Thumped (10 page)

I’M PERCHED ON A STOOL IN MELODY’S PARENTS’ BATHTUB
with a shower cap on my head. Jondoe is blasting my scalp with the hair dryer. It’s impossible to talk over the whooshing air, which is probably better right now anyway because there’s still too much to say and I have no idea where to start.

He turns off the dryer but my head still feels like it’s smoldering.

“That’s normal,” Jondoe assures me. “That’s how you know the color activation process is . . . um . . . activated.”

“Oh,” I say. Part of me wishes he would turn the hair dryer back on again to ease the burden of conversation.

I remove the cap and shake out my dry, freshly dyed hair with my fingers.

Jondoe is agog.

“You hate it,” I say.

“On the contrary,” he says, “I’m just surprised how the darker color suits you. It’s like you were a brunette trapped in a blonde’s body all this time.”

I have a quiet laugh at this. I’ve spent my whole life feeling trapped, but hair color does not rank high on my list of oppressors.

“You still want to go short?” Jondoe asks.

I nod.

“I’ll have to cut it down with scissors before you use the shaver. . . .”

“
I’ll
have to cut it down,” I say. “I’m doing this. Not you.”

I had also insisted on applying the dye all by myself with him hovering over me, coaching me through it. It wasn’t merely a matter of propriety. It’s important for me to be in control of my destiny, even if it’s just my hair at stake. Plus the task at hand required my full concentration, so all conversations were put on hold.

“I’ve done business with so many actresses and models—” He stops short, slaps his hand over his mouth. “What I mean is, I have a lot of experience.” He grimaces and corrects himself again. “
Styling
experience! I have a lot of styling experience, you know, from all those photo shoots and spending so many hours with the fashion elite. . . .”

Jondoe is mistaken if he thinks any reminder of his past will convince me that he’s in no way ready to repent. He seems to be forgetting that the worst sinners always have the
best
testimonies, that the most powerful conversion stories are told by those who had the hardest and longest journey from sin to redemption. Every time he hints at the man he used to be, he serves as a reminder of the person he has become.

I know this from personal experience. I’ve recounted my own fall from grace many, many times over for the congregations and prayercliques all over the world who have made the minimum donation to hear the holy half of The Hotties witness to them via the MiVu about nearly losing her soul to Satan’s temptations in Otherside. Of course, the version I deliver to the true believers omits the very worst of my sins. Though when I let myself plunge the depths of Jondoe’s eyes, I can’t stop myself from thinking that lying down with him was the
best
of my sins.

Dear God. Why do you lay these feelings in my heart?

I pick up the scissors from the rim of the tub, grab hold of a clump of hair right in front, and hack away at it carelessly. Jondoe flinches at my lack of technique. What’s happening on my head is definitely not pretty. But I think that might be the point.

Jondoe opens his mouth to make a suggestion.

“When I need your help,” I say, “I’ll ask for it.”

He shuts his mouth. Closed.

For the next few minutes, I just cut and cut and cut with the scissors. I don’t even glance at the mirror, I just feel my way around. Feathery black tendrils fall down all around me and scatter around the inside of the bathtub.

“If you want it shorter than that, you should probably switch to the electric razor,” Jondoe says tentatively. “How short do you want it anyway?”

“Short,” I say, pinching a clump of hair at my crown.

“Okay.” He comes closer to investigate. “That’s about two inches.”

Jondoe places the correct attachment over the teeth of the razor and hands it over.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“I’m sure.”

When I press the razor against my scalp, the buzziness shoots straight from my head and electrifies my entire body. When the twins respond accordingly, I have to brace myself on the edge of the tub.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Jondoe asks.

I bite my lip and nod, fighting against this latest wave of pain.

“Can I help you?” he asks. “With the parts you can’t reach?”

I know he’s really talking about my hair. But this time I wish he weren’t just talking about my hair.

“You may,” I reply. Though what I’m really thinking is,
You already have.

Jondoe rests his hand on the nape of my neck and oh my grace. He’s making miracles with his fingertips. His touch makes everything melt way. I feel like I’ve been unburdened of my physical body, my soul promoted to glory. I close my eyes and surrender . . . surrender . . . surrender . . .

“Harmony?”

I don’t know how long ago he finished. He’s set the shaver down and stepped backward to take me in. His eyes are wide, his mouth agape.

“Do you want to see what I see?” he asks.

“I do.”

He steps to the side to unblock my view of the mirror.

“Oh my—”

I’m looking at the most startlingly pretty girl I’ve ever seen.

He cropped my hair as short as I had asked him to, except in the front, where it falls down in longer, jagged slices across my forehead. My eyes seem bigger and more indigo than blue. My nose and mouth aren’t as delicate as before, but more dramatic. Striking. Strong. I don’t look anything like the fragile flower I’ve been told I was my whole life.

I don’t look anything like my twin, either.

“I haven’t spent much time around preggers,” Jondoe says, “but you have to be the most beautifully bumped girl that has ever been.”

“You did a praiseworthy job,” I say. “Thank you.”

He reaches around and unfastens the buttons on the cape draped around my shoulders and removes it with a showy flourish, scattering hair all around the tub. Then he makes a grand gesture out of taking my hand and helping me step up and out of the tub. I know I’m still carrying an extra forty pounds, but I feel lighter than air. It’s not just Jondoe’s presence and attention, either. I can’t stop touching my neck, my ears, my collarbone; it’s like I’ve never seen these parts of myself before. I’m totally exposed, and yet at the same time, I feel safely hidden behind a new identity. Will anyone even recognize me like this if I don’t even recognize myself?

I’m stroking my wispy sideburns with my fingertips when he comes up on me from behind and bends down to whisper in my ear.

“Let me sleep beside you tonight.”

Each word is like a caress to the most tender skin on the back of my neck.

I shiver, wanting the impossible. Wanting
more
.

He knows this too. After his many years in the business of making—and faking—love, it would be impossible for him not to.

“Chastely!” he adds hastily.

It’s not supposed to be funny, but it is.

“Ha!” I point to my swollen midsection. “As if there’s a choice in the matter!”

There’s a moment’s pause.

Then Jondoe and I share a long laugh that is simultaneously the most natural and most miraculous sound I’ve ever heard.

“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

—Matthew 6:21

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

This time the screeching isn’t coming from the kettle. It’s me.

Jondoe flails around from his spot on the floor next to the bed.

“WHAT DID I TELL YOU? NO ALARMS! EVER!”

“Why . . . are . . . you . . . yelling . . . at . . . me?” I ask, taking a breath in between each word.

Jondoe turns and stares at me like he’s startled to be here.

“Oh, Harmony, I’m sorry,” Jondoe says. “I thought you were Moxie.”

“Who . . . is . . . Moxie?”

“My personal assistant.” He groans, then vigorously rubs the sleep out of his eyes. “I thought she set an alarm. And I have told her time and again that there are to be no interruptions of my circadian sleep cycle because it can be really bad for reproductive circulation. My biorhythmist recommends that I wake up naturally every day because it increases blood flow to, you know, my most vital extremity. . . .”

The twins settle down, the pain fades away, and I sink back into the pillows.

“So was that
you
?
Screaming?
”

I nod weakly. It felt like the twins were trying to escape through my belly button, but I don’t want him to know that.

“I’m fine now.”

Jondoe’s eyes bulge. He extends his arms in front of him and pantomimes my belly.

“Did you double in size last night?”

It sure looks that way, as if the twins are jockeying for lead position.

“You think . . .” He points wordlessly at my stomach.

He’s thinking what I’m thinking. But I’m not ready to say it out loud.

Jondoe leaps to his feet and claps his hands together.

“I can do this!” he announces. “You’ll see, Harmony! I won’t disappoint you!”

And before I can ask what he’s doing, he’s already run out of the room, leaving me alone and in fear of the next shockwave of contractions.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEEEP!

At first I think it’s MOM. But then I remember: Zen deactivated my alarm.

But I don’t have time to think about him because the beeping isn’t coming from my own wrist, it’s coming from my driveway. It’s the Bumpmobile! Ready to take me to school! I’ve overslept! And I’ve got a biochem exam today!

My friends make fun of me for studying so hard when I’ve made enough money to afford the luxury of never having to bust another brain cell. But I actually like learning stuff. I mean, how cool would it be if I discovered a cure for the Virus? Or if not a cure, how about the invention of an artificial method that actually works? Billion Dollar Hottie Saves the Human Race. How’s that for a narrative arc?

Okay. And maybe I also need to go to school to fix the mess that I made last night.

BEEEEP! BEEEP! BEEEEEEP!

The Bumpmobile’s horn is notoriously obnoxious. We call it the waterbreaker.

I rush around the room, getting ready as quickly as I can with all this extra poundage. Even though I know the Bumpmobile would never leave without me, I’ve worked too hard to maintain my everygirl image to get all diva now. So I twist my hair into a ponytail and pull on a MyTurnTee and pair of stretch jeans. I splash cold water on my face, and make sure to squeeze a good-sized splurt of toothpaste out of the tube and directly into my mouth. I don’t really care what I look like today—and to be honest, I know I can pull off the fresh-out-of-bed look pretty well—but I don’t need the entire MiNet buzzing about my death breath.

BEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEP!

I’m only half awake, so I almost speed-waddle right past Jondoe in the kitchen. He’s filling the kettle with water.

“Melody!” he says, “I was just about to wake you—”

“I’m late for school,” I interrupt in a rush. “You’re finally going to get that time alone with Harmony that you’ve wanted for so long.”

Jondoe looks confused for a moment, then brightens as if he’s suddenly remembered something.

“Don’t worry about us!” he says, settling the kettle on the burner. “I know what I’m doing!”

I know that voice. It’s the same one he uses to shill E-REX energy drinks. I can’t help but think he’s trying to convince himself more than me.

“Just take it easy on her, okay? I’ll be home by three-fifteen at the latest!”

With a twinge of reservation, I grab my knapsack and a blueberry PregGo Bar and meet the Bumpmobile barely two minutes after the first
BEEP
.

JONDOE RACES BACK INTO THE ROOM.

“Boiled water? Check.” He marks the air with his finger.

“What?”

“The water is boiling! You can’t have a baby without boiled water? Right? And clean sheets. We need clean sheets!”

This would be a very sweet gesture if I wasn’t so worried about being split in two.

“I’m not having these babies here and now,” I say. “We’ll need to get to a birth center. My sister will know where to go.”

Jondoe grimaces slightly. “Um . . . Your sister just left for school.”

“She
left
me here with you?”

He puffs his chest up with pride.

“She trusted me enough to leave you in my care! She knows I’ve done my research! I’ve been studying up on how to be a perfect birthcoach. Go ahead, ask me anything! Ask me how many centimeters you need to be dilated before you can deliver!” He’s too excited to wait for the answer. “Ten! See? I know what I’m doing!”

I want to make sure I’m hearing what I’m hearing.

“You did all this research for your job?”

“I did all this research for
you
.” He looks away, suddenly shy.

“For me?”

“With the hope that I’d get to be with you when you deliver and coach you through it. And I will be!”

I barely have time to understand the full meaning of this before he’s at my side, two fingers pressed to the inside of my wrist.

“Your pulse is strong,” he says in a commanding tone. “How far apart are your contractions?”

“It’s difficult to tell,” I reply with uncertainty. “They seem to be coming pretty irregularly.”

“Hmm . . .” he says, stroking his chin. “Could be a false alarm. Braxton Hicks. Your membranes didn’t rupture yet, did they?”

“My
what
?”

“That’s the technical term for asking, ‘Did your water break?’”

Oh. I shake my head no. I can’t get over how knowledgeable Jondoe is about birthing. He knows more than any man in Goodside, that’s for sure. And he learned it all for me?

“Let’s get you up and walking around,” he says, reaching out to help me out of the bed. “If you’re really ready to go, gravity will help move things along.”

When I grab hold of him, I’m struck by emotions altogether different than the carnal stirrings of the past.

I feel comfort in his strong, capable hands.