Thumped (4 page)

I’M STILL BLEEPING.

Lib comes out of nowhere, grabs my wrist, and shakes it.

“Can’t you shut THAT THING up?”

“Oh, that’s hilarious coming from the person who adjusted all the settings.”

Lib has no idea how much I’d love to shut this thing up. MOM goes off if it detects too much or too little of
anything
that can do harm to my delivery—make that deliveri
es
—in utero. The bracelet comes with a standardized set of upper (sugar, alcohol) and lower (vitamins, cardiovascular exercise) limits, but almost every Parental Unit makes customizations based on their own belief system. On the upside, the Jaydens are liberal about caffeine—I can drink one can of soda every day without getting bleeped. But I’d happily give up my beloved Coke ’99 if they’d be willing to change their neggy opinion on having sex while pregging.

“But if Jondoe and I have already done it, what’s the harm in doing it again?” I asked.

“You could misdeliver!” Lib countered.

“But that’s a myth!” I protested.

“You of all people shouldn’t underestimate Jondoe’s penetrative powers,” he replied. “It’s just not worth the risk.”

Lib doesn’t want to take
any
chances with me, his most prosperous client. He’s been my agent ever since he persuaded me to go pro at thirteen and negotiated all the details of my Conception Contract with the Jaydens. Most RePro Reps have limited themselves to the money earned in the negotiations between Surrogette (me), Sperm (Jondoe), and Parental Unit (the Jaydens). Lib has always THOUGHT BIG, and when we offered him the opportunity to represent both me and Harmony, he didn’t flinch. I’ll give him full credit for coming up with The Hotties’ many revenue streams. He’s made us all wealthier than anyone but Lib could ever have imagined. Because when it comes to money, Lib has a limitless imagination.

I’ll admit: It hasn’t been all bad. The Hotties were the biggest thing to hit the MiNet in a long time, and it was worth all the hassle just to watch Ventura’s status suffer by comparison. We were the right brand at the right time, making our MiNet debut right after the nation’s most prolific eighteen-year-old, Zorah Harding, sadly announced that the Virus had finally claimed her uterus and she would not be delivering baby number eleven after all. Before we could blink, The Hotties were global. Memers couldn’t go viral fast enough with what we were saying, wearing, eating.

And selling. Always selling. Harmony and I have earned more than enough money to buy our independence. But what if Harmony stands her ground and refuses to choose freedom? Zen insists that no matter what happens with Harmony, I am a “movement in the making.” When he starts talking like this, I for seriously consider living off the interest of my earnings, partying my ass off, and never making a single positive contribution to society. If that’s what I want to do, I can. I’ve earned the independence to make that choice.

But as I sit here, fat and cranky, watching helplessly as Zen laughs at one of Ventura’s jokes, I can’t help but ask myself: At what cost?

“WHERE IS HE?” Lib is back and even shoutier than before.

“Where’s who?” I ask distractedly, my eyes still trained on Zen and Ventura.

“Who? WHO?! JONDOE! He’s gone OFF THE GRID.”

Now is probably not a good time to mention that the last time I saw Jondoe he was in the middle of a sexistential crisis.

“Um . . . He’s got to be around here somewhere. . . .” I say unconvincingly, looking out the window and down at the crowd below. It doesn’t look any different from any of the other parties thrown in our honor. Harmony’s fans are swaying and praying. Mine are dancing, drinking, dosing. The groups don’t mingle, but they can coexist in the same room without any drama, which was impossible to imagine just eight months ago. We received medals of honor from the National Association for Procreation for “giving common ground to radically different ideodemographics.”

“Oh, wait,” I say. “Ram’s down there!”

Harmony’s husband is working his way through the crowd, making it rain religious tracts like dollar bills in a strip club. He’s got a huge smile on his face and—ha!—did I just catch him in a fist pump? Of all of us, I must say that he seems to be the one who gets the most genuine enjoyment out of these events. Either he really lives to serve God, or he really loves a party.

“RAM IS NO JONDOE.”

And Lib races off again to berate a Team Hottie intern. I’ve never seen Lib so stressed out. I think I might have seen an actual wrinkle denting his forehead’s synthetic skinfeel.

“Hot-TIES! Hot-TIES!” the crowd chants.

I fear that if I don’t give them some face time soon, this party will get real ugly, real fast.

“It’s getting crazy down there, huh?”

Zen is back by my side. By himself.

“Where’s Ventura?”

“In the bathroom.”

“Probably to confirm that she’s peaking,” I say, immediately regretting making any reference to the subject of Ventura’s overactive ovaries.

Zen’s face is stony. “And if she
is
ovulating? What? You think we’re gonna bump pretties tonight?”

Bleeeeeeeeeep!
Gah. This thing is worse than the polygraph app.

“Sweet Darwin! You
do
! That’s why you’re bleeping like a lunatic.”

“Maybe I got the ninth-month nutsies a little bit early,” I say sarcastically.

Zen doesn’t say anything. He knows I’m being ridiculous and doesn’t want to dignify that with a response. He takes a moment to quietly sip his Dr. Peppermint soda. I’ve seen him do this to unnerve his competition in debates, which makes the stalling tactic all the more frustrating.

“Melody . . .”

He takes a step toward me, so we’re only inches apart. He tilts his face even closer to mine, and I lift my chin to meet his parted lips. . . .

But he doesn’t kiss me.

“You know I have to fake interest or it will look suspicious.”

I should keep my voice low. But I’m too frustrated—sexually and otherwise—to do so.

“Your fake interest in her is more convincing than your genuine interest in me!”

Zen keels over in forced laughter for the benefit of any eavesdroppers.

“HAHAHAHAHAHA. You better watch those jokes, Mel. Don’t think the tabloids won’t run with the ‘best friends with benefits’ story! HAHAHAHAHA.” Then, as he’s bent over in these exaggerated hysterics, he whispers, “You’re talking too much tonight. What’s gotten into you?”

I give him a cutting look. “What’s gotten into me? Nothing.” I look down at my belly. “Nothing has gotten into me at all.”

“You think it’s been easy for me to see you with him?”

I
know
he doesn’t like seeing me with Jondoe any more than I like seeing him get hit on by one humpy girl after another. And yet I have trouble feeling much sympathy for him for one really,
rilly
good reason.

“You need stop talking immediately,” Zen says in a serious voice. “Because it’s not just about you. Think about your sister.”

“My sister. Who could deliver at any moment in Goodside.” I pause dramatically.
“Where she has chosen to stay put
.
”

“There’s still time for her to change her mind.”

Isn’t that exactly what I tried to tell Jondoe earlier this evening?

“I’m telling you, Melody,” he says, his eyes nervously scanning the room to make sure no one is listening, “you have built yourself a powerful platform, and when you finally get to speak, millions—no, billions—of girls will listen and rise up and demand . . .”

And before Zen can go full manifesto, Lib is all up in our facespace again.

“WHY ARE YOU HERE BUT TO TORTURE ME?”

Again, someone else says what I cannot.

“I can’t find Jondoe anywhere,” Lib whispers before going back to a full shout. “THIS IS TOTALLY UNPROFESSIONAL.”

“This may not even be a bad thing after all,” Zen offers. “The MiNet will go wild with speculation. . . .”

Lib finishes the thought for him. “WONDERING WHY JONDOE IS A NO-SHOW!” Then he grudgingly gives Zen a look of approval.

“Aren’t either of you at all curious as to where he might be?” I ask.

I’m getting legitimately worried now. Jondoe’s synapses weren’t firing at maximum capacity tonight.

“Don’t worry, gorgeous.” Lib pats my head. “He can’t stay off-grid forever. And when we find him, there will be a whole new surge in optics!” He tips back his head and cackles. “You know, it’s such genius publicity it’s almost like I planned it! And you know what? I’ll take credit for it anyway!”

I’d be offended if his superficial fame-gaming wasn’t so predictable. In a way, I’ve got to admire his transparency. At least Lib is exactly who he appears to be. Right now I can’t say that about anyone else in my inner circle.

“You think you can do this by yourself?” Lib asks.

I nod. I can do this in my sleep.

Without a second’s hesitation, Lib runs out of the room to let the tech crew know that this will be a solo performance after all. The DJ downstairs is now playing The Hotties’ dance version of the Babiez R U theme song, pop music being an obvious revenue stream with our names and all. If I weren’t so wanked out right now, I might find it amusing to see Ram leading hundreds of partiers playing air guitar and singing out loud:

We’re the most important girls on the planet! The most powerful girls on the planet! The prettiest most popular most princessy most everything girls on the planet!

And for the past eight and a half months, it’s all been true.

But not for much longer.

I’m taking a fortifying swig of soda when the door opens again. I’m dreading the reappearance of Ventura and her peaking ovaries when in walks a couple that’s like, old. They’ve got to be in their thirties at least.
So
not my target demo. But as soon as they enter the room, they crane their necks looking for someone and I automatically know that person is me. Sure enough, the woman finds me on the opposite side of the room and rushes over with her partner.

I sigh and elbow Zen in the ribs. It’s another couple that wants to cash in on The Hotties’ fame and fortune.

“Melody Mayflower!” the woman gushes. “We’ve waited for this moment for such a long time!”

I stop them before they can even start their spiel.

“Take the YDNA test,” I tell them.

They look at each other, baffled.

“What?” they ask at the same time.

“You think I’m your long-lost daughter, right?” I say, not waiting for them to reply. “You need to take the YDNA test to prove it. They should have told you that before they let you in here.”

I know I sound harsh. But you would be jaded too if you had been confronted by hundreds of counterfeiting couples claiming to be your long-lost birthparents.

Now that I’ve actually gotten a close look at the woman, I see she’s actually quite attractive in the all-natural surgical aesthetic that’s the opposite of what’s trending for obsolescents these days. I mean, like, every twentysomething Team Hottie intern has erased all outward traces of her genetic identity with forehead extensions, skin dyes, and nasal implants, but this woman’s face is refreshingly
human
. There’s something else about the stranger’s appearance that makes me linger longer over her features—clear blue eyes, high cheekbones, pert nose, full lips—and it takes me a few seconds to figure out what it is: She looks a lot like me. A
lot
. Only like, as I said, waaaay older. I’m so relieved Harmony isn’t here right now because there would be nothing stopping her from jumping into this woman’s lap and calling her “Mama.” I almost wouldn’t blame her because as far as fakers go, this one is undoubtedly the best I’ve seen so far. Her partner—who is just average-looking, and losing his hair—is surely the brains of this operation.

They look at each other again and laugh nervously.

“You don’t know who we are?” the woman asks.

“No idea,” I say.

“We’re the Jaydens!” the husband says.

“And these,” says the wife, framing my belly with her hands, “are our daughters!”

The MOM alarm goes crazy.

Bleeeeeeeep! Bleeeeeeep! Bleeeeeep!

Zen instinctively puts his arms around my shoulders to bolster me from the blow that’s just been leveled right at me. Because if I really
were
carrying their daughters, I’d probably break water right now.

But I’m not.

Which leaves me no choice but to confront the two biggest victims of The Hotties’ scam, who I never considered victims until they were grinning right in front of me.

THE BARN IN THE BACKYARD IS ASTIR WITH WARNINGS.

Mooing, clucking, whinnying, bleating.

Knock knock knock knock.

There it is. The arrival at the front door that I’ve been waiting for.

As I make my way down the stairs, I think about how it used to be. Before I went Wayward, I was never without the company of my prayerclique, a chaperone, or a spying housebrother . . . or ten! But now I don’t get visitors. Today’s nesting party was an exception—and look how well that turned out. I may be sought-after on the other side of the gates, but Goodside is the only place on the planet I’m guaranteed to be left in peace. The fame that attracts millions of MiNet followers is the same fame that keeps the whole settlement—even my own ma—at a distance. Oh, I still get the invitations to quilting bees and canning parties. But the chairs next to me go empty until filled by latecomers who always make an effort to arrive earlier next time. I don’t hold any ill will for them in my heart. If I were like the other girls, I’d be frightened of me too.

I reach the front entrance and take a deep breath before opening the door to four men wearing black hats, black suits, black boots. They are the most powerful Elders on the Church Council and their faces are interchangeably grim beneath their graying beards.

“Where is the man of the house?” asks the first Council- man I privately call Elder Blather because his sermons are always too long on time and too short on substance. I knew better than to share this observation with my housesisters, though Ram thought it was both funny and true.

“He’s not here,” I say. “He’s away on special missionary business in Goodside.”

The Elders are visibly uncomfortable now. It’s considered improper for any man to have a conversation with another man’s wife in his absence. It’s not against the Orders exactly, but it’s definitely frowned upon because such fraternizing can court temptation. And I’m not just any wife, mind you, but easily the most infamous young woman who has ever dwelled in this settlement or any other. No girl has ever come back after going Wayward for as long as I did. No girl has ever encouraged as many conversions or donations to the Church either. In short, the Elders don’t know what to make of my mixed blessings. For such black-and-white thinkers, I am too much gray.

“You received yet another call from an unapproved Othersider earlier this evening, did you not?”

The Elders show up on my doorstep whenever Jondoe tries to reach me. So this question isn’t unexpected.

“I did,” I say. “But I didn’t answer it.”

I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to. But I didn’t.

“That is of no matter. Are you courting devilry, Harmony?”

I expected this too. I pinch my mouth closed, shake my head no. Though I’m not sure whether I’m being honest or not.

“Do you have God, Harmony?”

I nod yes. This is true.

“Your prayerclique fears for your soul.”

I know this. Every day I’ve put in the effort to circle up with my prayerclique and call for those things that only bring glory to God. But oh my grace it’s difficult to keep my heart and mind open when I am repeatedly made the “anonymous” target of those prayers. I was a little more than a month into my return when I made what I thought was an innocent comment about the floor-length, full-sleeved dresses we’re required to wear in accordance with the Orders.

“Wouldn’t it be a relief if we could wear sleeveless dresses in the summertime?”

I was only in my first trimester then, and yet my skin felt hot and tight, like a sausage on a stick over the fire. (More than once that sweltering summer, I’d wonder if there was a connection between the heat I felt in my body and the hellfire in my soul.)

The very next morning, Emily was quick to make an offer to open the prayershare.

“Please pray for my friend who wants to wear provocative clothing instead of modest attire.” Then she made a point of glancing knowingly around the circle, pausing long enough at me for everyone to notice. She pursed her lips before adding, “Girls who are devoted to God make themselves attractive not by what they wear, but by the good things they
do
.”

I should have put out of my mind right then that I could ever raise more serious questions about Church doctrine. But I kept hoping. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could find someone else here who sought a different relationship with God. I’ve only recently begun to accept that I’m the sole doubter among us.

And by cutting off my braid, I’ve confirmed it.

As if he’s read my thoughts, a Councilman taps Elder Blather on the shoulder and whispers something in his ear. Elder Blather startles, takes hold of me by the shoulders, and spins me half around so he can see the back of my head.

“You cut your hair,” he says, stating the obvious.

I touch the nape of my neck where my braid once was.

“I have,” I say.

This results in more murmuring.

“You do understand that this too is in direct defiance of the Orders?”

I nod, oddly unafraid. “I am.”

“The Orders exist for you to best serve Him. And yet you insist on repeatedly defying them.” Elder Blather bows his head, which is a sign that I should too. “
Let every soul be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and the authorities that exist are appointed by God.
”

I’ve heard Romans 13:1 a lot. As a governing authority, this is a very convenient verse for Elder Blather to use on me.

“You’ll follow through on your obligations to the ministry tonight, wearing a veil to disguise your disobedience. Tomorrow the MiVu will be permanently removed from your home as you have shown time and again that you are incapable of walking the right path.”

“But I—”

He holds up a bony finger to silence me.

“Furthermore, you have left us no choice but to take a vote.”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. And he can’t even bring himself to look me in the face as he lets the unspoken sink in.

They’re going to take a vote on my Shunning.

“It is the way of the Lord,” he says before departing.

No!
I want to protest.
It’s the way of the Church.
And that isn’t the same thing at all. But why am I the only one who sees it that way? I was a fool to think that I could ever fulfill my feminine promise as if I had never left. I’m not like Ma, or my housesisters, or my prayerclique, and I never have been. And it’s not because I’m adopted, because the Church has taken in dozens of the sickest or otherwise difficult-to-place babies over the decades. Katie, for example, had the cord wrapped around her neck and didn’t get enough oxygen when she was born and will always be a bit slower than the rest of us. And yet she, like all the other rescued babies, has seamlessly blended with the rest of the settlement. All but me.

If the Church community is like my white-on-white wedding quilt, I’m the lone red square stitched with raggedy twine.

I know the threat of Shunning is supposed to fill me with dread, spur me to repentance and obedience, but it actually has the opposite effect. I feel strangely . . . free. Having a household all to myself was really just a kinder alternative to Shunning all along. What’s the difference? The red dress? I don’t have to attend prayercliques and quilting bees? Good riddance to all of it!

Oh my grace! Another rebellion of fists and feet.

How could I have forgotten? It’s not about me.

“What about the twins?” I shout out to the Elders, who are already halfway down the drive. “What will happen to them?”

Elder Blather turns slowly around, his face ghoulish in the lantern light.

“Our vote,” he says coldly, “will determine whether the twins are any concern of yours.”