Bumped (3 page)

“DO YOU KNOW WHO ELSE MAKES A BOLD STATEMENT?”
Harmony asks.

“God?” I try.

“Inspired answer, sis—!” Harmony stops herself short. “Melody!”

It’s Harmony’s mission in life to put the “fun” back in fundamentalism. She’s never happier than when she’s bragging on God. I’m about to tell her that she might want to dose down a bit when the Babiez R U salesclerk ducks her head through the pink-and-blue gingham curtains. Name tag:
TRYNN
.

“You’re glowing!” Trynn gushes.

I caress my stretchy belly with pride.

“God-mocking,” chimes Harmony with cheery confidence.

Trynn is a skilled saleswoman and won’t be put off by Churchy negs on her trade. She puts two hands on my tumescent tummy. “Can you feel the kicking?”

I can.

“And you’ll note the tiny, tasteful stretch marks,” she continues, lifting my brand-new expandable-contractable MyTurnTee.

Trynn looks to Harmony. “Are you interested in trying something on?”

Harmony primly pats her shoulder-length veil. “It’s against my religion.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed,” Trynn says, stifling a snicker.

The clerk takes a step back to eye Harmony’s ivory veil, which matches the crisp cotton cap-sleeved ball gown with a sweetheart neckline and brush-the-floor train. She’ll wear a similar, if slightly fancier, gown on her wedding day, after which she’ll wear green gowns symbolizing fertility, followed by pink or blue gowns—depending on the sex of her first child—to announce the fulfillment of her “feminine promise,” as she put it.

Only engaged girls wear veils, which is supposed to deflect unwanted male attention. That might work in Goodside, but here it has the opposite effect. She gets more attention all covered up than I would if I went around flashing my breedy bits all day long.

“Oh, yes,” says Harmony from behind the tulle scrim. “I’m just visiting. . . .” She tugs on the elbow-length glove covering her left hand.

“Is there a ring under there?”

Harmony stiffens for a moment then says, “Of course I’m wearing a ring!”

“Can we see it?” Trynn and I ask simultaneously.

“No,” Harmony says curtly. It’s a voice I haven’t heard before. “Showing off is the sin of pride. . . .” Her voice trails off.

“What’s his name?” I ask, realizing just now that in our MiChats Harmony gushed on and on about God, but didn’t say one word about her fiancé.

“Ephraim,” Harmony says

“Ephraim?” Trynn asks. “That’s an unusual name.”

“Not where I’m from. There are four Ephraims in our settlement. It means ‘doubly fruitful.’”

“Like you!” Trynn points at my belly.

“Everyone calls him Ram.”

“Ram, huh?” Trynn licks her lips. “That’s a breedy name if I’ve ever heard one!”

I’m not sure if Trynn is mocking Harmony or not. The trubie gear makes her an easy target for anyone but especially for bitter obsolescents. Just when I’m starting to feel sorry for the salesclerk’s squandered reproductivity, Trynn says something totally barren to Harmony.

“That engagement gown is so
pure
,” she says gently. “But aren’t you, like, too
mature
to wear white? Shouldn’t you be in the pink or blue by now?”

Harmony yelps from behind her veil. I can’t see, but I imagine the blood draining from her face, until her pallid complexion matches her colorless dress. There’s no way Trynn knew about the color-coded gowns without looking it up on the quikiwiki. She did it just to be neggy.

My face glows red with anger, which is weird because I barely know Harmony. I mean, we don’t have anything in common, you know, besides our genetic material. I agreed to let her stay with me for a few days because Ash and Ty swear up and down that my heart-stopping story about long-lost twinbonding will help get me into Global U., a university so notoriously selective it makes Princeton look like a safety school. That’s the only reason I didn’t send her straight back to the farm this morning.

I know it’s a scandal to say something like that, with multis like us being so prized and all. But the more Harmony talks, the more it becomes clear that the Church isn’t giving much of a choice in the matter of marriage and motherhood. Zen says that she’s trapped by her own false consciousness, which, by the way, is the nerdish kind of comment that could get a guy’s ass kicked at our school—if that ass was anyone’s but Zen’s.

He’s the only one who knows I’ve been in contact with Harmony. For as much as he loves to talk, he is surprisingly tight-lipped when he needs to be. As such, he’s the keeper of many of Princeton Day Academy’s deepest secrets. Of course, that doesn’t stop him from privately warning me that coming into identical twinhood at sixteen will for seriously damage my fragile psyche or whatever. But it hasn’t.
Harmony’s
the one who stalked our bioparents. She’s the one having the identity crisis, not me. These days the majority of deliveries in this country aren’t raised by their bioparents, and they should all follow my example by having the same attitude.

Don’t fit me for a veil or anything because I can be sympathetic to Harmony and still have issues with her way of life. But before I have a chance to put the salesclerk in her place, Harmony breaks the awkward silence.

“I was engaged at thirteen years old.”

What?! She never said a word about her starter engagement! At thirteen I wasn’t even close to making my own commitment, no matter how much parental pressure I was under. Which was a
lot
.

“But God had another plan!” Harmony adds a bit too eagerly. “I keep telling my sis—” She stops herself. “I keep telling
Melody
that it’s not too late for her to get a husband. There are plenty of eligible bachelors in Goodside.”

I snort-laugh. Harmony is just too funny. Sometimes I wonder if Church leaders are slipping Tocin or some other prescription-strength love drug into the sacramental wine.

Trynn turns to me. “I assume
you’re
here for nostalgia’s sake,” she says, still hoping to make the sale. “Let me guess. You’re in between bumps and want to relive the best nine months of your life?”

I reluctantly flash back to Malia.

“The worst nine months of my life!”
she howled.
“For what?”

I hate thinking of her in that state.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

Harmony mutters another prayer and hooks an arm around my shoulder. And as much as I know that she’s doing this just to prove that she’s the kindhearted twin, I’m comforted by the gesture.

“My extra thirty is oh so flirty!” chirp voices outside the dressing room.

A tweenage trio comes swaggering into the dressing room. The tweens accessorize their sparkly Ts with matching First Curse Purses, the menarche must-have for stashing the pads and tampons they’ll need
any minute now.
The target demo for Babiez R U, they steal Trynn’s attention.

“I see you’re considering the Preggerz FunBump with real skinfeel and in-uterobic activity!” she says to the one with red hair holding up the fake belly she’s ready to try on. The front of the redhead’s T reads:
DO THE DEED
. As she hops around in excited circles, I catch the phrase on the back:
BORN TO BREED
.

Indeed.

“She’s wearing size Forty-Week Twins,” Trynn continues, pointing to my distended stomach. “That’s way too big for you! Size Twenty-four-Week Singleton is perfect for a girl your age. . . .”

I think of Ventura Vida’s adorable six-month bump and a wave of nausea rolls right over me. Harmony can’t pass up another opportunity to get preachy.

“When I was your age,” she offers, “I was leading my own prayerclique!”

The twelve-year-olds giggle nastily.

That’s it. I terminate. I skulk behind the curtains, strip off the Preggerz FunBump, and hang it on the wall hook. I had come here today hoping that the experience would help me feel breedier than I did before Malia’s meltdown, but all I’ve done is remind myself just how far behind I am. Unburdening myself of the fake belly does little to improve my state of mind. The MyTurnTee shrinks to fit my taut abdominals and my mood shrivels with it.

Harmony peeks behind the curtain. “Can we please head over to Plain & Simple now?”

“Sure thing.” And before I can stop myself: “Maybe there’s a sale on tasteful straitjackets.”

It was a for seriously pissy thing to say. I don’t know why I’m taking out my frustration on her.

Harmony clasps her hands and quietly sighs behind the veil. “Oh my grace.”

She lifts her veil so I can see her face. It takes my breath away whenever she does this. It’s surprisingly easy to forget that there’s another person on the planet who was born looking
exactly
like me, only frecklier. Harmony gestures for me to lean in closely to hear what she has to say.

“Pursue faith and love and peace,” she says in a quiet but confident voice. “Enjoy the companionship of those who call on the Lord with pure hearts.”

Harmony lets the veil fall back over her face, pulls the curtains together, and leaves me alone to consider her biblical wisdom.

The FunBump squirms against the back of the dressing-
room wall, and one of the twins’ elbows or maybe a knee pokes out of the bogus belly. What felt like an organic extension of my own body just moments ago now makes me more squeamish than my worst case of Sympathetic Morning Sickness. I stab my finger deep into the belly on/off button more aggressively than necessary and the FunBump goes limp.

“You’re knocked up,”
sing the little girls along with the incessant Babiez R U theme song.
“Ready to pop, due to drop.”

It’s hard not to get jealous of these nubie-pubies who—if they’re pretty enough, smart enough, and healthy enough—should already be getting wooed by RePro Representatives. Those were the
best
times, when I was still all promise and potential. Because right now I’m definitely
not
the most important sixteen-year-old on the planet. Not even ish. I’m just another prebumped girl dangerously close to wasting her prime reproductivity.

Since the nubie-pubies caught me by surprise, I check my MiNet. I’m not expecting to spot anyone I know when—gah!—I get a positive MiD.

I’M BEING PATIENT, KEEPING AN OPEN HEART, FORGIVING
Melody for her participation in the buying and selling of blasphemous synthetic blessings when she comes running out of the dressing room blind-wild as a beheaded chicken.

“I can be anywhere but here!” she cries in a mad dash for the door.

Praise the Lord. Could it be I’m already having a positive influence on her?

“Wait for me!” I’m struggling to keep up with her, briefly regretting my decision to wear this particular gown. It’s difficult to walk, let alone run. Such are the challenges when one is expected to serve as a powerful example of faith and female purity.

“Melody!”

I’m starting to think that I will never catch up when I hear a tenor voice behind me calling the same name.

“Melody!”

A whiplike figure streaks past me, quickly overtakes my sister, and stops right in her path. She screeches to a halt in front of an archway of red, white, and blue balloons. It’s clear even at a distance that this boy with big hair and even bigger grin has done what I couldn’t: made her burn with embarrassment.

I catch up to them at the patriotic display at the entrance to the U.S. Buff-A.

“The Meadowlands Mallplex has five million square feet of commercial enterprise and destination entertainment,” the boy says, waving his arms at the stores all around us. “What are the odds of me
randomly
stumbling into your facespace?”

“None.” She’s pressing her lips together to stop herself from catching the boy’s contagious grin. I’m smiling at him and I don’t even
know
him. “I haven’t seen you for, like,
ever
, and now all of a sudden you get stalky on me? How did you even find me here anyway? I blinded my MiNet.”

The boy’s smile gets bigger. And so does mine.

“Your MiNet blind is an insult to hackers everywhere.”

“You hacked my MiNet?” She sounds more amazed than annoyed. “Again?”

The boy and Melody are exactly the same height, though the tips of his hair—dark and spiky like sprigs of blackrot rosemary—give him an extra few inches. He only has to take a step toward her to look her straight in the eyes.

“Blink-left-right-left-wink-double-blink,” as his eyes follow those same commands. Melody gasps, squeezes her eyes tight, and sighs in resignation. He, having made the desired impact, takes a step back and thumbs in my direction. “Is that
her
?”

“No,” Melody says drily. “That’s the third sister, Symphony. And there are two more at home who look just like her named Rhythm and Tempo.”

“When did she get here?” he asks. “Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?”

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know she was on her way. And also because you’ve been too busy to reply to any of my messages.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

The boy looks at me, then back at Melody.

“You must be blinked.”

“You think?”

I am waiting patiently to share my own feelings about seeing my twin for the first time, but no one is asking.

“How long will she be in town?” He asks this as if I’ve got limited seating, like when Brother Moses’ Traveling Ministry finally came to Goodside.

“We’re still . . . um . . .” She coughs and casts me a sidelong glance. “Working out the details.”

I’ve told Melody I’m willing to stay with her until she’s ready to return to Goodside with me. She was so overwhelmed by emotion that she choked on her reply.

“Welcome to Otherside!” The boy sweeps his arms through the air. “I’m Zen Chen-Chavez.” He extends his hand.

I tug on my gloves, fixing my fingers inside the satin.

“I’m . . . Harmony.”

“You hesitated,” Zen says, wiggling the fingers on his still-extended hand. “Is it against the rules to touch me?”

Zen is certainly observant. I admit that I am a bit leery of making physical contact with a free male because such touching
is
against Church Orders. But I’m not in Goodside, am I? And it’s not like I’m touching skin to skin!

I answer Zen by taking his hand in mine and giving it a firm shake.

“Tell me,” he says, giving me his full attention now. “How do you feel about all the premarital sex and sin?”

I’m supposed to think he’s showing off for my benefit, but I can tell that it’s really for Melody. And yet I can’t find a way of answering his question.

“I don’t know,” I finally say.

“You could have learned a lot from watching the Cheerclones and the Ballers in action last night,” he says.

“Ugh. MasSEXtinction parties are nasty,” Melody says, scrunching her nose. “Those amateurs are so desperate.”

Zen clucks his tongue. “How can you be the next Pro/Am president if you neg any girl who doesn’t have a contract? You have to promote positive pregging in
all
forms.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Melody says dismissively. “I still can’t believe you went last night.”

“
Someone
had to be the designated driver,” he says. “I was the only one who didn’t get dosed.”

“So,” Melody says, avoiding Zen’s gaze. “Does that mean you were the only one on the sidelines during the group grope?”

If Zen notices the strain in her voice, he doesn’t let on.

“You of all people know I hold myself up to the highest standards,” he says. “Unfortunately, this means I’ll never bump with any girl who is desperate enough to bump with me.”

This makes my sister laugh-snort-laugh, which makes me laugh-snort-laugh because—PTL!—we share the same laughy-snorty laugh!

Both Zen and Mel turn to me with surprised expressions, as if they’d forgotten I was standing right beside them.

“How do you feel about wearing that gown?” Zen asks. “Can you take off your veil?”

I remember being faced with such unenlightenment in my previous trips to Otherside with my prayerclique. For a group who clings so desperately to facts, seculars like Zen and Mel understand so very little about the Church. I cherish this chance to witness because there are so few opportunities to do so in a settlement where everybody—well,
almost
everybody—is already saved. It’s vital for me to approach this in the right way so I don’t scare him off.

“Oh my grace, those are inspired questions,” I reply, mindful of my tone. “Before I answer, may I ask you a question first?”

“Sure,” Zen says. “I love questions.”

“Do you have God?”

He answers with uncommon directness. “I don’t.”

I had anticipated that response, but all witnessing must begin with the basics.

“Now that I’ve answered your question,” Zen says, “I hope you’ll answer mine.”

“Well,” I say, smoothing over the wrinkles in my dress, “I’m proud to serve as a powerful example of faith and female purity.” I wince, worried about sounding vain. “And, yes, I’m allowed to take off my veil whenever I want.”

“Why don’t you take it off right now?” Zen asks.

“Because I don’t want to.”

I really don’t. I have full control over my words but my positive messaging is often undone by negative facial expressions. This has become more clear to me since joining Melody’s company. I see her pursed lips, flared nostrils, or arched eyebrows on our shared face, revealing her true feelings as they would certainly reveal mine. Meeting Melody has convinced me that wearing the veil was the right thing.

“I don’t blame you for not taking it off. Some people say the lower rates of HPSV in your community are because you get extra protection from the veils and gloves,” he says, looking down at his hands. “Maybe we’d all be fertile into our twenties and thirties if we wore them.”

“Or maybe it’s all the
prayer
that keeps the Virus at bay,” Melody offers sarcastically.

That’s exactly what the Church Council claims.

“It’s just a shame you won’t take it off,” Zen says to me with a shrug. “It would have been such a pleasure to be seen with
two
reproaesthetical girls.”

“Careful, Zen, you’re talking to a soon-to-be-married woman here.” Melody is trying to sound lighthearted, but, as always, her face gives her away.

“I guess I’ll just have to settle for half the pleasure,” Zen says, ignoring her warning.

“For serious, Zen. Harmony’s fiancé is named Ram.”

Zen stares in disbelief. “Ram?”

“Ram. And he’s a genuine agriculty.” Melody’s voice is turning now too. “He could ride up on his horse and kick your sorry butt all the way down the turnpike.”

I let out a little yelp at the visual of Ram kicking
anyone’s
you-know-what.

“Is that true?” Zen asks. “That Ram will kick my sorry butt to defend your honor?”

“No,” I say simply, biting my lip to stop myself from giggling.

Ram is almost a foot taller than Zen and quite fit from farming, but he would never act in such a way. If Ram were here right now, it would be customary for him to thank Zen for his approving appraisal of my physical appearance, then gently point out that it is inappropriate for any man to pay such compliments to another man’s woman. But it’s unlikely Ram would say this or much of anything else because it’s against his nature to be confrontational. “Blessed are the peacemakers,” says Ma about Ram. “For they shall be called sons of God.”

“This has been fun,” Zen says, his face suddenly straight and serious. “But I actually do have a reason for stalking you today. And it’s kind of ironic too, considering what we were just talking about. . . .”

Melody squints. “Okay.” She sounds skeptical.

Zen takes a piece of paper out of his back pocket, unfolds it, and holds it up for her inspection.

“Does
this
mean anything to you?”

Melody startles at the sight of it.

It clearly holds some significance for her.

And whatever it is, it’s not good.