Bumped

by Megan Mccafferty

  And I hear voices raised in anger right below me.

  “PLEASE tell me that you were SCAMMING.”

  I recognize the voice from the MiVu. It’s Lib. And he does not sound happy.

  “Now you’re some kind of GODFREAK.”

  That word again. I shiver.

  “Dose down,” I hear Jondoe say. “I did what I had to do to get the job done. . . .”

  “What EXACTLY were you THINKING bringing HER here?!”

  Guilt drops a stone in my gut. I know that I’m the HER. This argument is about me.

  And what I’ve done.

  “You’re not even my agent—why do you care about my business?” Jondoe is asking. “Anyway, all traces of Gabriel have been trashed from my file. . . .”

  I hear cruel laughter. “Your business is Melody’s business and her business is my business. It’s my JOB to rewrite files like yours. To keep all those dirty little secrets secret. I’m the one who found out that my client even had a twin. . . .”

  “Are you sure I’ve got the wrong one upstairs?”

  Wrong one? If I’m the wrong one, does that make Melody the right one?

  Lib cackles again. “You didn’t think it was at all weird when she started calling herself by a different name and got all THUMPY on you?”

  I told him I wasn’t Melody!

  “I thought that was her avatar,” Jondoe says.

  He didn’t believe me.

  “Her AVATAR? We’re not playing GAMES here, Jondoe.”

  He thought I was Melody the entire time . . . ?

  “A lot of these Surrogettes are into the whole 4-D role-playing thing. It’s a technique their positive energists recommend to help distance themselves from the whole experience, another layer of detachment between the Surrogette and the delivery. So it’s, like, you know, another coping mechanism.”

  The love he gave wasn’t meant for me, but for my sister?

  “Myyyyyy. SUCH BIG WORDS YOU HAVE. SOMEONE has spent a lot of time getting SHRINKY.”

  “I was just playing along. I spent the first fourteen years of my life pretending to be as perfect as my brother. I figured a few hours wouldn’t be a problem.”

  Wait . . . Jondoe doesn’t have God?

  And Gabriel never did?

  Why would he lie?

  “I just wanted to get down to business. But then—”

  “Did you?” Lib interrupts.

  “What kind of limpdick do you take me for?” Jondoe asks, anger rising in his voice. “You think I don’t know when I’ve hit my target?”

  Lib laughs. It’s a hard, hateful sound and it makes me physically ill. Sickness comes on like a stampede inside my stomach. I have just enough time to grab one of Jondoe’s helmets into which I spew the toxic contents of my gut.

  “Her egg was blasted by the fastest sperm ever recorded! Of COURSE you did your job.”

  I’m gasping for air, grasping the ugly truth.

  Jondoe doesn’t love God.

  He doesn’t love me.

  I was just another job.

  This insight brings on a second wave of violent nausea. But this time nothing comes up. There’s nothing left.

  I’ve never felt so used up in my entire life.

  “The deal is done,” Jondoe says in a low growl. “Anything less would do major damage to my brand at this phase of my career.”

  “But you should make her piss on a stick just to be sure it’s in there.”

  It’s in there.

  In where? In here?

  I knock on my emptied belly as if expecting a tiny fist to knock back from the inside.

  In here.

  Do I feel any different?

  No.

  And yet . . .

  I know in my soul that Jondoe is right.

  A life is starting inside me.

  I’M WAITING FOR ZEN IN OUR SPOT. THE TREE HOUSE.

  The tree house isn’t a real tree house. It’s a plastic tree house in the children’s library on the University campus. It’s a library as in ink-on-paper books with pages, so the whole place kind of smells weird, like mildew and rotting logs. Needless to say it’s beyond boring and retro and there are never any kids here. Every few years someone petitions the University in the attempt to demo the whole place and build a Kiddie Avatarcade or something in its place, but it’s protected by some historic preservation act through the next decade.

  One of my many babysitters or nannies or tutors loved every MiNet-blinded inch of the place. He or she—I can’t remember, there were so many of these educators and caregivers over the years—brought me here all the time when I was little, even after he or she discovered the hard way that I’m for seriously allergic to ink on paper. I might get a little sniffly and sneezy, but I won’t have a massive allergic reaction as long as I don’t attempt to turn any pages. Just cracking the binding of The Cat in the Hat almost put me in anaphylactic shock when I was three.

  Despite the risks—or perhaps because of them—the tree house became my go-to for secret-giving-and-taking. It’s the only place in town we could guarantee we wouldn’t be watched by electronic or fleshy eyeballs. The tree house, in fact, is where Zen wrote and I signed the secret pact four years ago.

  His face is sticking out the plastic window when I arrive.

  “We could have met at the house because most of the paps already left,” he says. “You’re only trending in the top twenty. Zanadu and Zissou are making all the media right now.”

  “Who?”

  “Babies nine and ten.”

  Zorah Harding. An inspiration to us all . . .

  “No Zen?”

  I thought for sure that Zen would be used for one of her latest deliveries. All Zorah’s deliveries start with Z: Zahara, Zoe, Zachary, Zayd, Zsa Zsa, Zeus, Zelda, Zane . . .

  He holds up two sets of crossed fingers. “Number eleven!”

  With leaden feet, I trudge up the hill of stairs to the hole at the top of the tree. I squeeze myself through the small opening and plop myself down on a pillow. The tree house is meant for toddlers, not teenagers, so we can’t both sit inside without part of me touching part of him. I hunch and scrunch myself in such a way that only the soles of our sneakered feet make contact.

  “So,” Zen says.

  “So,” I say.

  “How’s Shoko?”

  It’s such a simple question. And yet it was one that no one at the birth center seemed to trouble themselves with. My eyes start to water, and not because of Dr. Seuss.

  “She’ll be out of the hospital in a day or two and go on with her life as if nothing ever happened,” I say. “As if she almost didn’t die . . .”

  And that’s when I totally lose it.

  I’m sobbing because Shoko almost lost her life and because Malia lost her mind. I’m sobbing for Zorah, who’s already given a thumbs-up for her eleventh delivery and little Freya, who aspires to be just like her. I’m weeping for bald and cranky Celine Lichtblau and also for glossy-haired and glowing Ventura Vida, even though I still for seriously hate her and her adorable six-month bump, and for all the other pregging Pro/Ammers and the Cheerclones who’ll try again with the Ballers at the next masSEX party and all girls everywhere who are valued far more for what’s between their legs than what’s between their ears.

  I’m crying hardest of all for my twin.

  My sister.

  Pregging with a stranger is degrading enough. But how would I feel if I were forced to marry someone I barely know, let alone love? Is it any wonder that she ran off with Jondoe?

  Zen strokes my hair.

  And now I’m crying for him too.

  Because when he’s holding me like this, letting me wipe my tears, my snot, and slobber all over his sleeve, size doesn’t matter. Forget insufficient verticality. To me, my best friend is bigger and stronger and more capable than any cock jockey on the market. I’m feeling closer to him that I ever have.

  “Melody?”

  I feel each syllable, his chest buzzing a
gainst mine. I can’t seem to catch my breath.

  “When you said what you said about you and Jondoe, I got jealous.”

  I want to ask, As jealous as I get whenever I hear rumors about you taking up with another everythingbut? But I can’t.

  Instead, I ask, “Why? You knew I was making it up.”

  “I know,” he says, “But . . .”

  “What?”

  He loosens his grip on me just enough to reach into his knapsack.

  “I have something I want to show you,” Zen says.

  How many times have I heard Zen say this before producing an impossible-to-find something or other—World Cup tickets, limited-edition couture denim in my size, whatever—that wasn’t impossible for him to find at all. Something he had access to that no one else did.

  “Something . . .” He pokes his head out the hole in the tree, surveys the library, then pops his head back in. “Illegal.”

  This isn’t unusual. Zen has made many friends by distributing all sorts of contraband MiPlay games from Russia.

  “What is it?” I ask, playing along, my voice dropping to a whisper.

  Zen reaches deep into his bag and pulls out a tiny lockbox that fits into the palm of his hand. He taps the code and it springs open to reveal a small, square piece of foil.

  I don’t know what it is, but that’s not unusual either. Zen answers before I even ask.

  “It’s a condom.”

  AS HEART- AND STOMACH-WRENCHING AS JONDOE’S CONFESSIONS are to hear, I can’t stop myself from listening.

  “Now, about your career,” Lib says. “I’ve got some media for you.”

  “Have I gone down in the polls?” Jondoe asks, a note of panic in his voice.

  “Just watch.”

  Then I hear Melody’s voice.

  “Jondoe and I had un-preggy sex. For pleasure. Because we are in loooooove.”

  Oh my grace! Melody and Jondoe?! Did what we did?!

  “Yes! With CONDOMS!”

  “She’s LYING! That’s SLANDER!” Jondoe splutters. “I mean. That could kill my career. . . .”

  “You’re lucky Zorah Harding pushed out numbers nine and ten fifteen minutes ago,” Lib says. “Otherwise, Melody going all LOVEMAKEY would be the number one clip on the MiNet. As it is, it’s only trending in the top twenty. But don’t think that won’t do major damage to your man brand. . . .”

  There’s a pause.

  “What are we going to do about this?” Jondoe asks in an uncertain voice.

  “I was WAITING for you to ask me that!” Lib claps his hands and lets loose a barky guffaw. “Do you think I would come here without a PLAN?”

  Jondoe mumbles incoherently.

  “I EXIST for this pregg, Jondoe. I LIVE and I DIE for this pregg. . . .”

  I didn’t like his messianic talk before, and I certainly don’t like it now that he’s talking about my baby!

  “The way I see it, there are two options,” Lib says. “Option number one: We tell the Jaydens the truth, that you bumped with the wrong twin but explain that it hardly makes a difference because Melody and Harmony are the same exact girl who’d make the same exact preggs with you.”

  No, we’re not! And, no, we would not.

  “But isn’t that a breach of contract?” Jondoe asks.

  “No,” Lib says. “That’s the beauty of it. Because as soon as I found out that Melody had a twin, I wrote a twin proxy pregging clause in the contract that was so brilliantly obscured by legal-sounding bullshit that the Jaydens didn’t even notice it was in there. But that might not stop them from suing me for fraud. If they sued, they would lose. But the attorneys’ fees would eat up all my profits, and quite frankly I don’t feel like going through all the mutherhumping hassle.”

  “So what’s the second option?” Jondoe asks calmly.

  “Option number two: We convince the one upstairs . . .”

  “Harmony,” Jondoe says.

  “WHATEVER her name is. We’ll have her pretend she’s Melody for the duration of the pregnancy. We can send her away, somewhere far and safe. We can say that she’s got some high-risk condition and needs bed rest and . . .”

  No. I will not be treated like property! Not here! Not in Goodside! Not anywhere, ever again!

  “We can send the real Melody away somewhere too,” Lib continues. “She likes role-playing. Maybe she’d have fun pretending to be her Goodside sister for nine months.”

  Oh, no. I cannot—I will not—let them do this to Melody. Not when this mess is all my fault.

  I’ve got a new mission now.

  I gather up my clothes off the floor and get dressed as quickly and quietly as possible.

  “If I bump Melody as planned,” Jondoe says slowly, “can’t we just let Harmony go back to Goodside and leave her out of this whole mess?”

  I don’t need to hear any more to know that I’ve got to get out of this house. And fast.

  “How do you expect her to keep quiet with no incentives to do so?” Lib asks. “If she pretends to be Melody, she will—thanks to that twin proxy pregging clause that I so cleverly inserted into the contract—be entitled to all the financial rewards that would have been earned by her sister.”

  Fortunately for me, I’ve got practice in making hasty escapes.

  “I didn’t have to write it that way, you know. I could have humped her out of all the money, especially when she’s probably just gonna go and tithe it to her Church or whatever. But I didn’t. And that”—Lib pauses and takes a deep, loud breath—“is why I am a great man.”

  I open the window and the screen. I get a firm grip of the frame, then swing my body out and down into a vertical hang. There’s a clear ten-foot drop between the soles of my sneakers and the ground, and I land gracefully on two feet. I’ve barely touched down before I take off in a full sprint down the block. This is all a lot easier to do when one is not wearing an ankle-length engagement gown and veil, although without such concealment I’ll be easily discovered. Without breaking my stride, I reach into my back pocket and pull out the Lost-and-Found card Zen gave me at the Mallplex.

  How could he have known I’d find myself in such a state of emergency?

  I fingerswipe the card and pray Zen will make good on his promise. I pray that he will find me.

  Until then, I run and keep on running, trying to put as much distance between me and Lib as possible before he realizes that I—that we, this baby and me—are missing.

  Even though I’m hurt, betrayed, and have been played for a fool, I regret not being able to give Jondoe a proper goodbye. Maybe it’s because I know it’s not really a goodbye. He’s a part of me forever now, a sacrament that can’t be taken back.

  Even if it wasn’t intended to be mine.

  “A CONDOM!” I SHRIEK, MY VOICE ECHOING AROUND THE ROOM.

  Zen clamps his hand over my mouth. “Are you trying to get me arrested?”

  “Where did you get that thing?” I mumble into his palm.

  “Let’s just say that it’s an antique,” he says, holding it up for me to see the expiration date: MARCH 2025. “The last batch before the ban.” He regards it with a look of awe. “It should really be in a museum.”

  “I didn’t think it would look like that,” I say. “How are you supposed to put that on your . . .”

  He points helpfully to his crotch. “This?”

  Even in crisis, Zen can’t help but perv for a laugh. Only I’m too tired to laugh.

  “Um, yeah.”

  He looks at the small, square piece of foil, then me.

  “The rubber is inside the wrapper.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t say it in a snarky way, but I feel my face flush with dumb embarrassment nonetheless. I pick it up gingerly by its corner and examine it closely.

  “Where did you even get that thing?” Even for Zen, this is quite a coup.

  He closes his eyes, inhales deeply.

  “How isn’t important. It’s the why that’s important.”

  “Go on.”


  “You’ve noticed that I haven’t been around as much lately.”

  I pinch my lips to stop myself from saying something judgy.

  “I wanted you to think that I was cramming for my IAMs, or everythingbutting with random Cheerclones. . . .”

  I sit up in the pillows. “You weren’t?”

  He tugs on his hair. “Most of the time, no.”

  Of course, the hysterical girl in me is, like, But that means some of the time, yes.

  “The truth is,” he says, nervously running his thumb along his lips, “I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

  “Do what?”

  I can’t take my eyes off his thumb. His lips.

  “I couldn’t be so close to you all the time and not . . .”

  He presses the thumb into his lips, as if to stop himself from saying the unsayable. Then he reaches across the inches between us and now that same thumb is delicately tracing the outline of my own mouth and I’m afraid to even breathe.

  “I . . .”

  He stops himself again. The dimples vanish. Gone is the boyish exuberance that wins everyone over. I know Zen’s face so well, and yet I’ve never, in all our years of friendship, seen this expression before. He is transformed and I am transfixed by the way he’s looking at me right now, with a mix of longing and hope and . . . fear.

  “You what?” I’m surprised by my own desperate need to hear what comes next.

  But just like that, he withdraws his touch. His eyes go blank for a second before he starts winking and blinking. It’s too late. Zen’s already caught up in someone else’s drama. In two seconds he’ll take off to tackle someone else’s problem. Typical, only this time, I’m furious. What could possibly be more important than this?

  “How are you even on the MiNet?” I mutter. “This whole place is blinded. . . .”

  He pauses long enough to raise an eyebrow.

  “Right, right,” I say. “Their MiNet blind is an insult to hackers everywhere.”

  After a few more seconds he shuts his eyes with a sense of finality.

  “So who needs saving now?” I snap.

  He slowly opens his eyes and says simply:

  “Your sister.”