Bumped (8 page)

“Any word from Lib lately, honey?” they ask now in unison.

“Um, no. Why?” I ask.

My parents grin and grip each other’s hands.

“Because we met an
awesome
couple on safari. They have a son your age,” says Ash.

I don’t like where this is headed.

“And they also have an older daughter who is
desperate
for a Surrogette,” she continues.

“You should be that Surrogette,” says Ty.

My parents are nothing if not direct. My mouth hangs open.

“Our friends are
loaded
, Melody,” adds Ty. “We can cut out the middleman and save ourselves fifteen percent.”

I’m beyond shocked. My deal with the Jaydens was their crowing achievement as parents. Why would they even consider messing it up?

“My contract . . .” I can barely speak.

“We’re afraid you’re wasting your reproductivity,” says Ash.

“With all this waiting around,” says Ty.

I’ve told them to lay off the Tocin. They are totally dosed. That’s the only explanation.

“Hahahahaha. You got me, guys.”

I’m the only one laughing. I can tell from their tight, downturned mouths that they are dead serious. They’re starting to scare me.

“Here’s the thing, Melody,” Ash begins.

And that’s when they tell me that it’s not about the money that they spent and don’t have anymore, it’s the money they spent that they
never
had.

“We borrowed against the equity on your Eggs.”

I cannot believe what I’m hearing.

“YOU
WHAT
?”

Harmony yelps quietly. I surprise even myself with the outburst.

I barely hear what they say next, but what I do hear is bad enough.

My parents had my reproductive potential appraised when I was eleven, before I even signed on with Lib. Then they took out a five-year Egg Equity loan, which basically means that they borrowed against my projected future earnings as a Surrogette. They put that capital toward the strategic development of my most marketable traits and talents.

“How do you think we could afford to send you to that soccer training clinic in Brazil?”

“Or guitar lessons with a Grammy winner?”

“You think the Global U. summer camp comes cheap?”

This strategic reinvestment in my brand, they believed, would up my market value and put me well over the original appraisal. And when the Jaydens’ bid came in so strong, it looked like I would definitely earn back everything they had borrowed and more. There was just one problem with their plan.

“You should have delivered by now,” says Ash.

“You should be finishing up your second contract and considering a third,” says Ty.

They were banking that I’d deliver
three
times before my obsolescence?

“But you’re not.”

“And it’s time to pay that money back.”

How could they let this happen? How could they have turned their only daughter into a toxic asset in need of a quick bump bailout? I expected more from them. If not as parents, then as
economists
.

“You’re still young!” says Ash with an edge to her voice.

“You can pregg with our new friends,” says Ty, eerily matching her tone, “and
still
have time left to deliver for the Jaydens.”

I can’t listen for another microsecond. I wink and blink and make them vanish from the MiVu without a word.

Now I’m shaking from the inside out. I take a deep, calming breath and repeat the words my positive energist taught me to say when I’ve got a problem and don’t know how to solve it.

I am smart.

I am stunning.

I am strong.

I am everything I need to be.

Hopefully the money they spent putting me
in
this crisis helped me develop the skills to get myself
out
of it.

“Do you want to talk about what just happened?”

Harmony has changed into a button-front dress that is plainer than the one she wore yesterday, tinged yellow, and slightly shorter too, a scandalous ankle length. Her gloves stop at the wrists. This must be the Church version of casual wear.

“No,” I reply. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

“But—”

“Honor thy parents is one of
your
commandments. Honor thy contracts is one of mine.” I try to say it like I mean it. “I’m
not
a renegger.”

“So you’re okay?”

I nod vigorously, afraid that my voice might betray my lack of confidence.

Harmony fusses with her gloves for a moment, then says, “Amen to that.”

And if I were the praying kind, I just might have amened along with her.

I’M SITTING ON THE FLOOR IN THE MIDDLE OF MELODY’S
closet, averting my eyes as she models yet another outfit in front of the mirror.

“How does this look?” she asks, more to the mirror than to me.

Those second-skin jeans and Co-Ed Naked Human Evolution League T-shirt don’t look any different from any of the other combinations of clothing she’s put on and taken off in the past ten minutes:
sacrilegious
. But then I remind myself that here in Otherside, such provocative outfits aren’t against the Orders. If I’m going to blend in here, I need to pay close attention to how such fashions are put together.

“Is this an outfit that says,
I’ll be bumped any day now
?”

When she turns to look at me, I realize that she’s waiting for my opinion.

“Y-y-yes?”

She slaps her hand to her forehead. “Look who I’m asking!” She gestures at my full-skirted day dress and matching gloves. “I bet you never worry about what to wear.”

When I realize that she’s being playful, not judgmental, I return her smile. “By dressing simply and humbly, we don’t waste time worrying about our appearance. We have more time to serve God and our community.”

“I wonder how much more I could accomplish,” Melody says, throwing the T aside and reaching for a gauzy floral blouse, “if I didn’t go through this every single day.”

I think about my big housesisters, Mary, Lucy, and Annie, and it makes me giggle to imagine them agonizing over whether to wear the pink day dress or the
other
pink day dress, blue or blue. Even my little housesisters, Laura, Katie, and Emily, don’t dither over which shade of white they’ll wear today. They’ve been awake for two hours already, have already done their outdoor chores (gathering eggs, milking cows, collecting wood for the fire) and indoor chores (setting the table, serving the meal, clearing up) and are now gathering for the Monday-morning prayershare. This is the first one I’ve missed since I was struck down by mule flu last year. Forgive me for saying so, but I don’t regret not being there.

Please don’t think I’m disrespecting the power of fellowship and group prayer. When we join together in worship, we gain one another’s strength. However, we’ve been taught that we can only ask for things that bring glory to God and I don’t see how it glorifies God when Laura asks Him to cure her bad breath. He’s is all the way up in Heaven and not sharing the same loom. She’s wasting God’s time.

It pains me to say this, but Katie uses prayershare to shed embarrassing light on others’ failings under the pretense of saving a soul. For example, a few weeks ago she said, “Please pray for my friend who has lust in her heart for her fiancé’s brother.” And nobody could pray hard for the rest of the session because we were too busy not so quietly speculating who in our prayerclique had lust in her heart for her future brother-in-law. Such gossip isn’t praiseworthy. And it was doubly pointless because everyone already knows that Emily sobbed for a week after she was betrothed in her Blooming to the younger, bucktoothed Stoltzfus boy.

“Thanks for cleaning up.”

Without even realizing it, I have gathered up all of Melody’s T-shirts and folded them neatly in a stack. The one on top is printed with an image of a green pill on a wet pink tongue with the words
OPEN UP WITH TOCIN
. I instinctively turn it over to the blank side.

“So. What do you think?”

I look up to see that Melody has changed into a silky sleeveless T in a beautiful sky blue hue that I’m forbidden to wear unless—I mean,
until
—I give birth to a son.

“I like the flowery one better,” I say, thinking quickly. “It’s more . . .
maternal
.”

“Maternal as in ‘ready to bump.’ Right?”

“Right,” I reply, this time without a stammer.

Melody sighs as she puts the other blouse back on, assesses herself in the mirror once more. A look of triumph lights up her face. “Now, a last check on my hair and makeup!” she says as she runs out of the closet.

I don’t follow her.

Instead, I pick up the blue shirt from the floor. The fabric is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, virtually weightless, and so unlike the rough-hewn cotton and wool we use to make most of our clothing. I hold it up to marvel at the lack of discernible seams or stitches, clearly the product of neither spindle nor loom.

Melody bursts back into the closet. “Oh! I almost forgot!”

I yelp and drop the offensive shirt to the floor. Did she see me? No, she’s too busy searching for something in her jewelry box. She holds what’s she’s looking for—a chain with a single, small bead—and regards it with a frown before putting it around her neck.

“So you’ll be okay by yourself?” By the way she’s blinking and rolling her eyes, I can tell that she’s more focused on the MiNet than me.

I pray I won’t be by myself for long.

“I don’t have time to set up the touchpad for the MiNet right now, so you won’t be able to—”

“Oh, that’s fine,” I interrupt. “There’s plenty in here”—I tap my Bible—“to keep me busy!”

“Um,” she says distractedly, eyes racing in their sockets. “Right.” Her eyes focus on the middle distance between us. “I’m leaving so . . . if you need . . .” More eye rolling. “Zen’s
here
?” Without finishing her thought, she backs out of the closet in haste. A few moments later I hear the front door open and slam behind her. She doesn’t say goodbye.

With fourteen housebrothers and housesisters, I’m rarely by myself. I like to go on long walks in the overgrown fields once cleared out for another never-built neighborhood. Ma still sees me as the sickly baby I once was and worries that I’ll put too much stress on my delicate constitution. Going on those walks isn’t against the Orders but is still a form of disobedience. I’ve always known my mother disapproves, but I’ve gone anyway. Not for the exercise, fresh air, or scenery. Just to be alone with my thoughts.

I pray I’ll be forgiven for the worry I’m putting Ma through right now.

I shyly reclaim the blue T, then nervously hold it up to my own body, partly expecting to be discovered by several pairs of watching eyes all ready to chastise me for my transgressive ways. When it doesn’t happen, I am emboldened to walk to the other side of the closet, where Melody’s jeans are organized by color in tidy rows. I select silver.

The silence inside the closet is unnerving. I sing to myself just to make some noise.

“You’re knocked up . . .”

I bury my blushing face into my hands. Assimilating with the sinners is not going to be easy.

I have to remind myself that nothing I do here is against the Orders.

Cling to your faith in Christ, and keep your conscience clear.

I turn away from the mirror and unbutton my dress. Quickly, and still afraid of being scrutinized by invisible eyes, I pull on the jeans and slip on the T-shirt and . . . I still feel naked! The fabric is as light as air, no more than a whisper against my skin. It’s indescribably strange to be covered up and yet, so . . . free. I cautiously look in the mirror, afraid that this is somehow a trick. . . .

That pretty girl in the mirror, openmouthed and pink in the cheeks, looks almost like an Othersider. There’s just one minor adjustment.

The gloves come off.

Now she stands here in a T-shirt that brings out the blue in her eyes, and jeans that cling to every inch, two gloveless, ringless hands on her hips. This girl isn’t Melody, though she looks exactly like Melody.

She is me.

ZEN IS STRADDLING HIS BIKE IN MY DRIVEWAY.

“To what do I owe this great honor?” I ask, unlocking my own bike. “Are you here for me? Or are you and your new best friend shopping for chastity belts today?”

“I’m here to see
you
,” he insists.

I wait for him to finish.

“To talk about
her
.”

I knew it. I pull on my helmet and swing my leg over the crossbar.

“If you hadn’t blinded your MiNet last night, you would know what I want to talk to you about.”

“If
you
hadn’t blinded your MiNet for the last
month
, you would know what I
don’t
want to talk to you about.”

“Look, I told you,” he says, “I’ve got IAMs to study for. Not everyone aces them the first time around.”

A lot of good it’s done me. My parents have already signed me up for another round because
near
perfect on the International Aptitude Measurements isn’t perfect enough to get into Global U.

“I don’t get why you’re suddenly so obsessed with the IAMs anyway,” I say, rolling my bike back and forth, crunching the gravel. “Weren’t you the one telling me that brick-and-mortar institutions of higher learning are
so
last century? That my parents had the right idea, going out there and living life with the whole world as their classroom . . .”

I stop myself. My
awesome
parents are the last people I want to talk about right now. Gah. I change the subject.

“What did you say to Harmony yesterday?”

Zen looks relieved to return to this line of questioning.

“I said a lot of things,” Zen says.

“You say whatever it takes to get everyone to like you.”

He slumps over his handlebars and looks up at me with goo-gooey innocence. “Why do you think I’m always trying to get everyone to like me?”

“Zen! You
invented
the Like Me Algorithm!”

In ninth grade, Zen wrote an app that instantly cataloged the likes and dislikes of anyone who had ever created a MiNet profile and used that data to whatever ends he needed to get that person to like him.

“Not relevant,” he says. “I never
used
it.”

This is true. He destroyed the program immediately so it wouldn’t be exploited by, in his words, “forces of evil.”

“Your sister found me naturally charming. Just like you do.”

I snort.

“In fact . . .” He throws his arms out in front of him as if presenting himself as a gift. “She might want me.”

I make a big show out of laughing so hard I can hardly stand up.

“I’m serious!”

Still laughing, I push off down the hill.

“You’re talking about a girl who thinks she’ll go to hell if she shows a bit of ankle!” I yell into the breeze. “A person who wants me to marry one of her housebrothers at the end of the month.”

“And why do you think that’s so important to her?” he shouts from behind me.

“Maybe because she’s been told her whole life that anyone who doesn’t do things the Church way is going to burn in hell for all eternity? Because she’s been brought up to believe that it’s her mission in life to save as many of us sinners as possible? It would be a major failure if she couldn’t even convince her own identical twin sister to have God.”

“That’s one way of seeing it,” Zen says, struggling to keep up. He’s got the better bike, but I’ve got longer, stronger legs. “I think
she’s
the one who needs convincing, not you.”

“And what did she say that makes you think that?”

“It wasn’t what she said,” Zen shouts. “It’s what she
didn’t
say. . . .”

Gah. Typical Zen.

“Promise me, Zen, you won’t tell anyone at school about Harmony until I’m ready.”

“Mel . . .”

“PROMISE OR I’LL TELL EVERYONE YOU STILL SLEEP WITH BOO BOO.”

Boo Boo is Zen’s girlbot. By sixteen years old, any self-respecting guy has replaced—or at least
supplemented
—his artificial lovin’ with the real thing.

“We had good times together. I’m keeping her for sentimental reasons—”

“Oh, is
that
what they call it these days—”

“When you hit below the belt, you
really
hit below the belt—”

“JUST PROMISE.”

“Okay.” He rubs his helmet because he can’t pull at the hair underneath. “I promise because I’m such a great friend, and
not
because I’m worried about anyone finding out about Boo Boo because guess what? It’s common knowledge among dudes that we
all
hook up with our girlbots every now and again. . . .”

Gaaah. I pedal faster.

“Wait, Mel!” he says, panting harder now as I pick up the pace. “I’m being serious now. What if there’s more than what Harmony is telling you . . . ?”

“I don’t have time for your hypotheticals today!”

I zoom ahead, leaving him behind as if he’s cemented to the sidewalk.