Harmony and I target two different types of consumers. Married to Ram and a devout member of the superstrict Church, Harmony appeals to conservative shoppers who believe the infertility crisis caused by the Virus is no excuse for committing the sin of premarital sex. And my coupling with Jondoe, the most famous ReProductive Professional on the planet, makes me the role model for liberal spenders who support the rights of Surrogettes and think it’s empowering for girls to get paid to breed on their behalf. Together, my sister and I are, according to Lib, a “next-generation synergistic multiplatform global marketing phenomenon.” And events like this are necessary if we hope to expand the brand right up to the moment Harmony’s water breaks.
It doesn’t matter if this if my first or fiftieth fan foto-op. The conversations are remarkably the same.
“You’re such a positive role model for my daughter,” says Quailey’s mom as she shoves a willowy, pillow-lipped, raven-haired thirteen-year-old in front of me. Quailey fills out the trademarked copy of my orange and black #15 Princeton Day Academy varsity soccer jersey better than I ever did. And that’s saying something.
“Mommmm,” she whines, reminding me just how young she really is.
“Surrogetting is just starting to catch on in our neck of the woods,” Quailey’s mom continues. “I’ve gotten a lot of grief from the other PTO moms, believe you me.” She pats the complicated updo that’s popular among women her age. “They don’t see the big-picture stuff, so they’re content to just let their daughters get knocked up by their down-market boyfriends.”
Jondoe mutters something unintelligible, which immediately attracts eyeballs because he’s been staring sullenly at his feet throughout the meet and greet so far. You’d think his depressed expression would be a turnoff. But his sadness only makes him more mysterious and magnetic than ever . . . if you’re into that sort of thing. Quailey finds him unlookawayable and is desperate to know what he just said.
“What was that?” She’s bouncing up and down on her toes. “What? WHAT?”
I don’t know what he said, but I do know how unhinged Jondoe is feeling right now, and I’m afraid of what he’ll do.
Fortunately, Quailey’s mom is all business. “We admire what UGenXX has done for you,” she says, searching around the room. “Is your agent taking on any more clients?”
“Mommmm. For serious. You’re so neggy. I’m going to terminate with embarrassment.”
I cringe. Did I sound that brainwashed before?
“I’ll be happy to give you his password,” I lie, just so I can end this conversation.
“Fertilicious!” she says. “It’s our dream to see Quailey bump with someone as reproaesthetical as you, Jondoe! It’s an investment in her future!”
Jondoe blows out his cheeks with an annoyed pfffffft and I swear Quailey is about to peak with pleasure.
“That’s the worst advice I’ve ever heard,” he says calmly, looking right at Quailey, who looks like she’s about to pass out from the attention.
Quailey’s mom assumes she’s misunderstood him. “What did you say?”
“When you bond with someone in a heart and soul sort of way, you should be able to bond physically too. It’s like, the most beautiful, most profound experience.” He closes his eyes and tilts his head to the ceiling, as if he were basking in an invisible sunbeam. “And once you have it, you never want to settle for anything less. Waiting five minutes to be with someone you love can feel like five years! And waiting five years can feel like . . . forever!”
We all freeze. He’s waxed all poetic about Harmony to me privately, but never, ever in public. For Jondoe to go manifesto like this is the equivalent to Harmony carving a pentagram into her forehead and declaring her allegiance to Mephistopheles. I think quickly.
“Which is why it was so awesome that we were contracted to bump together!”
Jondoe looks exhausted from his rant. He lowers his head, opens his eyes, looks at me.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
Then he walks away from us and out of the room.
“Oh my God!” Quailey chirps. “Did you just, like, break up?” Her eyes are already rolling in their sockets so she can spread this gossip on the MiNet.
“Um . . . he’s just . . .” How do I explain what just happened here? I’m getting all panicky now, trying to think of something I can say to put a positive spin on this situation when the door opens and I lose all interest in feigning politeness.
“Zen!”
I’m not the only one who has noticed his arrival. Every head turns as he cuts through the crowd.
“Omigod! He’s even breedier than Jondoe!” Quailey gushes, clutching her soccer jersey.
I resent her for being able to say what I cannot.
Zen heads straight for me. I’m all ready to vent to him about Jondoe’s latest meltdown over Harmony when I realize that I’m just so off-the-spring happy to see him. Jondoe and Harmony are not the kept-apart couple I care about right now.
Zen tries to give me a hug, but we can’t get any closer than an arm’s length from each other.
“It looks like something has come between us,” he says wryly.
We both look down at my massive midsection. It’s an old joke, one I’ve always thought was too true to laugh at, but I smile anyway because Zen makes me smile whether I want to or not.
“Not for much longer,” I say, more for my sake than his. “Harmony is thirty-five weeks along.”
Zen presses his palm to the parabolic curve of my belly. “And you too.”
I’ve been at it for more than eight months now. And yet it’s the littlest slips of my tongue that remind me how difficult it will be to see this commitment through to the very end.
“Right,” I say, recklessly placing my hand on top of his, out in the open, where Quailey and her mom and anyone else can see us. A current of electricity passes between us, just enough of a jolt to remind me why I need to take my hand away. “Me too.”
harmony
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.
&n
bsp; “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.
melody
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 So
lomon 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!