The boy’s smile gets bigger. And so does mine.
“Your MiNet blind is an insult to hackers everywhere.”
“You hacked my MiNet?” She sounds more amazed than annoyed. “Again?”
The boy and Melody are exactly the same height, though the tips of his hair—dark and spiky like sprigs of blackrot rosemary—give him an extra few inches. He only has to take a step toward her to look her straight in the eyes.
“Blink-left-right-left-wink-double-blink,” as his eyes follow those same commands. Melody gasps, squeezes her eyes tight, and sighs in resignation. He, having made the desired impact, takes a step back and thumbs in my direction. “Is that her?”
“No,” Melody says drily. “That’s the third sister, Symphony. And there are two more at home who look just like her named Rhythm and Tempo.”
“When did she get here?” he asks. “Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?”
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know she was on her way. And also because you’ve been too busy to reply to any of my messages.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry.”
The boy looks at me, then back at Melody.
“You must be blinked.”
“You think?”
I am waiting patiently to share my own feelings about seeing my twin for the first time, but no one is asking.
“How long will she be in town?” He asks this as if I’ve got limited seating, like when Brother Moses’ Traveling Ministry finally came to Goodside.
“We’re still . . . um . . .” She coughs and casts me a sidelong glance. “Working out the details.”
I’ve told Melody I’m willing to stay with her until she’s ready to return to Goodside with me. She was so overwhelmed by emotion that she choked on her reply.
“Welcome to Otherside!” The boy sweeps his arms through the air. “I’m Zen Chen-Chavez.” He extends his hand.
I tug on my gloves, fixing my fingers inside the satin.
“I’m . . . Harmony.”
“You hesitated,” Zen says, wiggling the fingers on his still-extended hand. “Is it against the rules to touch me?”
Zen is certainly observant. I admit that I am a bit leery of making physical contact with a free male because such touching is against Church Orders. But I’m not in Goodside, am I? And it’s not like I’m touching skin to skin!
I answer Zen by taking his hand in mine and giving it a firm shake.
“Tell me,” he says, giving me his full attention now. “How do you feel about all the premarital sex and sin?”
I’m supposed to think he’s showing off for my benefit, but I can tell that it’s really for Melody. And yet I can’t find a way of answering his question.
“I don’t know,” I finally say.
“You could have learned a lot from watching the Cheerclones and the Ballers in action last night,” he says.
“Ugh. MasSEXtinction parties are nasty,” Melody says, scrunching her nose. “Those amateurs are so desperate.”
Zen clucks his tongue. “How can you be the next Pro/Am president if you neg any girl who doesn’t have a contract? You have to promote positive pregging in all forms.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Melody says dismissively. “I still can’t believe you went last night.”
“Someone had to be the designated driver,” he says. “I was the only one who didn’t get dosed.”
“So,” Melody says, avoiding Zen’s gaze. “Does that mean you were the only one on the sidelines during the group grope?”
If Zen notices the strain in her voice, he doesn’t let on.
“You of all people know I hold myself up to the highest standards,” he says. “Unfortunately, this means I’ll never bump with any girl who is desperate enough to bump with me.”
This makes my sister laugh-snort-laugh, which makes me laugh-snort-laugh because—PTL!—we share the same laughy-snorty laugh!
Both Zen and Mel turn to me with surprised expressions, as if they’d forgotten I was standing right beside them.
“How do you feel about wearing that gown?” Zen asks. “Can you take off your veil?”
I remember being faced with such unenlightenment in my previous trips to Otherside with my prayerclique. For a group who clings so desperately to facts, seculars like Zen and Mel understand so very little about the Church. I cherish this chance to witness because there are so few opportunities to do so in a settlement where everybody—well, almost everybody—is already saved. It’s vital for me to approach this in the right way so I don’t scare him off.
“Oh my grace, those are inspired questions,” I reply, mindful of my tone. “Before I answer, may I ask you a question first?”
“Sure,” Zen says. “I love questions.”
“Do you have God?”
He answers with uncommon directness. “I don’t.”
I had anticipated that response, but all witnessing must begin with the basics.
“Now that I’ve answered your question,” Zen says, “I hope you’ll answer mine.”
“Well,” I say, smoothing over the wrinkles in my dress, “I’m proud to serve as a powerful example of faith and female purity.” I wince, worried about sounding vain. “And, yes, I’m allowed to take off my veil whenever I want.”
“Why don’t you take it off right now?” Zen asks.
“Because I don’t want to.”
I really don’t. I have full control over my words but my positive messaging is often undone by negative facial expressions. This has become more clear to me since joining Melody’s company. I see her pursed lips, flared nostrils, or arched eyebrows on our shared face, revealing her true feelings as they would certainly reveal mine. Meeting Melody has convinced me that wearing the veil was the right thing.
“I don’t blame you for not taking it off. Some people say the lower rates of HPSV in your community are because you get extra protection from the veils and gloves,” he says, looking down at his hands. “Maybe we’d all be fertile into our twenties and thirties if we wore them.”
“Or maybe it’s all the prayer that keeps the Virus at bay,” Melody offers sarcastically.
That’s exactly what the Church Council claims.
“It’s just a shame you won’t take it off,” Zen says to me with a shrug. “It would have been such a pleasure to be seen with two reproaesthetical girls.”
“Careful, Zen, you’re talking to a soon-to-be-married woman here.” Melody is trying to sound lighthearted, but, as always, her face gives her away.
“I guess I’ll just have to settle for half the pleasure,” Zen says, ignoring her warning.
“For serious, Zen. Harmony’s fiancé is named Ram.”
Zen stares in disbelief. “Ram?”
“Ram. And he’s a genuine agriculty.” Melody’s voice is turning now too. “He could ride up on his horse and kick your sorry butt all the way down the turnpike.”
I let out a little yelp at the visual of Ram kicking anyone’s you-know-what.
“Is that true?” Zen asks. “That Ram will kick my sorry butt to defend your honor?”
“No,” I say simply, biting my lip to stop myself from giggling.
Ram is almost a foot taller than Zen and quite fit from farming, but he would never act in such a way. If Ram were here right now, it would be customary for him to thank Zen for his approving appraisal of my physical appearance, then gently point out that it is inappropriate for any man to pay such compliments to another man’s woman. But it’s unlikely Ram would say this or much of anything else because it’s against his nature to be confrontational. “Blessed are the peacemakers,” says Ma about Ram. “For they shall be called sons of God.”
“This has been fun,” Zen says, his face suddenly straight and serious. “But I actually do have a reason for stalking you today. And it’s kind of ironic too, considering what we were just talking about. . . .”
Melody squints. “Okay.” She sounds skeptical.
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Zen takes a piece of paper out of his back pocket, unfolds it, and holds it up for her inspection.
“Does this mean anything to you?”
Melody startles at the sight of it.
It clearly holds some significance for her.
And whatever it is, it’s not good.
FOUR YEARS AGO TODAY, MANDATORY BLOOD TESTS confirmed that 75 percent of sixth through eighth graders at Princeton Day Academy Junior School had been infected with the Virus. Most parents hoped it was the unfunniest prank ever. Mine anticipated the spread of the Virus all along and had planned accordingly. Even though I’d heard Ash and Ty talk about Human Progressive Sterility Virus millions of times before, I never really understood what the words meant.
Zen knew. He had done his research. Even then he liked to be informed, even if such knowledge was the stuff of nightmares.
He made me watch a video that explained what had happened to us, or, more accurately, what wouldn’t happen: that we were among the roughly three-quarters of the planet who wouldn’t be able to conceive or carry a full-term delivery in adulthood. Most of us would go irreversibly infertile sometime between our eighteenth and twentieth birthdays, and petri-pregging wouldn’t be a viable option for us at any age. The video was called The End of the World as We Know It and it succeeded in making me so paranoid about what would happen to our depopulated nation—with a special emphasis on the inevitable takeover by the awesomely abundant Chinese—that I signed this letter of promise:
Zen Chen-Chavez and Melody Mayflower promise that if both of us have NOT made a delivery within the next four years, we will bump with each other. This agreement is voided if one of us (Zen!!!) says ANYTHING about it to ANYONE!!!
To understand why I would sign such a document, you have to understand Zen.
See, Zen has always prided himself on being able to analyze and argue all sides of any issue. It’s what makes him one of the top high school debaters in the state. I’m his best friend, so I know he doesn’t believe half of what comes out of his mouth or across his MiNet profile. But he’s so effortlessly persuasive that even I’m not always sure what half he believes and what half is bullshit. He knows what to say, when to say it, how to say it, and to whom. These skills have served him well at Princeton Day Academy: Everyone loves him.
I think we became best friends because I was one of the very few kids who didn’t do what he said.
“Why aren’t you calling yourself Lem?” he asked on the day he made everyone refer to themselves by the backward spellings of their first names.
“Why should I call myself Lem just because you want me to,” I replied. “Nez.”
Zen loved that. He thought I was cool because I had a mind of my own. Only later, much later, did he discover the exact opposite was true and I wasn’t a nonconformist by choice. No, Ash and Ty already had me on such an uncompromising regimen of self-improvement that there was simply no time in my life for Zen’s ridiculous diversions.
Of course, my pact with Zen wasn’t ridiculous. It was dead serious. And in my limited worldview at the time, it was the first time Zen’s directives were totally worth following.
And yet, the letter was already a distant memory when I signed on with Lib at UGenXX Talent Agency a year later. Right away, I started getting major swag from the most affluential couples desperate for me to make a healthy delivery. At thirteen, I was boosting off the free merch and the surge in eyeballs on my MiNet profile but was in no way ready to settle down. By the time I was fourteen, my parents thought I was obsessed with famegaming and at risk of becoming terminally starcissistic if I didn’t close a deal soon. Later that year I was matched with the Jaydens, who put in a very strong bid: full college tuition, a Volkswagen Plug, and a postpartum tummy trim. When Lib pushed—and got—a six-figure signing bonus, there was no question as to what I had to do.
It’s hard to believe now, but this was a pretty radical decision at the time. Though popular in major cities on the coasts, going pro was still kind of a down-market thing to do in the suburbs, and at my school in particular. All preggers at Princeton Day Academy were amateurs, most of whom put deliveries up for nonprofit adoptions. I can count on one hand how many actually kept their deliveries, and those who did had them raised by the same nannies who had raised them.
Ash and Ty are—or were—Wall Streeters turned economics professors at the University who were way ahead of reproductive trends. They predicted sixteen years ago, almost before anyone else, that girls like me—prettier, smarter, healthier—would be the world’s most valuable resource. And like any rare commodity in an unregulated marketplace, prices for our services would skyrocket. It wasn’t about the money, really, not at first. It was about status. Who had it, and who didn’t. And my parents did everything in their power to make sure I had it.
As for me, I figured, Why not? I won’t be using my uterus for anything else during those nine months! So that’s how I was the first girl in my class to go pro and sign on to be a Surrogette. About a dozen girls at my school have followed my lead so far, with more trying to land contracts every day. Now even amateurs who aren’t quite upmarket enough to go pro can make decent money at auction if their deliveries earn high marks from Newborn Quality Testing Service.
The point is, Ash and Ty knew that if anyone could boost the image of commerical pregging in our community, it was me. It’s what they groomed me for, after all.
And my life has been ectopic ever since.
Only Zen would try to legitimize a pact between two twelve-year-old nubie-pubies who pretended to be more familiar with the how-tos of pregging than we actually were.
Only Zen would have any chance at succeeding.
“WHAT IS IT?” I ASK.
“Nothing,” Melody quickly replies, pinching the paper distastefully with her thumb and forefinger as she hands it back to Zen. He carefully smooths out the paper, refolds it along the original creases, and slides it into his back pocket before responding.
“I never pegged you for a renegger . . .”
The calmer Zen is, the more emotional my sister gets.
“I am NOT a renegger. You are beyond wanked if you think that piece of paper is binding. . . .”
I’m not following this at all.
Then, like the sun bursting through storm clouds, that grin.
“Dose down, Mel. I’m just scamming.” Zen’s cheeks dimple even deeper. “I really came by just to say ‘hey.’”
Melody eyes him warily. “So say it.”
“Say what?”
Now it’s Melody’s turn to take a step forward, lean in, and get within a few inches of his face.
“Hey.”
At first, Zen doesn’t move. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he brings his face even closer to my sister’s. I watch his lips part and I watch Melody’s expression change to something expectant and—
Oh my grace! Stop watching!
I turn my head left. Newlywed Bliss Kits are on sale at Garden of Eden Sex Shop. . . .
Look away!
I turn my head right. The young trio from Babiez R U is immodestly strutting by us, flaunting their brand-new FunBumps. . . .
Close . . . your . . . eyes!
But I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t stop watching. I can’t stop watching Melody and Zen as they hypnotically hover almost—almost!—mouth to mouth. . . .
“Hey,” Zen whispers.
I’m startled by a sharp, high cry. Both by the sound and the fact that it came from me.
Melody and Zen lurch away from each other.
“YOU BLINKED FIRST!” they cry in unison.
Zen turns to me as if he wants me to vouch for him, but then his face darkens.
“Whoa. Are you feeling okay? You’re breathing heavy. And your skin—what I can see of it—is all red and sweaty.”
He’s right. I’m feeling a little light-headed. “I’m f-f-f-fine,” I stammer, fanning myself. “It gets hot under all these layers.”
Melody
is patting her hair, trying to look unconcerned. “Oh, it’s nothing that a cold can of Coke ’99 can’t fix.”
Zen seems genuinely worried. “You should really take off that veil. . . .”
“Enough about the mutherhumping veil,” Melody says in a cold voice. “She’s not going to take it off.”
I don’t want to take off my veil, but I can’t catch my breath. I lift the netting from my face and flip it up and over my head so I can get some air. I shield my eyes until they adjust to the riot of light and color. I forget how much brighter the world looks without the veil. I avert my gaze from the Garden of Eden Sex Shop.
“Sweet Darwin’s revenge,” Zen says, eyes going wide at the sight of my bare face. “You’re Melody!”
Oh my grace. If there’s one thing I’ve already learned about my twin, it’s that she does not like being seen as anything less than unique. I square my shoulders, ready for Melody to explode at Zen. Ma taught me to only raise my voice in praise, never in anger. Despite her musical name, my sister gives little thought to the sounds that come out of her mouth. She doesn’t seem to understand that words can serve as a bomb or a balm and all too often Melody chooses to hurt instead of heal. This time she surprises me. Her words come out not in a ferocious rush, but slowly, like ice.
“She . . . is . . . not . . . me.”
I proceed very carefully. “She’s right!” I say. “I have freckles!”
“You do?” Zen squints at my nose. “You do!”
Zen can’t stop looking back and forth between us, comparing and contrasting and comparing and contrasting our faces. And he’s not the only one. A small crowd has gathered around us, all winking, blinking, and rolling their eyeballs in our direction. I know that as I stand here contemplating my freckles, images of the identical-but-ideodemographically different twins are already streaming the MiNet. This must be what Melody means when she refers to a surge in optics—but I don’t feel too good about it. It makes me squirmy, like a soilworm under observation in a terrarium. I pull my veil back over my face to put an end to it.
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