Bumped (2 page)

I CAN’T GET A CLEAR LOOK AT HARMONY’S FACE. IT’S THAT
veil.

I tried to talk her out of wearing it in public but she’s not having it. In her defense, I guess it makes sense because why would she wear her veil in
private
? Harmony managed to lose her “best” veil during the ride to my house—this one is her backup—and she begged me to take her to Plain & Simple (“Modest Clothing for Modest Youth”) to shop for a replacement. The veil is the official excuse for why we hauled all the way out to the Meadowlands Mallplex; the unofficial excuse is that I couldn’t handle another minute trapped in the house with her as she went into raptures (not to be confused with
the
Rapture, which is one of her favorite topics) over the miracle of me. Of
us
.

I detoured at Babiez R U because I thought she would be a good audience for rehearsing the enthusiasm I need to pull off if I have any chance of taking over as president of the Pro/Am Pregg Alliance when my other best friend, Shoko Weiss, goes on birthleave.

The vice president and would-be successor, Malia Arroyo, is on what they call an indefinite leave of absence.

Speaking as her friend, I miss her.

But as her peer birthcoach, that’s all I’m legally permitted to say on the subject.

Ventura Vida is running against me. She’s new, so I’ve got seniority, but she’s flaunting a twenty-four-week bump that is just too perfect and adorable not to vote for. Her family put her in private school when the public districts starting making all preggers drop out of regular high school to attend a special school where they’re all brainwashed into keeping their deliveries. Gah. It’s not quite as bad as Harmony having to get
married
, but can you imagine? Ventura aspires to be the first Southeast Asian–American woman elected president of the United States and views tomorrow’s vote as the first of many on the path to the White House. All of this should make her an interesting person that I would otherwise want to get to know if it weren’t for the unfortunate circumstance of her being a total powertrippy bitch.

Harmony is almost a welcome distraction from what I have to look forward to at school tomorrow. Just thinking about all the drama gets my tubes in a twist.

Harmony takes a deep breath, the veil sucking up her nose, then murmurs something to herself—a go-to inspirational verse, probably—before making a go at talking.

“Well!” Harmony repeats brightly. “How many weeks is . . . ?” She points in the general direction of my belly.

“Forty. And twins.”

“Twins! Like us!”

“It makes a bold statement,” I say, rotating in front of the mirrors. “A twin having twins.”

Harmony sucks in another lungful of air. “So true, sister!”

I cringe from the inside out whenever she says that word. I can’t change the fact that Harmony is my identical twin, but I don’t know if I’ll ever call this stranger my sister. Special emphasis on the strange part. I know Churchies are expected to fill their conversion quotas and all, but it was still a shock when Harmony asked if I had God within ten seconds of me answering the door.

“Do I have Him, like, in my
pocket
?” I had laughed, still stunned by her unannounced arrival.

“No, sister,” she had said without a trace of irony. “In your
heart
.”

I had gotten used to MiChatting with her a few times a week. Though she had extended countless invitations for me to visit her in Goodside—a trip I just wasn’t ready to make—she had made no mention of crossing into Otherside to see me.

So this was just too much. I mean, how do you think you’d feel if you opened the door at seven o’clock in the morning to see your exact double standing on your front porch, dressed all in white, clutching a shiny Bible in one hand and a banged-up suitcase in the other? I’m lucky I didn’t terminate right then and there. For serious.

It wasn’t until she hugged me (“Sister!”) that I realized I wasn’t hallucinating from a secondhand dose of Tocin. It really was Harmony on my doorstep. I wouldn’t have been so neggy if Harmony had
asked
to visit me. I don’t know the protocol for long-lost twin reunions or anything but at the very least she could have warned me.

All things considered, I think I’ve been handling things pretty well. I’ve come a long way since our first MiChat, when I barely managed to ask, “Harmony
who
? I’m your
what
?” I immediately quikiwikied the birth certificates that proved it wasn’t a phishy scam and she really was my identical twin named Harmony who had set out to find her bioparents but found me instead. It’s not like I
never
wanted to meet her in person, I’m just not up for making major media right now, and being a monozygotic twin always attracts attention even when they’re not nearly as reproaesthetical as I am. (I mean,
we
are.)

I’m not being braggy. It’s fact. I’m everything I’m supposed to be—attractive and intelligent, athletic and artistic, social and so on—only better. Ash and Ty, my parents, can’t take credit for my natural-born assets but they do deserve recognition for all the time, money, energy, and effort they put into perfecting them. Even their surname—Mayflower—boosts my brand. And yet, these pluses can only go so far. What a relief it was when the results of my YDNA test confirmed that I am indeed
the
dying breed of a dying breed, rare and highly valued in certain Eurosnobby circles.

Harmony too.

That’s another reason I was so put off this morning. It was one thing to hear her (my!) voice, but it was an entirely different thing to experience Harmony face-to-face. I eyeballed her blond hair and blue eyes, full lips and wide eyes, pert nose and high cheekbones, and panicked.

She’s counterfeiting me!

Then I took in her white veil and neck-to-ankle gown and unclenched. The Church is extreme even by
ordinary
God-having standards, so Harmony is off market. I wanted to make sure.

“So you’re set up,” I said, “like, to be a wife and mother.”

Harmony looked down at her gloved hands before answering. “Yes.”

“That’s great news,” I answered, because it was—for me.

I could be living a totally different life right now. Harmony and I could—and probably should—have been raised together. We don’t have many details, but from what we do know, it’s pretty clear our biomom was damaged goods by the time she dropped us off. The musical names she picked out for us are proof enough of her pharmaceutically addled mind. We were born addicted to whatever junk she was on, and came out such sickly, shrieky preemies that the counselors from Good Shepherd Child Placement Services thought we had a better chance of being snapped up as singletons than as a janky twosome. Harmony was in worse shape than I was, and was taken in by the Church several weeks after I was placed with Ash and Ty.

My parents are beyond intense, but Harmony’s off-grid upbringing has made me so thankful that mine adopted me and hers adopted her. With its ancient ivy-covered buildings, Princeton may not be the moddest hub on the Northeast Corridor but at least it just opened up an Underground All-Sports Arena and an Avatarcade. Harmony has spent her whole life in Goodside, Pennsylvania. She shares 6,500 square feet with three other families in one of the Starter Castles for Christ, those half-built McMansions in the never-finished gated enclaves bought dirt cheap by the Church in the late ’00s. Harmony claims it’s the largest settlement of its kind, which really isn’t saying much when there’s only a dozen or so in existence. The Church refers to the world beyond the Goodside gates as Otherside because it’s subtle like that.

One thing I appreciate about Harmony is that I don’t have to worry about encryption. Her immediate intentions are totally clear: She’s here to make me get religion. And not just any religion, of course, but hers. If I’m married along with the rest of her housesisters by the end of the month, I think she scores some major bonus angel points toward a heavenly set of wings or a halo or something. Despite her invitations, I know I’m not welcome in Goodside and it’s not because they fear HPSV. The Church is far more threatened by the possibility that I’ll infect their minds with sin. I could flash my lab results proving that the damage has already been done to my reproductive system and there’s no chance of catching the Virus from me, but they wouldn’t even care. I was shocked when Harmony told me that they don’t even
test
for the Virus in Goodside, because, as she explained, there is only one who can open and close the womb, and He flicks the switch from His heavenly throne. It’s no mere coincidence then, as she also explained, that there are more women pregging in their twenties and thirties on her side of the gates than on mine.

Well. How can you argue against that?

MELODY AND I CAME INTO THIS LIFE TOGETHER AND I’LL DO
whatever it takes to see her in the next one. But, my grace, she’s not making it easy.

I was surprised that she didn’t even consider searching for her (our!) birthparents as soon as she came of age. That was my first order of business when I turned sixteen. She claims that she never sought the truth about our birthparents because it could bring more bad news than good.

“You weren’t the least bit curious about who brought us into this world?”

“I’ve got the YDNA test results, and that’s all I need to know,” she replied. “Ash and Ty made me the person I am today.”

I didn’t understand this reaction at all. I’ve
always
felt the need to know the truth about my birthparents. I thought knowing them would help me better understand myself. Please don’t think I’m disrespecting the Smith family by saying this. I don’t remember when I was told that I was adopted, I can only say that I don’t remember a time when I
didn’t
know I was adopted. The Church has a long tradition of taking in the neediest infants—as it still does—and I was one of them. My parents were the angels entrusted with my care and protection and I’m forever grateful He chose them for me.

Always worried about my health, Ma never let me roughhouse and always lured me toward more meditative pursuits like baking and crafting. These skills, she knew, would serve me well when I turned thirteen and was picked for marriage in my Blooming. She taught me everything I know about what it means to be a good wife and mother, nourishing me with all the fruits of the spirit: joy, peace, kindness, faithfulness, and gentleness. What’s happened to me since then isn’t her fault. She did the best she could.

I wish more than anything I could tell her that right now.

Despite Ma’s efforts, I’ve never felt . . . complete. I prayed and prayed and prayed. I asked why my birthparents had surrendered me and I got frustrated with Him for not answering. Until I knew, I would always feel like something—or someone—was missing no matter how hard or long or often I called on Him for help. Finally, after a difficult and dark period in my early Blooming, Ma took me aside and told me something I’ll never forget.

“Prayers are answered in one of four ways,” she said. “
Yes. No. I have something else in mind
. And . . .”

She paused long enough for my impatience to show. “And what’s the fourth answer?”

“Wait,”
she said.

I realized that maybe I wasn’t ready for the answers God had in store for me.

And so I patiently waited until my sixteenth birthday when it was legal for me to unseal my birth documents.

I had a twin.

A twin.

The Heavens opened for me at that moment. A twin! What a revelation! I made a choice right then and there not to mourn for the unknown parents I had lost, but to celebrate the sister I had found. My whole life I thought I was praying for my birthparents. Suddenly I knew who I was really praying for: my twin. My sister. My other half. Though I didn’t know my sister named Melody, I loved her already. Ma and Pa were never told about Melody and were even more stunned to find out about her than I was. Ma saw an opportunity to spread the Word.

“This is your purpose in life,” Ma said. “Putting your sister on the right path for the next one.”

I’m taking Ma’s advice. Can I redeem myself if I bring Melody to Otherside to receive the sacraments? Despite her protests, I see the truth: Melody isn’t sure of her decision to go pro. I know it. And if she spends more time in my company, perhaps she’ll want to follow me in faith. And she, in turn, just might give me strength to be the wife and mother I’ve so far failed to be.

“Am I fertilicious?” she asks. “Or what?”

I love my sister unconditionally—even if she makes it difficult to like her. Watching her as she unabashedly admires herself in the mirror, I realize that I have a long, hard road ahead of me. If only my relationship with Melody was as effortless as my relationship with God. Talking to God isn’t a chore. I can let my true self shine in front of God.