Thumped Read online

  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.

  harmony

  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.”


  melody

  I’M MOCKED UP.

  Yes, it’s true. The girl who hated trying on Babiez R U FunBumps has been successfully faking one of the most high-profile preggings in history.

  There are only four of us in on the scam: Harmony, Jondoe, Zen, and me. Lib is in on half the truth: He knows Harmony bumped with Jondoe but is happy to uphold the image of the brand by letting everyone else think her deliveries are Ram’s. As for Ram, he says he’ll raise the babies with Harmony in Goodside because that’s what she’s asked him to do. As for what he really believes, I don’t know. And Harmony has made it clear that she doesn’t want me to ask.

  The rest of the world thinks we’re fulfilling our obligations as our parents always expected. None of this would have been possible without Jondoe’s full cooperation, which he gave for one reason: Harmony.

  “She’ll change her mind,” I had told him eight and a half months ago, when Harmony shocked us all by returning to Goodside with Ram. “She’ll come back. And when she does, The Hotties will have earned her enough money to start a whole new life. She’ll be free to be whoever she wants to be. . . .”

  “I can give her the money she needs to be independent right now!”

  “How can she earn her independence if you’re the one buying it for her?”

  He had almost protested, but thought better of it.

  “Won’t the Jaydens be pissed when they find out we scammed them? Won’t the whole world?”

  “Do you care about Harmony or your career?”

  He winced. “I wasn’t thinking about my career,” he said. “I was actually thinking about you.”

  That was when I kind of got why Harmony had fallen for Jondoe. It was the first time I saw him not as a product, but as a real person capable of caring about people other than himself.

  “Don’t worry about me. Zen and I are working on a plan, a mission, really,” I had said cryptically. “The world will get over it just fine. Including the Jaydens.”

  That was so much easier to believe when the Jaydens were anonymous cradlegrabbers. They met me, like, thirty seconds ago and they’re already proudly showing off pictures of the nursery. They’re so off-the-spring excited just to be in close proximity of my belly that it’s obvious to me now that they are not going to “get over it” so easily.

  “May I . . . ?” asks the Mrs. as she tentatively reaches out to me.

  Or rather, to the Billion Dollar Belly.

  According to Jondoe, it’s a top-secret prototype for a product called Artificial Living Tissue Engineered for Reproducing Reproduction. Eight and a half months ago I applied the transparent film to my midsection and for the past thirty-five weeks it has developed exactly as a real pregnancy would. It’s basically the next-generation synthetic skinfeel that’s used all the time in cosmetic surgery, only the ALTERR cells are encoded with microholographic imaging systems that simulate pregnancy. That’s a fancy way of saying it’s the most authentic FunBump ever. ALTERR isn’t approved for consumer use, so the B$B could swell to ten times its size, swallow me whole, and launch a parasitic attack on New Jersey.

  Which doesn’t sound too bad right about now.

  “I can feel them moving around!” the Mrs. says rhapsodically.

  Of course she can. I’ve gotten away with avoiding internal exams (to “protect my reproductive privacy”) because ALTERR can fool an ultrasound. To my medical team, my twins are every bit as real as Harmony’s. I’ve scammed the whole world.

  “Our daughters!”

  I’m fooling the Jaydens right now.

  I feel like I’m about to puke.

  “Are you okay?” the Mr. asks. “You look a little green.”

  “Have you had morning sickness this whole time?” the Mrs. asks. “Oh, that must be awful!”

  Her sympathy makes me feel even sicker.

  Zen steps between me and the Jaydens, unexpectedly grabs my hands, and starts pinching the webbing between my thumb and index fingers.

  “Let’s stimulate those pulse points!” he says in a strained voice. “That’ll make the nausea go away!” With his back to the Jaydens, he sends me a loud and clear message with his eyes: Don’t do it.

  Zen knows me better than anyone. And he knows how close I am to just giving it all up right now. But how can I just sit back and let these people make more plans for these babies that are never going to come? Has Zen lost his humanity along with his mind? I don’t get another moment to contemplate this question because Lib is zooming across the room and going psycho on the Jaydens.

  “What in the name of Darwin are you two doing here?” he seethes through a gritted-teeth smile. “I explicitly told you not to come here under any circumstances.”

  “But . . .” says the Mrs.

  “But nothing,” he whisper-shouts. “This is dangerous. Do you understand? DANGEROUS.”

  It’s true that Surrogettes and Parental Units are discouraged from meeting each other, but the legislation that would make such interactions illegal hasn’t passed yet. So I don’t know what’s gotten into Lib. I mean, it’s beyond over the top, even for him.

  When the Mrs. withers under Lib’s glare, the Mr. steps up.

  “Hey, she’s been through a lot. Take it easy on her . . .”

  “ARE YOU SUGGESTING I DON’T KNOW WHAT SHE’S BEEN THROUGH?”

  “Hey Lib, it’s cool,” Zen says, trying to keep the peace.

  “It is ABSOLUTELY and UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES cool. And why do you get to have an opinion anyway?” He returns to the Jaydens. “Please leave now before you jeopardize everything I’ve worked for.”

  The Mrs. is crying and the Mr. looks like he’s on the verge of joining her. I have no idea why Lib is overreacting like this.

  “I’m sorry,” the Mr. is saying. “We’ll leave. Of course we’ll leave. We’d never do anything to ruin . . .”

  “Then do exactly as I tell you,” Lib all but whispers, as if he’s got no voice left.

  And before I can even apologize for Lib getting all ragey, he leads them to the door. But what makes this weird situation even weirder is how he puts his arms around them as he does it. It’s a surprisingly tender gesture, considering the circumstances.

  I have just enough time to warn everyone in my radius.

  “I’m gonna throw up.”

  Then I lean over and heave into the nearest recycling bin.

  harmony

  ELDER BLATHER’S MENACING PROCLAMATION IS FAR MORE life-changing than anything he’s ever said from the pulpit.

  It’s not what I wanted to hear. But it’s exactly what I needed to hear.

  I imagine Katie, Emily, and Laura have already eagerly agreed to stay up all night to sew me a tented red maternity dress that will be ready for me to wear in the morning. My own ma might even help them with the measurements. A true believer must accept her punishment, with child or not.

  When I was about thirteen I once asked Ma about Shunning, and why the men on the Council were allowed to pass Judgment when the Bible says that only God has the power to do so. That was before I realized that I couldn’t turn to Ma when I was in spiritual crisis because she has unchanging faith in the Church. Ma told me to stop asking such questions because I would be deemed unmarriageable. She was right. Not long after I asked that question—and others like it—the Council voted against my first engagement to a stranger named Shep and arranged for him to marry my more compliant housesister.

  The Church Council had to pass Shep’s homestead on the way to mine, lanterns lighting the way, alerting them and the entire settlement to my latest transgressions. How grateful Shep must be now that I’m Ram’s problem, not his. In the years after that failed engagement and before my marriage to Ram, I used to hide in the fields with my bird-watching binoculars and catch glimpses of happy families in their windows as they lived their prayerful and harmonious lives. I would search for signs of discord on their faces, in their actions, hoping to find an ally. But I never did.

  And I never will.
/>   I’m overcome by the urge to do something far more radical than cutting my hair, something I’ve resisted doing since the last days of spring and all through the long summer and fall. It’s winter now, the days are shorter than ever. I’m acutely aware, way down deep in my aching bones, that my time is running out. The Elders have confirmed that I have more to lose by doing nothing at all.

  I pray for the strength I need to make the call.

  It’s an old-model MiVu, so I have to type Melody’s code into the keypad. It’s like I’ve always known that it would be used for this very purpose, as if that were the only reason I ever had it at all.

  I need to leave.

  I need help.

  I need my sister.

  melody

  MY STOMACH IS STILL CHURNING, AND I’M DIZZY WITH REGRET.

  “Don’t do this to yourself,” Zen warns, offering me a glass of water.

  “I can feel bad about this.” My hand is shaking, and water splashes over the lip.

  “No, you can’t,” he says.

  “You know what? I’m tired of you telling me what I can and cannot do. My parents were never as bad as you are right now.”

  This really isn’t true. The first sixteen years of my life were spent following a very specific list of things I could and could not do, all of which were prescribed by a panel of experts outsourced by my parents in the attempt to make me into the top Surrogette they believe I am today. This is the foundation on which my parents’ new business—if not their whole existence—lies. Which is why the truth will rock them harder than anyone.

  Well, except the Jaydens. Ohhh, the Jaydens . . .

  “I’ll tell you why you don’t have to feel sorry for the Jaydens,” Zen whispers. “Because everyone else on the MiNet will feel sorry for the Jaydens. And they’ll line themselves up another top Surrogette so fast, they won’t even have time to get mad at you.”

  I wish I still believed what Zen was saying. Now that I’ve met them—and they’ve met me—it’s just not that simple anymore. They’re real people who have fallen madly in love with these fake twins.