Gah. Of course my Maternal Obligation Monitor has to go off right now in front of Ventura. According to legislation that passed right before I pregged, professional Surrogettes are legally required to wear it at all times. MOM gives a warning bleep at the first sign of excess stress.
“Are you okay?” she asks in her most sincere voice. “Are you feeling anxious?” She puts delighted emphasis on the last word.
“No!” I snap. “I’m fine. Just a little too much caffeine today, that’s all!”
I can tell from the victorious look on Ventura’s face that she’s not buying the latest of my many lies.
“Speaking of beverages,” Zen says, “let’s get you something to drink, Ventura.”
As he guides Ventura across the room to the bar, I catch Zen gently brushing his fingertips against the small of her back.
Bleeeeeeeeep!
harmony
RAM IS GETTING ANTSY. “ARE YOU SURE I CAN LEAVE YOU tonight?”
“I’ll be fine,” I insist, before adding, “the Elders will be disappointed if you don’t go. There are a lot of souls that could be saved.”
I try to say it like that’s why I want him to go. When the truth is, I just want him to go. Period.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“I’m sure,” I say firmly. “But come here first.”
I’m not a rabid dog anymore. He comes right over to me so I can smooth the lapels on his jacket. At first glance it doesn’t seem like what he’s got on is all that different from the black suits all men in Goodside wear. But on closer examination, the fabric isn’t wool sheared from the settlement’s own sheep but the finest cashmere imported from halfway around the world. The stitches aren’t uneven but altogether invisible. It’s a bespoke suit made by the world’s finest craftsmen, but it’s fashioned after traditional Church attire. The green maternity gown I’m wearing right now was designed by someone named Chanel, who is apparently very famous in Otherside. That’s the kind of money we’re earning these days. And as long as I continue to tithe more than I keep, and don’t go beyond the Goodside gates again, the Church Council is content to let me continue doing the Lord’s work in my own unique way.
Like Jondoe.
His parents believed he was chosen by God for important missionary work, that when he spread his seed, he was sowing the seeds of faith. But did he really believe that? Melody says Jondoe wants to make amends for hurting me, which is why he agreed to help us out. My sister would never deceive me about such matters. But how can I be sure that he isn’t lying to her too . . . ?
It’s his pleading voice I hear in my head right now.
Harmony, please.
And now, try as I might, I can’t stop memories of our one night together from entering my mind. Not just my mind, but my heart, my soul, my flesh.
“No!” I shut my eyes and shout. “No!”
This is the sin I can never confess out loud.
Ram’s whole body is tense, his back arched like a cornered cat. I force a smile to put him back at ease.
“You sure you’re okay?”
I nod vigorously and give Ram a quick once-over. With his ruddy complexion and formidable frame, he comes across as wholesome and just a little bit fearsome in the way that only makes a man more handsome—at least that’s how I remember Lib describing him in a pitch for a deal with a soft drink company. And yet I have never, not once, wanted to press any part of my body against any part of Ram’s. This arrangement has worked out for us so far. But how much longer can we keep this up? ’Til death do us part?
I release my grip on his coat. “Now you can go.”
Part of me wants to add, And don’t come back. I mean this in the most merciful way possible. I want to release Ram as Ma has released me.
My husband smiles gratefully and turns to leave. Then he stops himself.
“Should I tell Melody about this?”
He points to the braid, which is now lying limply on the matrimonial quilt stitched by my housesisters in a traditional double wedding-ring pattern. My real wedding ring funded my escape to Goodside last spring. Ram has since offered to replace the ring, and I have declined every time. Ma told my curious prayerclique my fingers were too swollen from my blessings for rings. I hate the idea of Ma lying for me, so I can only hope she believed that was the truth.
She won’t have to lie for me anymore.
“Harmony?” Ram asks, waving his hands to get my attention. “Should I tell Melody or not?”
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re free to tell anyone anything you want.”
I’m getting impatient with Ram’s loyalty in the face of reality. It’s only his fidelity to me and fear of the unknown that makes him stick to me like a cocklebur on my hem. He’s as ambivalent about raising a family as I am, but he’ll do it because I asked him to. And until now, I tried convincing myself that it was the praiseworthy decision.
But is it the right choice for the babies? For Ram?
For me?
But I’m not supposed to think about what’s best for me, am I?
I smile at him weakly. It’s all I can muster right now.
“Now go. Please.”
Ram doesn’t wait for me to say it again. He gives me a quick kiss on the top of my head before bounding out the door, down the stairs, and into the air taxi waiting to take him into Otherside.
I’m alone again. But I know it won’t be for long.
As I lie down on the bed, I pay no mind to the emancipated braid as it falls off the edge and onto the floor. It’s already too late to stop the loose end from unraveling.
melody
I’M STILL BLEEPING.
Lib comes out of nowhere, grabs my wrist, and shakes it.
“Can’t you shut THAT THING up?”
“Oh, that’s hilarious coming from the person who adjusted all the settings.”
Lib has no idea how much I’d love to shut this thing up. MOM goes off if it detects too much or too little of anything that can do harm to my delivery—make that deliveries—in utero. The bracelet comes with a standardized set of upper (sugar, alcohol) and lower (vitamins, cardiovascular exercise) limits, but almost every Parental Unit makes customizations based on their own belief system. On the upside, the Jaydens are liberal about caffeine—I can drink one can of soda every day without getting bleeped. But I’d happily give up my beloved Coke ’99 if they’d be willing to change their neggy opinion on having sex while pregging.
“But if Jondoe and I have already done it, what’s the harm in doing it again?” I asked.
“You could misdeliver!” Lib countered.
“But that’s a myth!” I protested.
“You of all people shouldn’t underestimate Jondoe’s penetrative powers,” he replied. “It’s just not worth the risk.”
Lib doesn’t want to take any chances with me, his most prosperous client. He’s been my agent ever since he persuaded me to go pro at thirteen and negotiated all the details of my Conception Contract with the Jaydens. Most RePro Reps have limited themselves to the money earned in the negotiations between Surrogette (me), Sperm (Jondoe), and Parental Unit (the Jaydens). Lib has always THOUGHT BIG, and when we offered him the opportunity to represent both me and Harmony, he didn’t flinch. I’ll give him full credit for coming up with The Hotties’ many revenue streams. He’s made us all wealthier than anyone but Lib could ever have imagined. Because when it comes to money, Lib has a limitless imagination.
I’ll admit: It hasn’t been all bad. The Hotties were the biggest thing to hit the MiNet in a long time, and it was worth all the hassle just to watch Ventura’s status suffer by comparison. We were the right brand at the right time, making our MiNet debut right after the nation’s most prolific eighteen-year-old, Zorah Harding, sadly announced that the Virus had finally claimed her uterus and she would not be delivering baby number eleven after all. Before we could blink, The Hotties were global. Memers couldn’t go viral fast enough with what we were saying, wearing, eating
.
And selling. Always selling. Harmony and I have earned more than enough money to buy our independence. But what if Harmony stands her ground and refuses to choose freedom? Zen insists that no matter what happens with Harmony, I am a “movement in the making.” When he starts talking like this, I for seriously consider living off the interest of my earnings, partying my ass off, and never making a single positive contribution to society. If that’s what I want to do, I can. I’ve earned the independence to make that choice.
But as I sit here, fat and cranky, watching helplessly as Zen laughs at one of Ventura’s jokes, I can’t help but ask myself: At what cost?
“WHERE IS HE?” Lib is back and even shoutier than before.
“Where’s who?” I ask distractedly, my eyes still trained on Zen and Ventura.
“Who? WHO?! JONDOE! He’s gone OFF THE GRID.”
Now is probably not a good time to mention that the last time I saw Jondoe he was in the middle of a sexistential crisis.
“Um . . . He’s got to be around here somewhere. . . .” I say unconvincingly, looking out the window and down at the crowd below. It doesn’t look any different from any of the other parties thrown in our honor. Harmony’s fans are swaying and praying. Mine are dancing, drinking, dosing. The groups don’t mingle, but they can coexist in the same room without any drama, which was impossible to imagine just eight months ago. We received medals of honor from the National Association for Procreation for “giving common ground to radically different ideodemographics.”
“Oh, wait,” I say. “Ram’s down there!”
Harmony’s husband is working his way through the crowd, making it rain religious tracts like dollar bills in a strip club. He’s got a huge smile on his face and—ha!—did I just catch him in a fist pump? Of all of us, I must say that he seems to be the one who gets the most genuine enjoyment out of these events. Either he really lives to serve God, or he really loves a party.
“RAM IS NO JONDOE.”
And Lib races off again to berate a Team Hottie intern. I’ve never seen Lib so stressed out. I think I might have seen an actual wrinkle denting his forehead’s synthetic skinfeel.
“Hot-TIES! Hot-TIES!” the crowd chants.
I fear that if I don’t give them some face time soon, this party will get real ugly, real fast.
“It’s getting crazy down there, huh?”
Zen is back by my side. By himself.
“Where’s Ventura?”
“In the bathroom.”
“Probably to confirm that she’s peaking,” I say, immediately regretting making any reference to the subject of Ventura’s overactive ovaries.
Zen’s face is stony. “And if she is ovulating? What? You think we’re gonna bump pretties tonight?”
Bleeeeeeeeeep! Gah. This thing is worse than the polygraph app.
“Sweet Darwin! You do! That’s why you’re bleeping like a lunatic.”
“Maybe I got the ninth-month nutsies a little bit early,” I say sarcastically.
Zen doesn’t say anything. He knows I’m being ridiculous and doesn’t want to dignify that with a response. He takes a moment to quietly sip his Dr. Peppermint soda. I’ve seen him do this to unnerve his competition in debates, which makes the stalling tactic all the more frustrating.
“Melody . . .”
He takes a step toward me, so we’re only inches apart. He tilts his face even closer to mine, and I lift my chin to meet his parted lips. . . .
But he doesn’t kiss me.
“You know I have to fake interest or it will look suspicious.”
I should keep my voice low. But I’m too frustrated—sexually and otherwise—to do so.
“Your fake interest in her is more convincing than your genuine interest in me!”
Zen keels over in forced laughter for the benefit of any eavesdroppers.
“HAHAHAHAHAHA. You better watch those jokes, Mel. Don’t think the tabloids won’t run with the ‘best friends with benefits’ story! HAHAHAHAHA.” Then, as he’s bent over in these exaggerated hysterics, he whispers, “You’re talking too much tonight. What’s gotten into you?”
I give him a cutting look. “What’s gotten into me? Nothing.” I look down at my belly. “Nothing has gotten into me at all.”
“You think it’s been easy for me to see you with him?”
I know he doesn’t like seeing me with Jondoe any more than I like seeing him get hit on by one humpy girl after another. And yet I have trouble feeling much sympathy for him for one really, rilly good reason.
“You need stop talking immediately,” Zen says in a serious voice. “Because it’s not just about you. Think about your sister.”
“My sister. Who could deliver at any moment in Goodside.” I pause dramatically. “Where she has chosen to stay put.”
“There’s still time for her to change her mind.”
Isn’t that exactly what I tried to tell Jondoe earlier this evening?
“I’m telling you, Melody,” he says, his eyes nervously scanning the room to make sure no one is listening, “you have built yourself a powerful platform, and when you finally get to speak, millions—no, billions—of girls will listen and rise up and demand . . .”
And before Zen can go full manifesto, Lib is all up in our facespace again.
“WHY ARE YOU HERE BUT TO TORTURE ME?”
Again, someone else says what I cannot.
“I can’t find Jondoe anywhere,” Lib whispers before going back to a full shout. “THIS IS TOTALLY UNPROFESSIONAL.”
“This may not even be a bad thing after all,” Zen offers. “The MiNet will go wild with speculation. . . .”
Lib finishes the thought for him. “WONDERING WHY JONDOE IS A NO-SHOW!” Then he grudgingly gives Zen a look of approval.
“Aren’t either of you at all curious as to where he might be?” I ask.
I’m getting legitimately worried now. Jondoe’s synapses weren’t firing at maximum capacity tonight.
“Don’t worry, gorgeous.” Lib pats my head. “He can’t stay off-grid forever. And when we find him, there will be a whole new surge in optics!” He tips back his head and cackles. “You know, it’s such genius publicity it’s almost like I planned it! And you know what? I’ll take credit for it anyway!”
I’d be offended if his superficial fame-gaming wasn’t so predictable. In a way, I’ve got to admire his transparency. At least Lib is exactly who he appears to be. Right now I can’t say that about anyone else in my inner circle.
“You think you can do this by yourself?” Lib asks.
I nod. I can do this in my sleep.
Without a second’s hesitation, Lib runs out of the room to let the tech crew know that this will be a solo performance after all. The DJ downstairs is now playing The Hotties’ dance version of the Babiez R U theme song, pop music being an obvious revenue stream with our names and all. If I weren’t so wanked out right now, I might find it amusing to see Ram leading hundreds of partiers playing air guitar and singing out loud:
We’re the most important girls on the planet! The most powerful girls on the planet! The prettiest most popular most princessy most everything girls on the planet!
And for the past eight and a half months, it’s all been true.
But not for much longer.
I’m taking a fortifying swig of soda when the door opens again. I’m dreading the reappearance of Ventura and her peaking ovaries when in walks a couple that’s like, old. They’ve got to be in their thirties at least. So not my target demo. But as soon as they enter the room, they crane their necks looking for someone and I automatically know that person is me. Sure enough, the woman finds me on the opposite side of the room and rushes over with her partner.
I sigh and elbow Zen in the ribs. It’s another couple that wants to cash in on The Hotties’ fame and fortune.
“Melody Mayflower!” the woman gushes. “We’ve waited for this moment for such a long time!”
I stop them before they can even st
art their spiel.
“Take the YDNA test,” I tell them.
They look at each other, baffled.
“What?” they ask at the same time.
“You think I’m your long-lost daughter, right?” I say, not waiting for them to reply. “You need to take the YDNA test to prove it. They should have told you that before they let you in here.”
I know I sound harsh. But you would be jaded too if you had been confronted by hundreds of counterfeiting couples claiming to be your long-lost birthparents.
Now that I’ve actually gotten a close look at the woman, I see she’s actually quite attractive in the all-natural surgical aesthetic that’s the opposite of what’s trending for obsolescents these days. I mean, like, every twentysomething Team Hottie intern has erased all outward traces of her genetic identity with forehead extensions, skin dyes, and nasal implants, but this woman’s face is refreshingly human. There’s something else about the stranger’s appearance that makes me linger longer over her features—clear blue eyes, high cheekbones, pert nose, full lips—and it takes me a few seconds to figure out what it is: She looks a lot like me. A lot. Only like, as I said, waaaay older. I’m so relieved Harmony isn’t here right now because there would be nothing stopping her from jumping into this woman’s lap and calling her “Mama.” I almost wouldn’t blame her because as far as fakers go, this one is undoubtedly the best I’ve seen so far. Her partner—who is just average-looking, and losing his hair—is surely the brains of this operation.
They look at each other again and laugh nervously.
“You don’t know who we are?” the woman asks.
“No idea,” I say.
“We’re the Jaydens!” the husband says.
“And these,” says the wife, framing my belly with her hands, “are our daughters!”
The MOM alarm goes crazy.
Bleeeeeeeep! Bleeeeeeep! Bleeeeeep!
Zen instinctively puts his arms around my shoulders to bolster me from the blow that’s just been leveled right at me. Because if I really were carrying their daughters, I’d probably break water right now.
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