Thumped Read online

  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.

  THIRD

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

  —Matthew 6:21

  harmony

  “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.

  melody

  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.

  harmony

  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.

  melody

  EVERYONE SMILES AT ME AS I CLIMB ABOARD. TO THESE GIRLS, pros and amateurs alike, I really can do no wrong.

  “I’m sorry for making you wait, everyone,” I say, heading down the aisle to my seat. “I overslept.”

  Throughout most of my fake pregnancy, I was perfectly capable of riding my bike to school as usual. Even when I wasn’t showing, I had to take the Bumpmobile because not taking it to school would have provoked elitist accusations. These days, however, with forty pounds’ worth of fake babies sinking deep into my breedy bits, a mile would feel like a marathon. So I’m relieved to have the ride, even if it means I have to feign enthusiasm for all things preggy for five minutes every morning and afternoon. On the upside, it’s one place I’m guaranteed not to run into Ventura Vida, which is especially vital for my sanity after last night.

  Being by greeted by a busload of knocked up Cheerclones is only marginally better.

  “Oh. My. Behbeh,” squeaks Dea Lan, the squeakiest of the bunch. “I was totally there at your launch party last night! Don’t believe me? Just take a whiff!” She shoves her wrist under my nose. “It’s You: The Fragrance! So yummy! But are you, like, okay?”

  As she asks this, she’s already scrambling her own hair with her fingers and twisting it into a mangy ponytail that sticks out from the side of her head.

  Dea bumped with a Baller named Asif at a masSEXtinction orgy only a few days before I got mocked up, so she’s been obsessively comparing herself to me, and copying everything I do along the way. Never mind that I’m supposed to be carrying twins and she’s only got one ovenbunny wrecking havoc with her waistline.

  Imitation comes naturally to Dea and all Cheerclones because they are experts in losing their individuality for the benefit of the collective. Each member is contractually obligated to adjust her weight and dye her hair, eye, and skin color to duplicate the average for the group as a whole. While on their “gestational hiatus” from cheering, it’s not surprising that Dea and the rest of the squad have redirected those talents toward morphing into me. Within thirty seconds nearly every girl on the Bumpmobile has copied my bedheadish look. And thanks to the MiFotos these girls snapped of me when I climbed aboard, I know this unattractive trend is already going viral on the MiNet. This morning busloads of girls all across the world will disembark from their vehicles with deranged side ponytails.

  Celine Lichtblau is about the only one on the bus who hasn’t adopted my hairstyle. She’s too stoned to notice I’ve taken the seat across the aisle from her.

  “Hey, Celine,” I say, wincing at her waistline. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  Celine, it should be noted, is practically ten months pregnant. I thought for sure she was supposed to be induced over the weekend.

  She responds in slow motion. “Ohhhh . . . what?” Her eyes are red and glassy. “Weren’t you supposed to go for a pop and drop on Saturday?”

  She stares at me blankly for at least ten seconds. Then she covers her mouth and starts giggling uncontrollably.

  “Ohhhh . . . yeah . . . I think I missed it,” she says airily.

  Every pregger gets prescribed AntiTocin so we don’t bond with our bumps. But for the first trimester Celine was prescribed too much and it was like a nonstop crazy-bitchfest. For serious. We all just kind of quietly put up with her moods because we were afraid of her. Then one day she got an unfavorable grade on an essay titled, “Babies: What’s the Big Fucking Deal?” and she flew into an epic hormonal rage and threatened to impregnate the entire Princeton Day Academy faculty with her fist. The made no sense but terrified our teachers and administrators nonetheless. After that incident, her OB kept her on the AntiTocin but hoped to lessen its psychotic effects by writing her a scrip for Mellonin, which she tokes via a smokeless vaporizer pipe. The combination of these two meds
has certainly worked because she’s pretty much down to just one mood: munchie.

  “Heeeey . . . Do you have any . . . like . . . snickity-snacks? I haven’t eaten . . . like . . . all morning and I’m starving.”

  There’s a crumpled bag of Cheezy Chipz on the floor at her feet. Her mouth and fingers are tinged orange, and crumbs have settled on her coat and seat.

  “All morning?” I ask.

  “All morning,” she replies with such dumb sincerity that I’m starting to believe that she believes she’s telling the truth.

  Her pregg is now just one of the many things in life she just can’t be bothered with anymore, a list that includes just about everything but a) getting her next hit, and b) getting snickity-snacks. She’s failing all of her classes, and the only reason she hasn’t been bounced out is because of the recent passage of the Maternal Anti-Discrimination Education Act, which basically says that preggers (according to the quikiwiki) “cannot be punished academically for their invaluable role in the repopulation of our great nation.” So it doesn’t matter if a pregger is experiencing hormonally induced stupidity, is artificially dosed into stupidity, or is just naturally stupid with or without the human squatting in her uterus; she can get her diploma without testing proficiently in any of the subjects she’s taken in four years of high school. And this policy will stop us from slipping into second-world status how exactly?

  Sigh. That’s a talking point straight from the Mission.

  Fortunately, I get a MiNet message just in time to stop me from thinking about what I don’t want to think about. I’m beyond amped when see that it’s my friend Shoko calling me from college!