“I imagine this must be quite a change from your settlement,” Zen says.
“Yes it is,” I say. Then to provide an example of tolerance, I add, “I watched Melody try on FunBumps at Babiez R U.”
Zen’s enthusiasm wanes for the first time during this conversation. My sister takes in Zen’s stricken face, and seems to find courage in it. She continues with a new gleam in her eye.
“I was, um . . .” She casts a quick glance in the direction of Babiez R U for inspiration. “Fertilicious, wasn’t I?”
Again, the word sounds false coming out of her mouth. And yet it still causes Zen to tug on his hairspikes. His obvious distress emboldens my sister even more.
“Wasn’t I?”
I don’t agree with what my sister is saying, but I want her to like me. She gives up when I take too long to corroborate.
“Oh well,” she says with a shrug, “I’m done here. I’m taking the shuttle home.”
No! This is going all wrong.
“But what about my veil?” I ask, trying to stay calm.
“If you need it so badly, why don’t you go back to Goodside and get it?” She hesitates for a moment as if she knows she shouldn’t say what she’s about to say, but decides to say it anyway. “Maybe you should go back to Goodside, where you belong.”
Where I belong. If she only knew.
“But . . .” I say, trying not to well up. “I hoped . . .”
“What? That I would give up everything I’ve got here and go back with you? That I would settle down and get married and make”—she spits out the last word—“babies?”
She’s right. I had hoped—unrealistically so, I now see—that my blood sister would share Ma’s and my house-
sisters’ enthusiasm for marriage and motherhood. But Melody is nothing like the girls in Goodside. No, her reluctance to fulfill her feminine promise makes her so much more like . . .
Me.
I gasp at the similarity. “Sister!”
Melody looks like she’s just been kicked in the chest. Oh my grace, I’ve said it again! She quickly rights herself, and without so much as even a careless farewell to me or Zen, spins around and speeds toward the nearest exit.
“Later!” Zen calls out, admirably unaffected.
I’m not ready to leave yet. There’s too much more I need to learn about my sister, and Zen is the person who can teach me. I’m nervous, but the spirit moves me to put my mission before myself.
“Zen,” I say before my tongue gets stuck. “Would you care to escort me to Plain & Simple?”
I’ve never been so bold with a boy—not even Ram. Church girls do not initiate. I know it’s an innocent invitation, and yet my face burns hotter than you-know-what.
Zen rakes his fingers through his hair. “Are you sure your fiancé won’t get jealous?”
“My fiancé? Oh, no. No! He won’t mind at all!”
This is true. Ram would never get jealous because such expressions of envy go against our faith.
“‘Let us behave decently as in the daytime,’” I say out loud. When I notice Zen is clenching his jaw, I keep the rest of the verse to myself.
“‘Not in sexual immorality,’” I mouth silently, leading Zen down the causeway. “‘Not in debauchery.’”
“SO AFTER DELETING HIMSELF FROM MY LIFE FOR WEEKS, HE totally stalks me at the Mallplex just to let me know that he chauffeured a bunch of Cheerclones to one of their nasty masSEX parties. He’s crazy if he thinks he can make me, like, jealous or something. . . .”
I’m home now, venting to my friend Shoko on the MiVu. She’s totally couched, crunching her way through a bag of Folato Chips . . . now with 250 percent more folic acid!
“And then he busts out this bogus contract from when we were, like, twelve that says that if we haven’t bumped anybody by now we’re obligated to bump each other. . . .”
“Mmmm . . .” Shoko murmurs with her mouth full. Due to drop any day now, she looks like a Eurasian grass snake that swallowed the moon. When she shifts slightly in the pillows—no small task at her size—an invisible woman’s voice bursts into the room.
“AZUL . . . BLUE . . . ROJA . . . RED . . .”
“Oy!” Shoko lifts up her shirt to reveal the HeadStart belly band straining against her midsection. “Where’s the volume on this damn thing?!”
“AMARILLO . . . YELLOW . . .”
She scrambles to find the smartpod that slipped between her butt and the couch cushions and jabs at the volume until the invisible Spanish teacher fades away.
“VERDE . . . GREEN . . . MORADO . . . PURPLE . . .”
“Oy, I can’t wait until Burrito and I part ways.”
Burrito is the nickname for her pregg. This is Shoko’s first go as a pro. She bumped as an amateur last time around, which meant she picked her partner—her boyfriend, Raimundo—a RePro Rep didn’t do it for her. It also meant that she didn’t get paid up front like I did, but had to wait and see what offers came in after her delivery was made. Unlike the Cheerclones and other amateurs who hit the masSEX party circuit hoping to be bumped, Shoko’s first pregging wasn’t planned, but it wasn’t unexpected either because that’s what happens when boyfriends and girlfriends do what they do as often as Shoko and Raimundo did.
Both bright, brown-eyed brunettes with pleasing if asymmetrical facial features, Shoko and Raimundo are above average across the board, but nothing that would inspire Lib or any other RePro Rep to make six-figure promises. Shoko had never been seriously wooed to go pro, so it was a bit of a surprise when there was unusually competitive postdelivery auction. The winning bidders were so thrilled with the outcome that they hired Shoko to bump with Raimundo again (they were broken up at this point, which made it waaaay awkward but business is business and pleasure is pleasure), so the second pregg she’s carrying now is biosiblings with the first. She’s signed an option agreement to try for a third pregg, though with her eighteenth birthday just a month away, it’s not a sure thing. Even without number three, she’s earning enough money to cover her first year at Rutgers, which makes her way better off than she was before she got the first plus sign on her pee stick.
She’s ready to pop, so I need to get into maternity mode. I was honored when she asked me to be her peer birthcoach because she’s two years older and the Pro/Am president. She could have asked anyone in the Alliance for support. Choosing me—the only prebump among us—was a bold statement. And sticking with me after what happened to Malia . . . Well, that was even bolder.
But that’s Shoko. She’s not afraid to say what she thinks, and she never worries whether what she says will affect her image. We met when I was the youngest player to make the Little Tigers elite travel soccer team, the only girl in sixth grade good enough to compete with eighth graders. The older girls got pissy when I not only kept up, but kicked circles around them. They wanted to haze me hard and threatened to cut off my ponytail to serve as a warning to other upstart sixth graders, but Shoko wouldn’t let them. She’s the one who stood up for me.
“If she’s kicking our asses,” she pointed out, “imagine what she’ll do to the other team.”
Since that moment on the soccer field, I’ve looked up to her like the big sister I never had.
Not that I’ve told her about the sister I do have. Shoko doesn’t need my DNA drama to distract her from her contractual obligations. Not that that’s stopped me from ranting about Zen.
“Okay. So where was I?” I ask myself. “Oh, right. Zen . . .”
Shoko sighs and sets down her bag of chips.
“I don’t get it,” she says.
“Get what?”
“Why Zen isn’t your everythingbut.” She runs her tongue over her teeth. “I hear Zen gives gooooood everythingbut.”
I feel my face burn. “Heard it from who?”
“Ooooh,” Shoko says. “Burrito’s squatting on my sciatic nerve, but that’s nothing like the nerve I just struck in you.”
“Seriously.” I grit my teeth into a
smile. “Who? One of the Cheerclones?”
The Cheerclones are the varsity cheerleaders who are impossible to tell apart by design. For high-scoring uniformity in competitions, they’re all within one-half inch in height (five three) and two and half pounds in weight (105 pounds). They’ve all dyed their hair and skin to match the average hair color and skin tone for the squad as a whole. For serious, they are virtually identical from their ponytails to their pedicures—it would be easier to tell me apart from my twin. Unlike Harmony and me, however, they’re as predictably identical in thought as they are in appearance. They think, speak, and handspring as a unit, so it’s no surprise they tried to pregg as one last night.
I still can’t believe Zen went out with them. Gah.
“Why does it matter who?” Shoko says. “Ash and Ty have made you totally paranoid about the perfect bump! You’re afraid that if you let a guy so much as kiss you, you’ll break your hymen, break your contract, and ruin everything you’ve worked for your whole life.”
She’s right. I hate that she’s right. But she is.
“What’s taking the Jaydens so long anyway?” Shoko says, licking green Folato Chip dust off her thumb. “I thought Lib said you’d be bumped by the end of your sophomore year for sure.”
Lib assures me that I’m everything they want in an Egg. I look almost exactly like the Mrs. did at my age only I’m a little bit taller, which ups my value, of course. And they’re so impressed with my IQ and EQ scores. The problem has always been with the Sperm. They haven’t found a donor that is a perfect match for the Mr., only with less hair in his ears and more on his head.
“Lib says the Mrs. is trying to persuade her husband to go totally commercial,” I say. “She wants to invest big money in a top man brand. . . .”
Shoko clutches the empty bag to her chest. “Like Fitch or Phoenix from the Tocin ads?”
These RePros have all become famous for popping up on the MiNet more naked than not, seductively cooing: “Can’t bump with me? Fake it with a dose of Tocin.” Tocin makes you feel like your best and most reproaesthetical self, and see everyone around you in the same artificially flattering way. Originally touted as “the Peacemaker” for its potential to end conflict in the Middle East, it’s now the most popular medication prescribed by doctors for Surrogettes and Sperms. Taken as directed, it helps “exaggerate feelings of arousal and attachment” and “ease the awkwardness and anxiety” of bumping with a total stranger.
Don’t get me wrong. The Tocin models are seriously reproaesthetical, but their famegaming turns me off.
“I don’t know,” I say cautiously. “Maybe.”
“Or Jondoe!” Shoko falls back in the pillows in full swoon. “I’d pregg decatuplets with him!”
“Shoko!” She really is too much.
“Hey, if you’re gonna get paid to pregg, it might as well be with the best man brand in the business!”
Shoko’s getting far more excited by this prospect than I am. I mean, it’s difficult to imagine what doing it will be like when I don’t know who I’ll be doing it with. After all this buildup, I can only assume that the Jaydens will finally pick someone who is—at the very least—as reproaesthetical as I am. In that case, doing it will be totally worth the wait.
At least I hope so.
“Well, they haven’t made up their minds,” I say, “And until they do . . .”
“Let Zen be your everythingbut!”
“Goodbye, Shoko . . .”
“EVERYTHINGBUT!”
I shut her down before she can say another word.
I can’t help but notice a new message from Malia. It’s the seventh in as many days. This time I delete it without even watching. And though I know it’s irresponsible—Shoko’s water could break at any moment—I blind my MiNet for the rest of the night.
Honestly? I think Shoko might be better off in the delivery room without me.
I mean, in an emergency situation, what more can I do for her that I couldn’t do for Malia?
ZEN AND I ARE SEATED IN A BOOTH AT THE U.S. BUFF-A. A waitress has just delivered the cheesesteak I ordered in honor of my home state. I adjust the netting on my veil so I can eat. She stands to the side and stares.
“Why don’t you just take it off?”
It’s an honest question, really. One with a complicated answer.
“Because she doesn’t want to,” Zen says brightly before turning back to me. “Besides, white really works for you.” His gaze lingers on me long enough to require a trip to the confessional.
I blush. I’m not used to such flatteries. I know it’s unreasonable for me to expect Ram to behave like Zen or any other Othersider. It would be sacrilegious if he did. I’m about to thank Zen for the compliment when he blinks and squeezes his eyes as if a cloud of busy gnats has just flown right into them. As quick as it starts, it stops.
“So why get married now?” he asks. “I mean, from everything I’ve read on the quikiwiki, it seems that girls in the Church are usually married around thirteen. . . .”
Unlike the salesgirl, who was using this information to mock me, Zen seems genuinely curious. I decide to take a leap of faith.
“I was engaged for the first time at thirteen.”
Zen nods, not a trace of condescension or scorn on his face.
“And what happened to the first fiancé?”
What happened was 1 Corinithians.
The wife’s body does not belong to her alone but also to her husband. In the same way, the husband’s body does not belong to him alone but also to his wife. Do not deprive each other.
When I was thirteen and newly betrothed, my house-sisters and I studied this verse in prayerclique. It was the last sentence that I didn’t get, as “deprive” implied that doing without marital relations would be like doing without food or water or another life-sustaining necessity. I couldn’t imagine feeling this way about Shep, my first fiancé. He was three years older and I secretly called him “Sheep” because of his woolly beard, bleating laugh, and fondness for chewing on long blades of grass. I didn’t know much else about him than that, really. We’d certainly never kissed, never even held hands. And yet it would only be a matter of weeks before my body belonged to him and his belonged to me.
Inspired by 1 Corinthians, I asked my housesisters a question that I had wanted to ask for a very long time.
“Are any of you afraid of . . . consummating the marriage?”
My housesisters’ cheeks caught ablaze like a wildfire in a windstorm.
“But children are God’s best gift!” said Mary.
“The fruit of the womb is His greatest legacy!” said Lucy.
“I’m not talking about childbirth,” I cut in. “I’m talking about the marital act, the bodily sharing that leads to childbirth. . . .”
They avoided my eyes and murmured prayers I couldn’t make out.
“None of you are afraid of what it will feel like to become one flesh? The pain?”
And Annie, the only girl our age still waiting for a betrothal, the housesister so scared of being left behind, the one who had been conspicuously quiet throughout this conversation, finally spoke.
“In Genesis, God says, ‘With pain you will give birth to children. Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you.’”
Mary and Lucy murmured amens to that.
I wanted to explain to Zen how my housesisters’ reactions underscored the secret fears I’d been having since I began my Blooming. The Church promises that there’s no greater way for young women to please God than to take the sacraments. But the closer I got to my own marriage and maternity, the more I felt like I was only as praiseworthy as my healthy womb.
Why was I the only one who seemed to see it this way?
Orders require us to put the Church before ourselves. It was this sacrificial argument that Ma repeated whenever I had expressed my doubts about marrying someone I didn’t love. Both times.
“What does JOY stand for?” she’d ask. �
��Jesus first. Others next. Yourself last . . .”
“What happened?” Zen asks again.
I look at him through the haze of tulle. “He married someone else.”
Less than two weeks after that conversation with my housesisters, Annie exchanged vows with Shep alongside Mary and Lucy. It was Annie who would share a marital bed in their household, Annie who would give Shep a son with golden red hair, Annie who would be pregnant now with his second child. Annie, and not me.
“Why?”
“The Church Council decided I wasn’t ready.”
It was another three years before the Church gave me my second—and last—chance to set things right. With Ram. Another boy I could only love in a brotherly way.
“And are you ready now?” Zen’s got a penetrating gaze, as if he’s trying to see through the veil and straight into my eyes.
“I have to be,” I say. “I will be.”
And then I take a huge, messy bite of my sandwich to discourage Zen from asking any more questions. We chew in silence for a few moments before I muster the courage to ask him a question of my own.
“Do all Surrogettes and Sperms get along like you and Melody do?”
“What?”
Those are the terms Melody used in our MiChats. Right away I get the impression that I’ve used them incorrectly, and that I’ve just asked a question as unenlightened as those Zen had asked me earlier. I press on nonetheless.
“You have a conception contract, right?”
“You think I’ve been hired to bump with Melody?”
I nod.
“You think I’m a professional?”
I nod again with fire-branded cheeks.
“Oh, Harmony.” Zen laughs ruefully. “I’m not upmarket enough to be a RePro.”
“A RePro?” I ask.
“Reproductive professional,” he says, looking down at the sloppy remains of his Texas BBQ brisket. “A stud-for-hire.”
Zen is obviously smart, and he has a winning personality. He looks physically fit. He may not have the strength to split logs but he could certainly stack them after someone like Ram did it for him. And finally, at the risk of sounding inappropriate, his face is very nice to look at. Especially when his cheeks are dimpling just so. I don’t understand how he would be considered not good enough. Not that I approve of any of this business, mind you.
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