Bumped (21 page)

I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M EXPECTING TO SEE WHEN I GET TO
Shoko’s room. But I certainly don’t expect to find her healthy enough to be sitting upright in her bed wolfing down on a double U.S. Buff-A burger and grooving along to Fed Double X on MiTunes.

“Ima bump-bump-da-bump-da-bump-bump N grind. Gots 2 hump-hump-da-hump-da-hump-hump U so fine. . . .”

“Hey Shoko,” I say tentatively. “I’m so sorry—”

“M-M-M-Mel!” mumbles Shoko between mouthfuls of meat. “You
should
be sorry!” She sets down her burger on the tray, wipes the ketchup off her hands with a paper napkin, then huffily folds her arms across her chest. When they drop awkwardly into her lap she looks down and laughs. “Oops. I forgot I don’t have my built-in belly shelf anymore.”

“I’m really sorry, Shoko,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here in time to coach you through the delivery.”

“You’re sorry about
that
?” She looks genuinely surprised. “Oh, don’t be sorry about that. There was no way I could hold in the Burrito until you got here. The nurse says they had just enough time to hit me with Obliterall before it just kinda shot out!” She thwacks her palm over her open mouth.
POP!

“So what am I sorry for?”

“For not telling your
best friend
that you’re bumping with Jondoe! I mean, we were just talking about him yesterday! I don’t know whether I should scream
at
you or squee
with
you!”

I press my face into my hands. Where do I even go with this?

“TELL ME EVERYTHING,” Shoko demands, bouncing up and down in her bed. “Is Jondoe as reproaesthetical in person as he is in 4-D?”

“Um . . . about that,” I say, taking a deep breath.

“Does he smell like a heady and penetrating combination of cinnamon, black pepper, amber, and tobacco?”

“What?”

“Does he smell like Jondoe: the Fragrance?”

“I don’t know,” I say, trying to hide my irritation. “Because it wasn’t me with him last night. I’ve got an identical twin sister.”

And before I lose my nerve, I go on to tell her the whole crazy story.

That my twin’s name is Harmony and we were separated at birth and she grew up in a Churchy settlement with the thumpiest trubies and she showed up in my face-space for the very first time two? three? whatever days ago and
she’s
the one who was with Jondoe last night, not me,
she’s
the one who has probably bumped with him by now, not me, because I’ve never met him and so I have no idea if he smells like cinnamon or recycled grease or what.

Shoko stabs a fry into a bloody splurt of ketchup. She says nothing.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

And why should she? I don’t believe it and it’s happening to me.

“If you have a special confidentiality clause in your contract,” Shoko says darkly, “you could have just said so. You didn’t have to make up some bullshitty story.”

She stuffs the uneaten half of her hamburger into the crinkly plastic bag and pushes away the tray.

It’s pointless to tell the truth. I could present a 4-D of my unbroken hymen and Shoko would still insist that the ability to pregg without full penetration is proof of Jondoe’s unrivaled artistry and expertise. Until Shoko sees me standing side by side with my identical twin in her face-space, she’s never going to believe that Harmony isn’t me.

“I’m sorry, Shoko, you know how these deals are,” I say cagily. “But I promise to tell you everything as soon as I’m allowed to.”

She leans forward in the bed. “Just tell me.” She raises a very serious eyebrow. “Cinnamon?”

I nod because why the hell not? Shoko swoons. But if she starts asking if Jondoe sounds like sunshine and tastes like sprinkle-dipped rainbows, I’m done.

“Oooh! It’s nine thirty! Time for more Humerall!”

Humerall, the less amorous pharmacological cousin to Tocin. She presses a button at her bedside and within seconds I can see all tension release itself from her face and shoulders. She oozes into her pillows, her eyes soft and her lips spread into a dreamy smile.

“Cinnamon . . . cinnamon . . . cinnamon,” she mutters happily to herself. Then she snaps into focus. “We should make a cinnamon-flavored snack fortified with Tocin. And you know what we should call it?”

I hazard a guess. “Tocinnamon somethings?”

“YES!” she says, slapping the mattress. “Tocinnamon somethings. We should for seriously invent that.”

If Shoko was ragey a minute ago, she isn’t now.

“Sooooooo . . .” I venture. “Do you remember anything about your delivery?”

She gives me the side eye. “Ummmmm, hello? Obliterall!”

“Um.” I broach the subject as gently as possible. “You almost, like,
died
, Shoko. Did anyone mention that?”

“Sorta,” she says, her head slithering like an intoxicated snake. “I got all bleedy or whatever and they had to suck out most of my breedy bits.” She makes a nauseating slurpy sound and twists into the pillows in a fit of giggles. “So no more preggs for me.” Her face clouds for a moment. “You know what makes me sad?”

“That you almost died?”

She ignores me. “I have to wait eight weeks to recover from my hystericalectomy,”

“Hysterectomy.”

“Whatever,” she says. “I’ll have to wear a one-piece all summer. Because by the time I get my tummy trim, swimsuit season will be over!”

I can’t believe this conversation.

“You almost died.”

“But I didn’t,” she says, grinning. “I’m still here. And I don’t remember a thing.”

“I know you don’t remember, which is why I’m reminding you.”

“If you don’t stop being so dramatic, I’m gonna have to ask the nurse to give me more Humerall.”

And then she turns up the music.

Shoko’s blankets pop up and down with every attempt at a hip thrust.

“I don’t think grinding is a good idea right now,” I say. “Um, considering you almost died yesterday.”

Shoko sucks in her cheeks. “Oy vey. I am for seriously regretting approving you for my guest list. You are being so neggy right now.”

I sit down beside her. Time to get tough. “Shoko. You’re my best friend and you almost died. And for what?”

She looks stunned. “For
what
? Are you listening?”

“No.”

She rewinds the music, turns it up, then raps along:

Gaaaaah. I have to say it: If I could abort Fed Double X, I would.

“So ‘for what?’” Shoko repeats. “For my
future.
So I can pay for a decent college without having to take out a quarter-million dollars in loans. So I can get a decent job and make decent money. So when I’m old I can afford to pay a high school girl like me to push out a pregg of my own someday.”

She’s totally overlooking that she just pushed out a pregg of her own and gave it away to a couple she’s never met without even looking at him. Or her. Or whatever it was. I can’t blame her for thinking this way. Because until very recently, I had bought into it all too.

“Don’t get all judgy, Mel,” she says. “Just because I haven’t bumped with a billion-dollar spermbank doesn’t make me, you know, down-market.”

That is a misconception in every sense of the word. I attempt the truth once more.

“But I haven’t bumped with Jondoe!”

“Remind me to resume this conversation with you whenever that confidentiality clause runs out.” With that, she rings the nurse for more Humerall.

I take that as a sign to make my exit from Ivy Obstetrics and Birthing Center. Unfortunately, Ms. Lutz-Lewis won’t let me go quietly.

“I’ve taken the liberty of MiNetting you the most up-to-the-moment information about our staff and services!” she exclamates. “We hope you’ll think local when choosing your birth facility.”

With those words, it hits me. I know exactly what to do to put an end to this crazy charade.

“Oh,” I say casually, “I won’t be needing your birthing services.”

Every wrinkle droops with disappointment.

“Don’t take it personally,” I say. “It’s just that I won’t be needing
any
birthing services. From anyone.”

Ms. Lutz-Lewis is confounded. “But . . . you . . . and Jondoe . . .”

We have gathered a little crowd of winking blinking onlookers. Freya, of course, and several others, even Shoko has gotten out of bed to gawk. Great. The more MiNet footage, the better.

“Jondoe and I had un-preggy sex!” I declare, getting flushed just by the thought of it. “For pleasure. Because we are in looooooooove.”

“What?!” The whole group is scandalized, but none more than Ms. Lutz-Lewis. “Making love? At
your
age?”

“Yes!” I say proudly, making deliberate eye contact with every set of eyes. “With CONDOMS!”

If that sound bite doesn’t coax Jondoe and Harmony out of hiding for a damage-control rebuttal, nothing will.

The devastating impact of this word is stunning and immediate. Ms. Lutz-Lewis looks like she’s about to faint into the arms of a nervous nurse. Freya and the rest of the girls don’t see her, don’t see me, don’t see anything at all except the MiNet and who can be the first to launch this footage and exploit its famegaming potential.

Only Shoko is nervy enough to address me directly.

“You were telling the truth before, weren’t you?” she whispers. “About the twin?”

“Yes,” I say quickly. “Why do you believe me now?”

“Because even
that
makes more sense than
this
.”

Ms. Lutz-Lewis is muttering something about condoms, starting to come to her senses.

“You better get out of here before they diagnose you with
pre
-partum psychosis,” Shoko urges.

She’s right. I’ve got no time to waste. There’s no way I can go home. By the time I get there, it’ll be surging with paps hoping to catch me screaming about rubbers . . . if they aren’t already.

I message Zen.

911. GET OUT.

Two seconds later, he responds.

OK. OUR SPOT?

Not even a second passes after I say YES before Zen has the same response as a billion other MiNet commenters following Jondoe and Melody Mayflower’s newsfeed.

CONDOMS?!??!

MY SECOND AWAKENING IS SO MUCH WORSE THAN THE FIRST.

I’m alone.

The sheets are damp and clammy against my bare skin.

And I hear voices raised in anger right below me.

“PLEASE tell me that you were SCAMMING.”

I recognize the voice from the MiVu. It’s Lib. And he does not sound happy.

“Now you’re some kind of GODFREAK.”

That word again. I shiver.

“Dose down,” I hear Jondoe say. “I did what I had to do to get the job done. . . .”

“What EXACTLY were you THINKING bringing HER here?!”

Guilt drops a stone in my gut. I know that I’m the HER. This argument is about me.

And what I’ve done.

“You’re not even my agent—why do you care about my business?” Jondoe is asking. “Anyway, all traces of Gabriel have been trashed from my file. . . .”

I hear cruel laughter. “Your business is Melody’s business and her business is my business. It’s my JOB to rewrite files like yours. To keep all those dirty little secrets
secret
. I’m the one who found out that my client even
had
a twin. . . .”

“Are you
sure
I’ve got the wrong one upstairs?”

Wrong one? If I’m the wrong one, does that make Melody the right one?

Lib cackles again. “You didn’t think it was at all weird when she started calling herself by a different name and got all THUMPY on you?”

I told him I wasn’t Melody!

“I thought that was her
avatar
,” Jondoe says.

He didn’t believe me.

“Her AVATAR? We’re not playing GAMES here, Jondoe.”

He thought I was Melody the entire time . . . ?

“A lot of these Surrogettes are into the whole 4-D role-playing thing. It’s a technique their positive energists recommend to help distance themselves from the whole experience, another layer of detachment between the Surrogette and the delivery. So it’s, like, you know, another coping mechanism.”

The love he gave wasn’t meant for me, but for my sister?

“Myyyyyy. SUCH BIG WORDS YOU HAVE. SOMEONE has spent a lot of time getting SHRINKY.”

“I was just playing along. I spent the first fourteen years of my life pretending to be as perfect as my brother. I figured a few hours wouldn’t be a problem.”

Wait . . . Jondoe doesn’t have God?

And Gabriel
never
did?

Why would he lie?

“I just wanted to get down to business. But then—”

“Did you?” Lib interrupts.

“What kind of limpdick do you take me for?” Jondoe asks, anger rising in his voice. “You think I don’t know when I’ve hit my target?”

Lib laughs. It’s a hard, hateful sound and it makes me physically ill. Sickness comes on like a stampede inside my stomach. I have just enough time to grab one of Jondoe’s helmets into which I spew the toxic contents of my gut.

“Her egg was blasted by the fastest sperm ever recorded! Of COURSE you did your job.”

I’m gasping for air, grasping the ugly truth.

Jondoe doesn’t love God.

He doesn’t love me.

I was just another job.

This insight brings on a second wave of violent nausea. But this time nothing comes up. There’s nothing left.

I’ve never felt so used up in my entire life.

“The deal is done,” Jondoe says in a low growl. “Anything less would do major damage to my brand at this phase of my career.”

“But you should make her piss on a stick just to be sure it’s in there.”

It’s
in there.

In
where
? In here?

I knock on my emptied belly as if expecting a tiny fist to knock back from the inside.

In
here
.

Do I feel any different?

No.

And yet . . .

I know in my soul that Jondoe is right.

A life is starting inside me.