Thumped (3 page)

RAM IS PARALYZED. MY MOOD SWINGS HAVE BEEN ENTIRELY
unpredictable lately and there’s no way he could have ever seen this makeover coming.

“Why did you do that?” he whispers.

I take a moment to consider the question.

“I grew that braid my entire life,” I reply, turning over the lank rope of hair in my hands. “That’s a lot of hair. And it’s a lot heavier than you might think it is. I’m already loaded down by these babies. Why do I need any extra weight on me?”

Ram answers slowly. “Because the Orders say so.”

“Exactly.” I nod. “But
why
? What does that braid have to do with my ability to worship?”

I posed this question to my housesisters during yesterday’s prayershare and they dismissed it, as they have dismissed all the questions I’ve asked since I came back. These are the kinds of questions that make me a last-pick partner for sharing a hymnal at Sunday service.

Ram scuffs the floorboards with his feet. “I dunno.”

“Me neither.”

There’s so much I don’t know.

I pause for a moment before adding, “I’m thinking about dying it black.”

“The braid?”

“No.” I rub my scalp. “The rest of my hair. If I don’t shave it all off entirely.”

What am I trying to prove here? Do I want to prove to them all that my heretical hairstyle has no effect on my relationship with God? Or do I want my outward appearance to reflect who I am on the inside?

An outcast.

Ram steadies himself on the doorjamb.

“But you can’t change your hair,” he says beseechingly.

“Well, I
can
and I
did
,” I say, holding up the braid like a prize. And just like that, I can feel the rush of energy leaving me. I’m convinced the highs and lows of pregnancy are doubled when carrying twins.

I wish I could ask my birthmother about that.

“Don’t you have to lead a prayerclique on the MiVu tonight?” Ram asks.

“Yes, I do. A fledgling settlement in Ohio.”

The Church Council approved me for the MiVu when they saw the surge in interest in the Church after my sister and I made our debut. It’s funny that my own housesisters are hesitant to be seen with me, and yet those who don’t know me can’t get enough of my testimony. I tell them about how much I regret sneaking away to Otherside, how I was overwhelmed by all the sex and sin and came back to Goodside more dedicated than ever to the Church. The biggest sinners have the best redemption stories, after all.

And they don’t even get to hear what
really
happened.

The Council closely monitors my activity, though. I’m only approved for thirty minutes of use per week, all for prescheduled virtual meet-ups with prayercliques around the world who have made generous offerings to our settlement for the privilege of doing so. That money has done our community a world of good. Most of it has been put toward the advanced medical care for the neediest infants rejected by Otherside and embraced by Goodsiders like Ma. Because of my profitable, high-profile role in the ministry, dozens of sick or malformed babies have a chance at a better life. I’m saving them the way the Church saved me seventeen years ago. That’s worth something, right?

Still, I’ve been reprimanded several times for using my spare minutes to get in touch with my sister. My punishment? I wasn’t allowed to attend morning prayershare with Katie, Emily, and Laura. Ha! How little the Elders knew about me. What a gift it was to get a break from their sidelong glances and surreptitious prayers for my soul.

“I’ve got my own mission at that party tonight,” Ram says, holding up a thick stack of
THE CHURCH SAVES
, the autographed tracts the Elders have given him to distribute to the crowd. “I’m already supposed to be there. But I don’t know if I feel right leaving you like this after what just happened.”

As a man, Ram doesn’t need special permission to leave Goodside to spread the Word. He can come and go as he pleases, as long as the Elders are convinced he’s serving the Church. The only appearances I can make are on the MiVu, and I’ve made good on all my obligations so far. But tonight I’m feeling like I just can’t do it. All that energy from earlier is seeping out of me like a hole in the well. And—oh my grace—the twins are in a winner-takes-all wrestling match for their share of the womb!

Did Melody and I give our birthmother this much discomfort? I hope to ask her in person some day. Being reunited with my birthmother would make all of this worthwhile. For me, the only advantage to our fame is that it’s only a matter of time before our birthmother hears of our amazing story and tries to find us. That’s the sole reason I’ve gone along with The Hotties, a label I personally find both prideful and distasteful.

So far it’s been one crushing disappointment after another. Greed is a wicked sin, and none of the couples claiming to be our birthparents have passed the YDNA test that proves they’re telling the truth. I pray that our birthmother will catch our smiling faces in an advertisement and realize that Melody and I are the twin girls she left behind at the hospital entrance almost seventeen years ago. It’s one of only two prayers I make.

And I hope you’ll understand why I might want to keep the second prayer between God and me.

I’M DESPERATE FOR ANOTHER MOMENT ALONE WITH ZEN.
I know we can’t do much, but I’m aching to be near him. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve fulfilled my commitment to fan clubbers, contest winners, and corporate muckety-mucks. I’m about to suggest we disappear into the private inner sanctum of the VIP room when Lib screams me back to reality.

“WHY ARE YOU HERE? YOU ARE OF NO USE TO ME RIGHT NOW.”

“Always a pleasure to see you too, Lib,” Zen replies with an impish grin.

Lib is still pissed at Zen for refusing to go pro.

Lib usually has an eye for spotting potential growth spurts, so no one was more surprised than he was when my best friend shot up four inches in as many months. And, well, every other girl at Princeton Day Academy who had once viewed Zen’s insufficient verticality as a liability. Not too long ago, Zen couldn’t
give
his DNA away. No girl wanted to take a risk by bumping with a guy who was only five foot seven and a half. Now he’s constantly fielding offers from amateurs
and
pros. His biggest problem is that he’s running out of believable excuses for why he won’t seal a deal already.

Zen is shockingly levelheaded about all this newfound attention from the opposite sex. He’s always trying to convince me that the girls aren’t interested in him, they’re interested in me. Or rather, my fame. But he’s wrong. He’s not giving due credit to his own humpiness. There’s an endless supply of girls from every persuasion and perversion trying to get in his pants. Every. Single. Day.

I honestly don’t know how much more I can take. I am for seriously
done
with this bump. The doctors say the twins are pretty much out of preemie danger zone now, so I hope they make their debut very soon. Unfortunately, there are too many Baby Stock Market bets (“speculate on due dates and birth weights”) riding on the day, hour, minute, and second of D4, so we can’t speed things along artificially.

“How about you and me go somewhere for some hot and heavy hand holding?” I joke, trying to mask just how much I miss his touch.

“That sounds really awesome,” Zen says, stealing distracted glances behind me. “But . . . um . . . remember when I said it would be a smart idea to keep up appearances by bringing a plus-one?”

I follow his eyes toward the front door, where none other than Ventura Vida is pushing her way past the bodyguards, boobs first.

I feel like I’ve belly-flopped into an empty swimming pool.

I’ve put up with a lot over the past eight and a half months, but I’m not sure I can survive thirty seconds of Ventura Vida. It’s so unfair. Here I am, weighed down by an extra forty pounds, while she struts around sexier than ever. Ventura made her last delivery a little over four months ago, though you would never know it from appearances. She’s somehow even thinner than she was before she bumped, with two prominent D-cup exceptions.

“Plus one?” I snark. “More like plus three.”

It’s a lame joke and I’m actually a little relieved when Zen doesn’t patronize me by laughing at it.

“She’s really not as bad as you think she is,” he says quickly, his eyes darting back and forth between me and her as she makes her approach. “You two actually have a lot in common. . . .”

“Really? Or as Ventura would say,
‘Rilly?’
”

Ventura puts her best assets to good use as she lunges to hug Zen.

“Hey, partner! Long time no facespace!”

He looks at me from over her shoulder and apologizes with his eyes. The embrace goes on for waaay longer than necessary. I do everything I can to stop myself from calling the bodyguards to forcibly release her grip on Zen’s shoulder blades.

Finally, she lets go, steps back, smiles at me sweetly.

“Hey, Mel. Thanks for the VIP pass! It was rilly nice of you.”

“Oh, it was nothing.” And because I can’t stop myself: “
Rilly
.”

Do not be fooled by such pleasantries. Ventura hates me. She may be president of Princeton Day Academy’s Pro/Am Pregg Alliance, but I’m the one that all the girls look up to as their reproductive role model. I’m not bragging, but since I became a Hottie, membership in the Alliance has more than tripled. This weighs heavily on my conscience. Zen assures me that their eagerness to follow me now will only work in our favor later on. I hope he’s right.

“Mmm. You smell good!” Ventura says to me brightly.

“I . . . what?”

“Melody: The Fragrance. It smells good.”

Oh, right. I had totally forgotten which branch of our brand is being exploited—I mean,
expanded
—today. I had sniffed a few samples and signed off on a scent designed to capture the essence of my half of the twinship.
Melody: The Fragrance
smells like Coke ’99, a grass-stained soccer ball, and crisp dollar bills. Harmony’s perfume got its inspiration from the Song of Solomon and smells like rose of Sharon, honey, and myrrh.

Zen is standing equidistant between us. He’s smiling nervously and is uncharacteristically mute. It’s weird. And it’s wanking me out.

“Did Zen tell you?” Ventura says. “We terminated the competition in our debate today!”

Since teaming up in September, Zen and Ventura are undefeated debate partners. According to the quikiwiki, “Princeton Day Academy has never before produced such a skillfully persuasive, silver-tongued duo.”

Now excuse me while I feign a wave of morning sickness.

“No,” I say. “He didn’t tell me. We had barely had time to say hello before you showed up.”

“Guess what the topic was? Just
guess
!”

“Tell me! I can’t wait to hear!”

She’s not the only one who can play the nicey-nice game.

She clears her throat. “Government should spend fewer taxpayer dollars in promoting professional pregging for profit and spend more money on social programs that would allow amateur preggers to raise their own children
and
stay in school.”

I can see Zen going manifesto in agreement. But Ventura? No way. That would go against everything she stands for. She’s wearing an
I’M PREGG NATION
T-shirt, for Darwin’s sake!

“What side did you have to argue? Affirmative or negative?”

Zen and Ventura both laugh at my question. Not in a cruel way but in shared amusement, which actually cuts me more deeply.

“Does it matter?” Ventura asks. “A skilled debater always knows how to win both sides of an argument!”

Zen says the same thing. All the time.

Bleep! Bleep! Bleep!

Gah.
Of course
my Maternal Obligation Monitor has to go off right now in front of Ventura. According to legislation that passed right before I pregged, professional Surrogettes are legally required to wear it at all times. MOM gives a warning bleep at the first sign of excess stress.

“Are you okay?” she asks in her most sincere voice. “Are you feeling
anxious
?” She puts delighted emphasis on the last word.

“No!” I snap. “I’m fine. Just a little too much caffeine today, that’s all!”

I can tell from the victorious look on Ventura’s face that she’s not buying the latest of my many lies.

“Speaking of beverages,” Zen says, “let’s get you something to drink, Ventura.”

As he guides Ventura across the room to the bar, I catch Zen gently brushing his fingertips against the small of her back.

Bleeeeeeeeep
!

RAM IS GETTING ANTSY. “ARE YOU SURE I CAN LEAVE YOU
tonight?”

“I’ll be fine,” I insist, before adding, “the Elders will be disappointed if you don’t go. There are a lot of souls that could be saved.”

I try to say it like
that’s
why I want him to go. When the truth is, I just want him to go. Period.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“I’m sure,” I say firmly. “But come here first.”

I’m not a rabid dog anymore. He comes right over to me so I can smooth the lapels on his jacket. At first glance it doesn’t seem like what he’s got on is all that different from the black suits all men in Goodside wear. But on closer examination, the fabric isn’t wool sheared from the settlement’s own sheep but the finest cashmere imported from halfway around the world. The stitches aren’t uneven but altogether invisible. It’s a bespoke suit made by the world’s finest craftsmen, but it’s fashioned after traditional Church attire. The green maternity gown I’m wearing right now was designed by someone named Chanel, who is apparently very famous in Otherside. That’s the kind of money we’re earning these days. And as long as I continue to tithe more than I keep, and don’t go beyond the Goodside gates again, the Church Council is content to let me continue doing the Lord’s work in my own unique way.

Like Jondoe.

His parents believed he was chosen by God for important missionary work, that when he spread his seed, he was sowing the seeds of faith. But did
he
really believe that? Melody says Jondoe wants to make amends for hurting me, which is why he agreed to help us out. My sister would never deceive me about such matters. But how can I be sure that
he
isn’t lying to
her
too . . . ?

It’s his pleading voice I hear in my head right now.

Harmony, please.

And now, try as I might, I can’t stop memories of our one night together from entering my mind. Not just my mind, but my heart, my soul, my
flesh
.

“No!” I shut my eyes and shout.
“No!”

This is the sin I can never confess out loud.

Ram’s whole body is tense, his back arched like a cornered cat. I force a smile to put him back at ease.

“You
sure
you’re okay?”

I nod vigorously and give Ram a quick once-over. With his ruddy complexion and formidable frame, he comes across as wholesome and just a little bit fearsome in the way that only makes a man more handsome—at least that’s how I remember Lib describing him in a pitch for a deal with a soft drink company. And yet I have never, not once, wanted to press any part of my body against any part of Ram’s. This arrangement has worked out for us so far. But how much longer can we keep this up? ’Til death do us part?

I release my grip on his coat. “Now you can go.”

Part of me wants to add,
And don’t come back.
I mean this in the most merciful way possible. I want to release Ram as Ma has released me.

My husband smiles gratefully and turns to leave. Then he stops himself.

“Should I tell Melody about this?”

He points to the braid, which is now lying limply on the matrimonial quilt stitched by my housesisters in a traditional double wedding-ring pattern. My real wedding ring funded my escape to Goodside last spring. Ram has since offered to replace the ring, and I have declined every time. Ma told my curious prayerclique my fingers were too swollen from my blessings for rings. I hate the idea of Ma lying for me, so I can only hope she believed that was the truth.

She won’t have to lie for me anymore.

“Harmony?” Ram asks, waving his hands to get my attention. “Should I tell Melody or not?”

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re free to tell anyone anything you want.”

I’m getting impatient with Ram’s loyalty in the face of reality. It’s only his fidelity to me and fear of the unknown that makes him stick to me like a cocklebur on my hem. He’s as ambivalent about raising a family as I am, but he’ll do it because I asked him to. And until now, I tried convincing myself that it was the praiseworthy decision.

But is it the right choice for the babies? For Ram?

For me?

But I’m not supposed to think about what’s best for me, am I?

I smile at him weakly. It’s all I can muster right now.

“Now go. Please.”

Ram doesn’t wait for me to say it again. He gives me a quick kiss on the top of my head before bounding out the door, down the stairs, and into the air taxi waiting to take him into Otherside.

I’m alone again. But I know it won’t be for long.

As I lie down on the bed, I pay no mind to the emancipated braid as it falls off the edge and onto the floor. It’s already too late to stop the loose end from unraveling.