Bumped

by Megan Mccafferty

  This pre-pubie is obviously obsessed with pregging because she’s gawking at my flat tummy as if it’s the most unlookawayable site she’s ever seen. I know she’s young, but she’s old enough to know that such blatant bumpwatching is just about the rudest thing you can do to someone in my concave condition.

  “Thanks,” I say, holding up the remainder of the bar and soda.

  “Your favorite flavors? Right?” She claps her hands eagerly. “Right?”

  “Ummmm, right.”

  And just as it strikes me as odd for this girl to have any knowledge of my favorite snack foods, she rushes forward to press her palms to my navel.

  “Hey!” I scold, gently slapping her away. “Hands off!”

  “Sorry!” she says, sounding more apoplectic than apologetic. “I just can’t believe I’m this close to Jondoe’s pregg!”

  I poke a finger in my empty ear, just to make sure I’m not having another aural hallucination.

  “What’s Jondoe really like?”

  Just hump me now. How could I have forgotten that my most bizarre nightmare is still a reality?

  “Good morning!”

  It’s Ms. Lutz-Lewis, relentlessly chipper for a grammy who was up as late as I was. Did she even go home last night? Does she live here? I’m about to ask when I remember something important: I don’t give a damn.

  “Pleeeeeeease! Just tell me!” The arrival of Ms. Lutz-Lewis has made Freya more desperate for answers. “Is Jondoe really erection perfection like it says on the MiNet?” She for seriously looks like she’s going to pee herself.

  I open my mouth to tell her that she’s too young to be asking such pervy questions when Ms. Lutz-Lewis for seriously loses it.

  “MISS FREYA ALEXANDER. What are you doing out of your room?”

  “I got bored.”

  “You’re not here to make friends!” She swoops in on the little girl. “You’re here to make a delivery!”

  Waaaait. That’s not a FunBump she’s wearing? Freya is not a day older than eleven. Has she even lost all her first teeth? She can’t fill a training bra! And anyone with eyes can see that she doesn’t have adequate hip width. There’s no way she’s pushing it out. They’ll have to cut and pull.

  “Wah,” whines the girl, acting every bit the kid she is.

  Ms. Lutz-Lewis has her by a bony elbow and tries to guide her back to her room.

  “When’s this thing gonna be borned?” Freya hollers. “Borning is soooooo boring!”

  “Now, now. With an attitude like that, you’ll never win the FedEx ‘We Live to Deliver’ Scholarship. . . . ”

  GAAAAAH! She hasn’t graduated from elementary school yet! She shouldn’t be worrying about college scholarships! Especially one that requires her to pregg every calendar year between now and obsolescence! I don’t even need to ask who put her up to it because I know the answer all too well: her parents.

  There are reasons why commercial pregging is illegal under the age of thirteen. Who did this girl bump with? Her boyfriend? I’ve read about so-called preemie pregging in the third world, but it’s not something you see in suburbs like Princeton, where it’s a very, very down-market thing to do.

  As it was once down-market at my school for anyone at any age to pregg for profit.

  Until I signed on with Lib.

  And everyone tried to follow. And if they couldn’t get a deal like mine, they hoped to go from amateur to pro. Just like Shoko.

  Is Freya the future? Will there be a time where there will be no such thing as too young to pregg? Zen swears that the Chinese are plumping their newborns with the same hypergrowth hormones that can turn an egg into a bucket of fried chicken in fourteen days (growth hormones being a subject of great interest to him, for obvious reasons).

  “I’m so bored,” the girl whines. “And my tummy hurts.”

  I’m sick to my stomach. And it’s not sympathetic labor pains.

  “Oh! In all this commotion I nearly forgot to tell you!” Ms. Lutz-Lewis calls out. “Miss Weiss is ready for visitors now!”

  I’m not ready for her.

  “A TWIN.”

  Jondoe laughs uneasily, searching my face to find a trace of humor or anything else that will explain why I just said what I said.

  “She’s Melody and—”

  He puts a finger to my lips to hush me up.

  “Shhhh. We are so alike. It’s like you’re the girl version of me.”

  “I am?”

  “I’m vibing on everything you’re saying right now,” he says. “I’ve spent a lot of time on the therapist’s couch, so I get it, the whole twin thing. You woke up this morning feeling guilty about everything we did last night.”

  An angelic smile takes wing across his lips.

  “Actually, I don’t feel guil—”

  He keeps talking. “You created a twin self to represent the contradictory parts of your psyche, your soul—”

  “What?” I honestly have no idea what he’s talking about. By the unguarded look in his eyes, I know he is thoroughly convinced that what he is saying is the irrefutable truth.

  “You have trouble reconciling the dual parts of your personality.” He brushes his lips against my neck. “The part that wants to be prayerful and pure, and the other part that wants to experience more . . .” He nibbles on my earlobe. “Earthly delights.”

  I push him off me. “Nonononono,” I protest, flaming from the inside out. “I’m really Melody’s twin.”

  His eyes light up. He smiles more broadly than ever before.

  “Oooh, you are a fun one. You’re taking it to a whole new level!” He looks at me with admiration. “You’re even more complex than I could have ever imagined. More than any girl I’ve been paired with before.”

  “Really?”

  “Um-hm.” He dances a fingertip across my lips, down my chin, and across my collarbone. “You’re my perfect match.”

  “But you don’t even know who I am! My real name is Harmony.”

  Jondoe doesn’t react with anything resembling surprise. He seems completely unfazed by this revelation.

  “You can be whoever you want to be.”

  “I barely know who I am! I’m not ready for all of this!”

  Jondoe attempts a serious face, but he’s still grinning in his eyes.

  “God will never tempt you with more than you can withstand. . . .”

  I groan. “I don’t need Corinthians right now.”

  “Okay, then. How about this?” Jondoe pauses. “Nothing about you is a surprise to God. He knew I would become part of you. Your life.”

  “Speak from your own heart!”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m kinda off script right now.”

  “Off Scripture?”

  “No,” he says. “Off script. I mean, just when I get into the whole godfreaky thing, you want to change it up on me again with this twin thing.”

  I bristle at the word “godfreaky.” Why would he put it that way? Maybe the word isn’t as harsh or hateful out here as it is where I come from. . . .

  “I like Harmony,” he says.

  “You do?”

  “I do,” he says decisively.

  “And it really doesn’t matter that I’m not Melody?”

  Jondoe kisses the freckles on my nose.

  “I promise this is just the beginning for you and me. But right now, we must complete our mission,” he says, rolling back on top of me. “So let’s assume the position. . . .”

  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.

  “Investin’ like da stock mockey

  Get yoself a cock jockey

  Partyin’ at MasSEX

  Deliverin’ Fed Double X. . . .”

  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:

  “Take yo pillz 2 get no illz

  Bump yo skillz 2 pay da billz. . . .”

  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.