Bumped (14 page)

AFTER WE LEFT THE AVATARCADE, WE SPED THROUGH THE
darkness once again and headed to the Underground All-Sports Arena, where an even thicker “scrum of scummers,” as Jondoe put it, followed, fotoed, and filmed us as we kicked around a soccer ball for a few minutes. Or rather, Jondoe kicked around a soccer ball and I took a ball to the head, shins, and—at least once, to the shock of the crowd—belly.

Jondoe joked with the paps. “No more of
that
after tonight!”

And now, sitting across from Jondoe while he peruses the menu at the U.S. Buff-A, I’m embarrassed to admit—even to myself—that I had thought—if only briefly—the Rapture had arrived. I know Jondoe would mock me mistaking camera flashes for the Apocalypse. But that’s only because Othersiders like him don’t fret nearly as much about End Times as Goodsiders like me do.

Or did.

“She’ll have the West Virginia pepperoni-roll appetizer and the New Mexican Tacos Supremos as her entrée,” Jondoe says to the waitress. Then to me, “I know it’s your favorite.”

I manage a feeble smile. I don’t know how he can act so normal with so many eyes on us.

“And I’ll have the eastern seaboard seafood special. Grilled, not fried,” he says, patting his abdominals. “Gotta stay fit, you know.” Then he hands the menus over to the waitress, who takes them as if she were Moses receiving the Ten Commandments.

There are dozens of eyes on us in the restaurant. And thousands, maybe even millions, more watching live on the MiNet. The small crowd has kept a respectful distance so far, until two girls break rank and flutter over to our table. With their reddish blond hair, full-moon faces, and slightly slanted eyes, they remind me of my housesister Annie, whose unusual beauty always caused her so much worry until she married Shep.

“I’m your biggest fan,” says the older sister, who is wearing a Princeton University sweatshirt.

“My sister wants me to bump with you,” says the younger girl, fiddling with the strap on her First Curse Purse.

The older sister steps directly in front of her. “I think you two would make me the most beautiful mixmatchy pregg. It’s never too early to plan these things, is it?”

Jondoe smiles weakly, reaches into his front pocket, hands her a business card. “Contact my agent.” Then he tugs on his ear. Within seconds, two bear-size men in black drag the two girls away.

“Oh my grace!” I cry as the girls struggle to free themselves. “Are they going to be okay?”

“Don’t worry,” Jondoe says. “They’re on my security detail. It always gets a little mobby whenever I’m paired up for a new pregg.”

Roughly twenty-five yards away, his security team has cordoned off the opposite corner of the restaurant for the gathering crowd of curious onlookers. We’re sitting at a booth in Hawaii. They’re kept all the way across the floor map in Maine.

“So.” Jondoe returns his attention to me as if none of this has just happened. “What were we talking about?”

Nothing. And that’s because I’ve barely uttered a word since we left Melody’s house.

“You’re upset about those two humpers, aren’t you?” he says.

I nod.

“I’m not here to make any side deals,” he says reassuringly. “When my agent found out I was coming to town, she tried to hook me into being a ringer at a University Bump-a-thon being held tonight at one of the campus eating clubs.” He gives me a reassuring look. “I told her to delete herself. That kind of mass insemination is something you do at the start of your career, or at the end, not in your prime. So she put Phoenix on booty duty, not me. He’s a good guy, but he just turned eighteen, which is a major bonerkiller, right? I mean, none of us know
exactly
when our systems will shut down, but he’s lucky if he’s got another year in him before he’s forced to retire.”

The waitress returns. She carelessly plunks my soda down, the drink spilling over the side and into my lap. Then with no small measure of ceremony, she very deliberately leans over the table as she sets down Jondoe’s bottle, providing us both with a clear view of that which we should not be able to see. “I’m peaking,” she whispers before walking away.

Jondoe keeps talking, seemingly unaware of our waitress’s flirtations.

“This town is full of girls who put their virginity on lockdown because they think they’re better than everyone else. Why settle when there’s always a better deal right around the corner? These Eggs are priceless, right? So they pass and pass and pass and then they’re eighteen-year-old freshgirls and suddenly find themselves with no prospects for continuing their precious bloodline because all the smart Sperm have already hedged their bets on less discerning fourteen-year-olds. So their parents are losing their minds because they don’t want this to be the end of the family line, so these prissy freshgirls get so failful that they end up bumping with the first loser splooger that comes—ha,
comes
—their way. Or, in the case of the girls at the Bump-a-thon, they end up spending money to
hire
a professional when they should have been making money
as
a professional. Either way is a poor investment strategy. Surrogettes like you have gamed the system, and for that I raise my bottle.”

Jondoe holds up his bottle of Potent Pale Ale for the press to see before taking a long draft. “Making great nights last even longer!” He delivers the line with hearty cheer.

I fold my hands and say a silent prayer over my soda.
Bless this beverage, Lord. And please let it not be tampered with by demonic forces of envy and evil. Amen.

I sip my glass of Coke ’99 quietly. It’s too sweet and the bubbles tickle the inside of my nose, but I don’t want to trouble the devilish waitress by asking for a drink of water any more than my mere presence with Jondoe in this booth already has.

“With your reproaesthetical looks, you’ll cash in on endorsements,” he says, winking left, winking right, then blinking a few quick times in succession before winking once more. “It’s a major revenue stream. . . .”

“Mmm.”

It’s the only thing I can say.

Then, without a word, Jondoe holds his bottle out to me. A trickle drips down the side of the bottle, like the sweat I can feel tickling against my own skin.

He knows what I need without even asking

Jondoe presses the bottle up to my parted lips and I drink greedily, as hundreds, thousands, millions of eyes watch.

NOW, THIS IS TOO MUCH FOR ME TO TAKE.

“What do you mean you may not really be married? Did you say your vows or not?”

“We did! But . . .”

“BUT WHAT?”

“We didn’t, you know.” Ram looks away shyly.
“Consummate.”

I let this sink in for a moment. Zen makes an immature simulation of coitus with his fingers.

“You mean you never . . .”

“NO!” Ram shouts, eyes squeezed tight, face burning red. “Or. Yes. I mean, sort of.”

“Let me guess,” Zen says. “Misplaced payload.”

Ram hangs his head, neither confirming nor denying Zen’s accusation.

“What does the Pro/Am call it when a guy finishes before he begins? Ejaculatory genocide?”

DELETE MY BRAIN CACHE, PLEASE.

I know they’re married and naked activities are a natural part of honeymooning and all, but hearing this about Ram and my sister is making me gag. This doesn’t escape Zen’s notice.

“For a Surrogette, you are for seriously repressed about sex.”

“Am not.”

“You do realize that
this
”—Zen makes the porny gesture again—“is how preggs are made, right? Or are you hoping that science comes up with a viable form of Artificial Biological Conception just in time for you to bump?”

The physical act of pregging is not something I spend a lot of time thinking about. But that doesn’t mean I’m repressed. It just means that my parents have seen to it that I’m too overscheduled to think about such things.

“I think I need to get right with myself,” Ram says out of nowhere.

“Okay,” we say.

Ram fills his chest with air, opens his mouth—and two hysterical voices fill the room instead.

“WHAT IS GOING ON, PELL-MEL?”

JONDOE WAVES HIS HANDS IN FRONT OF MY FACE. “WHERE ARE
you, Miss Melody Mayflower?”

I startle at the sound of his voice. I look up and catch a glimpse of her face—my face—in the mirror on the wall directly in front of our booth.

I am Miss Melody Mayflower.

A cheese-covered lump is getting cold sitting on the platter in front of me, untouched. I hadn’t even noticed the arrival of my entrée.

“I’m here,” I say, feeling not very here at all.

“
You
were hypnotized by something unlookawayable, that’s for sure. Maybe a few dozen messages from a certain top-five trender on the MiNet?”

“I’m not on the MiNet,” I reply. The words come out easily. A few sips from his bottle have loosened my tongue. The longer I’m with him, the more myself I feel. Even as I pretend to be someone I’m not. I’d be confused by this if I weren’t so . . . content.

“Why haven’t you replied to any of the links I sent you?” he asks, squeezing lemon onto his fillet.

“I wasn’t on the MiNet.”

He can’t stop smiling. “I wanted to be the one to warn you that there’s a lot of scum out there about me.”

He turns in the booth and makes a point of staring down the paparazzi still “respecting our privacy” from across the restaurant. The crowd is getting rowdier now, with the press being outnumbered by girls waving handmade signs that say things like:
PICK ME! I’M PEAKING!
Or:
MAKE MY PREGG!
They’re held back by a half-dozen sentinels on Jondoe’s security team, all of whom look like they could easily tote a cow under each arm. I wonder if they’ve taken that HGH that Zen told me about. If so, they must have very small brains. The Bible says that a wise man is better than a strong man, but an army of wise men would not be able to keep these peaking, shrieking girls away from what they want.

And what they want is Jondoe.

“I’m not on the MiNet,” I repeat, before remembering who I’m supposed to be and quickly adding, “right now.”

“Really?” he asks, slightly deflated. “It’s fine if you don’t want to follow me. But aren’t you the least bit curious about public opinion? Don’t you want to know what the MiNet is saying about you?”

“About me?”

“Yes, you,” he says with a laugh. “There are a lot of eyeballs on you right now. You’re trending in the top ten. Everyone wants to know all about Melody Mayflower, the ‘regular girl’ bumping with the hottest RePro. . . .”

“I LOVE YOU, JONDOE!” shouts a voice in the crowd.

“ME TOO!” screams another.

I suddenly feel very queasy. My West Virginia pepperoni-
roll appetizer is spinning in my stomach.

Jondoe acts as if he can’t hear the commotion we’re causing. “More than ninety percent of my followers think that we’ll create the hottest pregg since I bumped with Miss Teen Venezuela. . . .”

“PREGG ME!”

“You might want to watch your language, though,” he says. “When you said, ‘Oh my grace!’ your poll numbers shot up in the Bible Belt, but dipped on both coasts. . . .”

“You were reading about me?” I shiver involuntarily. “This whole time?”

“Hell yeah,” he says. He reaches out to touch my braid. “Girls in the six-to-twelve demo really like your hair that way.”

At some point I had twisted the plait back together again. A nervous habit.

“And I’m not just reading, but watching the live streams as they happen, so I can see us as they do,” he says. “And we look like we’ll make one hot bump.”

Hysterical screams now. It reminds me of the primal panic of livestock on the way to the slaughterhouse. Only I feel like the doomed animal.

Jondoe and I lock eyes and express the same thought at the same time.

“We need to get out of here.”

Our voices coming together make the sweetest music in my soul, a respite amid the chaos.

He tugs on his ear and two out of six bodyguards leave their posts to escort us out of the restaurant. I fear for the safety of the four bodyguards left behind.

“NO! DON’T GO!”

And then it happens: The adoring throng has turned into an angry mob. The girls push forward in a frenzied stampede that will trample anyone that stands in its way.

“JONDOE!”

I am the obstacle between what they want, and what they cannot have.

Jondoe assertively wraps his body around me, a human shield against this animal crush. And right then, in the middle of the desperate scuttle out the emergency exit to safety, he whispers soothingly and so quietly that I shouldn’t be able to hear it over the delirious din but I do.

“Melody . . . Melody . . . Melody . . .”

And even though it’s me who Jondoe is protecting and not her, not my own twin, the one who has been waiting for him for years, I am overtaken by the raging sin of jealousy. I am the sisters. I am the waitress. I am the girls who are now punching and kicking and raging at the locks on the opposite side of the emergency exit, because I hate hearing him say so tenderly, so lovingly, the name of this girl Melody who is not me.

I need to tell Jondoe the truth about who I am.

I need to hear him say
my
name.