable emotional strength, an ability to shrug off any insult so that it would fall right back onto the person who had given it.

“Perhaps,” the guide said, “you need to learn to take a compliment.”

Derrick turned to the guide. “How is a distorted mirror reflection a compliment?”

“It is the distorted reflections of praise and criticism that define us from birth,” the guide said. “Who would we be without the world to tell us who we are? Or what to think? We may imagine we are individuals, that we exist as separate grains of sand from the rest of the world. But if that were true, you would be a naked wild child baying at the moon like a wolf.

“The very language of your thoughts was bestowed on you by your culture. You are not unique. I will illustrate. See that trophy case against the wall?”

Derrick did look and saw, across the room, a wall-length wooden case full of golden figures visible through glass doors.

The man said, “There are a limited number of types our society allows you to be. Once you have decided which type you want to be, we will give you one of these figures to take home as the ideal self, already present in you, that you will strive to more fully become.”

“This is bullshit,” Derrick said. “I am not a type, I am a person.”

“Not so,” the man said. “People have been telling you who you are all your life; you were just unaware of it. Our goal here is to tell you who you are in a way that will benefit you, using the power of praise to create a different reality.”

“But praise,” Derrick said, “is something you earn.”

“No. Praise a right of everyone. Ever heard the trite expression, shower of praise? From the moment our ancestors began to utter intelligible sounds, there must have been praise. Why did people praise each other? Many reasons: conditioning; manipulation; reinforcement. And sometimes real admiration. But never mind why. Since the invention of speech, praise have been raining from every corner of the social sky, for thousands of years, falling over legions of praise recipients who are now dead.

“Now they are all forgotten. But, for a glorious moment, they basked in the nurturing rain of approval, believing it was meant just for them. They never stopped to think that the praise had been falling since the dawn of history, and that they were bound to get a little of the rain.

“Undeniably, the twin conditioners of praise and criticism reinforce some social behaviors and discourage others. They tell you who you are and who you should become.”

“I know who I am,” the boy said.

“You? Who are you? There is no you. Come.”

As Derrick followed the man into the next chamber, he observed the engraved labels at the wooden bases of some of the mirrors. He passed a number of them with labels like “The Genius,” “The Entrepreneur,” “The Comedian,” and “The Daredevil.” They all looked like Derrick. They all looked unlike him. Each stood against the reflected glowing background.

Derrick said, “All the sparkles. The way they keep floating down, they look like rain almost.”

“Astute of you to notice. We are rain makers. In the real world some people get more rain than others. The rich get more praise than the poor, for example. The lucky ones flourish, and the others wilt and struggle all their lives with under-confidence.

“The flow of praise is mostly random. Here, we seek to control the process, give artificial rain to those upon whom little has fallen and make them become more than what they are.”

With a long sigh, Derrick followed his host into the next room. He was in a long hallway. The walls were mirrors, which made it appear that people lined either side. They were all girls, all pretty, all teenagers.

“I like your hair,” a red headed girl said, and propped her head dreamily on her interlacing fists.

Another, wearing a cheerleading outfit, said, “You kicked ass at the football game last night.” She jumped and threw her hands into the air, and smiled admiringly. “Go, bears!”

Derrick whirled angrily on his host. “You got this program wrong. I never even played football. I told you so on the questionnaire.” With a huff he rolled his eyes and looked at the door where they had come in.

“Not so fast,” the man said. “Are you sure you never played football? Not even in dreams or fantasies?” The man appraised Derrick. “You are young. Perhaps the girl was reacting to your future and not your past. Perhaps they see your hidden potential.”

“They are not even real.” Derrick pressed his hands to his temples. “This…this is doing bad things to me. Please stop. I want to go home.”

“Not until you see the final chamber.”

“What is it? A stage where I can pretend to be a rock star? A video of me in a superhero outfit flying across the sky of New York City?”

“I think you will be happily surprised,” the man folded his large pale hands in front of him, “if you will only give it a chance.”

“Okay, but this better be the last room. You promised.”

The man smiled. “Very well.”

As Derrick entered the final room, he blinked. The domed ceiling was made of glass, allowing a clear view of the sky, though the radiant fog still drifted from above.

Below it he saw two giant statues of winged seraphim painted gold and a scroll that the angels jointly held, and which draped the floor.

One seraphim seemed to be looking cryptically off to the side, smiling a little, as if it had a wonderful secret. The other looked up at the ceiling with an expression that said it was harnessing all the light of the heavens toward the continuance of its transcendent wisdom.

“Most of us want to believe we are moral, the man said. “This drive is such an integral part of our social identity that sometimes we feel guilty for acts we commit when alone.”

Derrick was not religious, but the room was awe-inspiring, something like artists had depicted heaven to be. The floor appeared to be made of jewel-encrusted diamond shaped gold pavers.

“Read the scroll,” the man instructed. Derrick stepped forward and scanned the list, and read a few of the sentences out loud: “Is gentle to animals; nursed a baby bird back to health at age 8; hates being fake; tries his best to tell the truth.”

Confused, Derrick turned to the man. “All of this, this part, is true.”

“Did you honestly think the other things I showed you are untrue?

“Actually, yes.”

“Truth is a slippery concept. You are a product of all the reflections you see or think you see, in the eyes of others. Your self-image is part wishful thinking, part the true accomplishments you can remember, and part reflections from others.

“But do not be fooled into thinking you have a self beneath all the layers of reflection. Every atom in your body is made up of mostly empty space. Society created you. Our job is to tear down what society has done blindly and deliberately create something new.”

“I never asked for any of this,” the boy said, but his mind was on the brunette in the previous room. She had been pretty, and he had never had a girlfriend. What if confidence really could change that?

“You have a choice. We can build you up and remove all your insecurities. Once you leave, the therapeutic benefits will last about a week, but you can come here every week and get your treatments renewed.”

Derrick looked at the man in bewilderment. “Treatments? You mean, after this, I have to come back?”

“For the benefits of your therapy to last, yes. But I have cleared it with your mom. If you like it here, we can change you for the better. We can make you confident, fill you with self-love, and streamline you for success. You will have a competitive edge against all your friends upon whom the rains of praise have randomly fallen.

“Today was only a sample. We showed you who you could become and how others could admire you. And we showed you the good in you that exists already, your morality, if you will. I applaud your hating that which is fake by the way. I will bet there are many young ladies who would admire you for it.” He winked.

“But that is not why…” his words broke off as an unasked for surge of excitement tingled through him. It was true that he hated fake things, and that he was proud of hating them

At this thought, a fist of self-doubt punched him in the stomach. What made him think hating dishonesty was good? Had he come to that conclusion on his own, or had some part of society instilled that value into him without him knowing?

Was even his hatred of hypocrisy just a shell, which he had mistaken for his self?

“I know what you are thinking,” the man said, “but who says an empty shell is unreal? Can you not hold a seashell in your palm? Can it not be beautiful?”

“But-”

“You seem to suppose that we deal in illusion here, but we are the ultimate realists. You abhor falseness, so do we. We are not here to create illusions. We are here to manipulate reality for your own good. Ah, you still seem skeptical. Maybe I misjudged you earlier. Come with me back to the mirror room.”

With a huff Derrick followed, until they had returned to the mirror room.

The man led him to a different mirror than before. A rectangular label on its base said “The Nihilist.”

Looking into the mirror, Derrick saw a reflection of himself wearing a black turtleneck. The reflection had a long sweep of bangs and a world-weary expression. He was clutching a cigarette and was surrounded by girls who looked equally jaded and bored, except they kept throwing admiring glances his way.

Derrick could not turn away and was reluctant to even blink his eyes, lest his twin disappear. He went closer and flattened his palm against the mirror. The boy spoke in a monotone. “What is the point in anything? Everyone dies, we all die. Even the universe ends.”

The man smiled. “There is something for everyone here. Despite the irrational belief in individuality, the set of types a society allows is limited. Considering your dislike of hypocrisy, I thought this one might be a good fit for you.”

Derrick wanted to deny that what the man was saying was true, but was having a hard time doing it. Though he hated to admit it, he liked what he saw.

The man went on, “The ability to customize ourselves is perhaps the greatest gift technology has given us. A little chipping and photo-correcting is all that is needed.”

“You are such a rebel,” one of the girls in the mirror said, “so independent. Kiss me.”

Derrick wanted to do just that. The image of his rebel self in the mirror was compelling, and he felt something inside him give way. Derrick wanted to be him, liked the idea of being an iconoclast, a kind of dark individualistic hero. Nihilist. He liked the sound of that word.

Derrick could not stop staring at his dark twin, who with a careless gesture swept his long bangs out of his eyes, only to have them fall stubbornly back on his forehead.

The man laughed. “Why, you appear to like that one. If you do, we can make this apotheosis the basis of your self-improvement program.”

The image was hypnotic. His mom, he knew, would hate this one, and that thought brought him immense satisfaction. Would she actually pay for him to become this person? What better way to punish her for making him come here? His twin was self-confident, individualistic, deviant, unapologetic, fearless, everything Derrick had longed to be.

He liked the idea of being admired for his subversive honesty and his no-nonsense demeanor. It was a way to be loved and honest too. Derrick turned to his host with excitement. “Yes, I like this one. Make me into him, and I will come back.”

The man slapped his hands together, a look of pleasure spreading all over his face. “Very well, young man. This one it is. And oh, before I forget, I want to give you your icon in statuette form.” The man glided across the room to the display case, opened a glass door, removed one of the golden figures, and returned to Derrick who had followed him part of the way.

Derrick took it. It was a little larger than his forearm. Like the mirror image of his chosen model, its features looked like his own, except the world-weary expression had been perfectly etched onto the face of the figure. Like the twin in the mirror, the figure had long bangs and wore a turtleneck. Derrick took the statue. It was more lightweight than it appeared.

“This statue is light as air almost,” Derrick said.

“Of course,” the man said. “That is because it is hollow.”

“Hollow,” Derrick repeated.

“Now,” the man went on. First we will get you to the computer to answer a few more questions. Then we can take you to the wardrobe room and let you select clothing more suitable to your new image. A speech therapist will help you master the diction of short, clipped sentences with the optimum amount of profanity. Anything to help you become your self. Now, if you will follow me to the computer.”

“Computer?”

“Yes. The computer is the center of this place, its brain, the power source of all you have seen here.”

Derrick followed the man to the third room where the seraphim still held the scroll. It occurred to Derrick that nothing bad he had ever done had appeared on it. In the back of the room was a flat keyboard, a large flat monitor attached to the wall, and rising above it was a brilliant purple spire apparently made of glass.

As Derrick followed the man, he could not get over the lightness of the statue in his hand. It was like a helium balloon almost. He thought about atoms, and how each helium atom was mostly empty space. “The computer is the center of all this?”

The man chuckled. “Well, of course.” They had reached the computer and the man sat down in a swivel chair in front of the monitor. “Everything you have seen, it has to come from somewhere.”

“What happens to this room if you turn it off?”

The man seemed confused. “Well, it goes away of course. Now, what nickname would you prefer? Rocko, perhaps? Or something more unique. What about Snazz? Or a sassy nature name like River?”

“What is this purple spire?” Derrick slid his hand along the slick surface. “It looks so delicate.”

“Oh. That is the power source. The spire harnesses solar energy through the transparent ceiling to runs the sophisticated algorithms that create what you have seen. Now, back to your nickname. You are a nihilist. What suggests emptiness? Hmm. Cipher? Or maybe Shelley. Shell for short.”

Derrick did not answer. A surprising impulse of revulsion surged from somewhere inside his belly, something desperate and savage. Derrick turned to the side, pivoted, and slammed his statuette into the glass spire. Both It and the statuette shattered.

Breathing heavily, for a moment Derrick could only stare at the glass fragments, stunned at what he had just done. But even as he looked down, he knew the sparkling cloud was gone.

He raised his head and discovered that his guide had frozen. He reminded Derrick of a ventriloquist doll he had gotten for his tenth birthday. He touched the man on the shoulder of his formal jacket, but he was no more responsive than a mannequin. But he was too rigid to look newly dead. Rather, he appeared inactivated. Derrick slid his hand over the artificial wrist extended toward the keyboard. The skin looked real but felt rubbery.

Feeling like he was in a dream, he stepped back and looked around. He looked to the place where the angels had been standing. They were gone.

Derrick found himself in a clear, empty room with brilliant white walls and a blue sky lit dome. Through it he was able to see giant puffs of cloud on the move. Even with the golden fog gone, the effect was beautiful.

Looking around, Derrick felt that reality was revealing itself to him for the first time. In the void of silence, he felt like he had hit onto a beginning or ending of something. As if all of life had paused for a transition.

Something on the floor caught his attention. He drew from the floor a rounded flower-shaped bulb that had fallen from the shattered spire, which had apparently not been completely hollow.

The bulb felt icy in his palm. He shivered and observed how cold the whole room had gotten. A ray of sun was falling seductively in the center of the dome

He walked to the middle of the room and sat down inside the shaft of gold warmth. In a minute he would have to leave and figure out how to explain what had just occurred. For now folded his legs Indian style, remembering what his guide had said about atoms. His guide had left something out. Even atoms had a center. Derrick thought that somewhere deep inside him, he must have one too.

Besides, could a shell know rage? Revulsion? Could a shell get as angry as he had just been? Could a shell long to be something more than hollow?

He thought not.