“Congratulations! You’ve waited so long and worked so hard to see Melody reach the tip-top of her profession, and must be so proud of yourselves. You deserve a reward! Now go out and party your parental asses off! Starting right now!”
He blinks off the MiVu and then, on second thought, removes the whole system from the powergrid.
“What was that all about?”
He turns back to me, puts both hands on my shoulders, and gives me a sobering look.
“You need to MiNet yourself right now.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Just do it.”
My eyes can’t move fast enough. When I log on to the MiNet, I see that I’ve got thousands of new followers sending me thousands of new messages. They’re easy to read, though, because most of them ask variations of the same question:
JONDOE WTF?
At this point, I’m wondering the same thing myself.
“Why am I getting spamslammed about Jondoe?”
“Look at the links I just sent you!”
I open Zen’s links. And there, before my very eyes, is foto after foto of me with the hottest RePro on the MiNet.
There’s me and Jondoe splitting a West Virginia pepperoni roll at the U.S. Buff-A. There’s me and Jondoe kicking the ball around at the Underground All-Sports Arena. There’s me and Jondoe standing beside a car in the parking lot of the Avatarcade. Finally, a grainy shot of me and Jondoe standing in front of the window in my bedroom . . .
“Who would go to such trouble to fotobomb me?” I ask.
“No one fotobombed you, Mel.”
Zen sends a video. I recognize the setting right away as the parking lot to the U.S. Buff-A on Route 1. Jondoe has an arm around my (my!) waist and is addressing the crowd of gawkers. The audio quality is pretty pissy, even after I adjust the volume on my earbuds.
“Melody and I both just want to thank our Repro Reps—Lib from UGenXX Talent Agency, and Stella from Exceptional Conceptional Management—for making the deal,” he says. “We can’t wait to start working together.”
I blink it off. I can’t watch any more, now that I’ve finally grasped what was so obvious to Zen.
I wasn’t fotobombed. The footage is real, but it’s not me posing next to Jondoe. . . .
“She counterfeited me.”
WE’RE HURTLING OVER THE HILLS AT A HUNDRED MILES PER hour.
“Whoa,” he says. “That was pretty intense. But it was worth it, right?”
I don’t think I’ve exhaled since we got in the car.
“We’re done with promo for the night. The paps got more than they needed, so they’ll leave us alone now,” he says. “It doesn’t help any of us to get too overexposed too soon. The asking price of their footage goes down. And our value is subject to backlash fluctuations. . . .”
None of this means anything to me. “Where are we?”
“Not too far from the last stop on our . . . date.”
He wants me to ask where we’re going so he can refuse to tell me. Don’t ask me how I know this. I just do. I know him. I know him better than I know my own husband, and we were in diapers together. Jondoe is totally focused on me, which would be glorious if it didn’t mean he wasn’t paying any attention at all to the road. The car directly in front of us is flashing its brake lights.
“Watch out!”
He jumps, looks behind him. “For what?”
“The car!” But before I’ve even said it, our car slows down to avoid a collision.
He gives me a curious look. “I’ve got it on Autodrive,” he says slowly, cautiously, the equivalent to tiptoeing around a field to avoid cow patties.
“Autodrive,” I say. “Right. Of course.”
Our settlement shares a garage of cars and trucks, all of which are at least thirty years old and don’t have the modern amenities commonly found in Othersiders’ personal transport. Gas-powered putterers are just fine when your whole world exists within a few square miles. No one is ever in a real hurry to go anywhere when there’s nowhere to go.
“I don’t have a car like this,” I say, hoping this might provide a logical opening for me to tell him the truth. “Because . . . well . . . you see . . .”
He nods in acknowledgment. “You ride a bike to school because you’re the president of the ECOmmunity Club. I read that.”
Melody’s file.
I am fascinated by Melody’s file. As much as I want Jondoe to know who I am, I want to know who my twin is even more.
“What else does my file say about me?”
“It’s your file.” He gives me a blank look. “You already know it.”
I think fast. “I want to hear it from you.”
“You want to hear about the file that told me that you don’t like flowers but love Coke ’99 and GlycoGoGo Bars.”
Yes. I nod for him to keep going.
“And told me you were a varsity soccer star and didn’t allow a single goal before your team had to forfeit the rest of the season. Your favorite player on the National Team is number fifteen. You play real guitar, not guitarbot, are far above average in intelligence, and plan to apply to the Global University, where you will pursue a career in epidemiology. Your personal heroes are the international team of scientists who found a cure for HIV and you’d like to be on the team that either finds a cure for the Virus or develops a viable form of petri-pregging, maybe through, um, embryonic stem-cell research or something called partial reproductive organ transplantation—whatever any of that even means.” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re aware that all of this would put us out of business, right?”
I’m learning more about my sister from this file than I’ve heard from her. I get so caught up in my silent prayers of gratitude that I almost miss what he says next.
“Your birthparents are unknown, you were abandoned at a hospital when you were just a few hours old and adopted a few weeks later.”
I can barely eke out a whisper. “You know that?”
“If it’s in your file, I know it,” he says. “You’re lucky you didn’t try to become a Surrogette twenty years ago before the YDNA tests could prove your Northern European ancestry within one one-hundred-thousandth of a percentage point. The Jaydens would’ve never signed a contract without it. Anyone willing to take a chance on a total unknown might as well save money and make a postdelivery bid on an amateur.” He pauses, puts on a meditative face. “Then again, it wasn’t legal to pay teens to bump back then. But I guess that’s because there wasn’t the supply-and-demand issue that there is now, you know, until a bunch of brains like you find a cure for the Virus—”
Then car slams the brakes so suddenly that I’m thrown toward the dashboard. I’m wearing my seat belt, but Jondoe throws a protective arm over me anyway.
“HEY, JACK-OFF. TRY AUTODRIVE,” Jondoe yells to the driver of the car that cut into our lane. “Sorry about that,” he says, though he doesn’t seem sorry at all to have a reason to keep his hand resting across my lap.
We blur past a few dozen streetlights before I finally will myself to speak. “The file.”
“Right,” Jondoe says as the car slows down and turns onto a narrow path. “It said that you wanted to book a room at the only MiNet-blinded accommodations in the county.”
He points out the window toward a sign: WELCOME TO THE INN IN THE WOODS: DISCONNECT TO RECONNECT.
“Surprise! I didn’t put that on the itinerary because I didn’t want it to get leaked to the press,” he says. “I know you don’t want any distractions when we get down to business.”
Get down to business?
“It’s your first time,” he says. “You’re nervous. I understand.” He reaches into his knapsack, takes out a small bottle of pills, shakes it. “Tocin will help you open up.”
Open up?
“And I’m not just saying that because I’m a paid spokesperson,” he says. “It will be fun. Satisfaction guaranteed.”
Satisfaction? Guaranteed?
“I know it?
??s hard for you to believe, but I was a virgin once.”
I back myself up against the car door and blurt, “What’s your story?”
At first he looks alarmed, but then his features soften into something else. Amusement maybe.
“My story?”
“Why do you do . . . this?”
He closes his eyes, rubs the golden hairs on his chin. When he finally speaks, it’s in a voice much quieter, yet even more commanding than before.
“The answer isn’t in my file, is it?”
Of course I haven’t the faintest idea what’s in Jondoe’s file, but I don’t let on.
“I’ve been subjected to more physical and mental evaluations than I ever thought possible. I’ve done the YDNA, of course. VO2 max, flexibility, and isoinertial strength assessments. Myers-Briggs, Winfrey-McGraw . . .”
He smiles ruefully.
“And?”
He looks up, right into my eyes. “And no one has ever asked me that question. Not once. They just . . . assume.”
“Who assumes what?”
“Everyone assumes I do it to do it.” He rolls his eyes, laughs. “For the sex.”
I feel my cheeks burning. “Y-y-you don’t?”
“No,” he says dismissively. “With so many girls waiting to be bumped, just about any guy can get some ass anytime.”
I flinch at his coarse language, then think of Melody’s friend Zen, who would offer an altogether different opinion on the subject.
“It’s not the money either. Though it definitely doesn’t suck getting paid to do something I would do for free.” His eyes dart toward the window. “And I know you won’t believe me, but it’s not about the famegaming.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“It’s really not about me at all. It’s about . . .” He falls back onto the headrest and looks up through the moonroof. “I’m providing a valuable service.” Unhappy with his explanation, he screws up his perfect face and tries again. “No. It’s more like . . .” He stops himself once more. “I want to do good. That’s why I accepted the Jaydens’ application.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, come on,” he says. “The Jaydens do okay for themselves, but they weren’t anywhere near affluential enough to meet my minimum bid. It just so happens that I am very passionate about helping aspirational couples who want an upmarket pregg. So once a year I do some pro boner work and the Jaydens are this year’s pick.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“If you had something that could change people’s lives for the better, wouldn’t you want them to have it?”
I suppose I would.
“Such an extraordinary gift is meant to be shared.”
It is, isn’t it?
“I figure that if I was put on this earth to do this one thing, I should do it to the very best of my ability for however long as I’m equipped to do so.”
Yes!
“I feel exactly the same way!” I say.
“About delivering a pregg?”
“No!” I cry, my heart beating madly. “About spreading the Word of God!”
Oh my grace! I just couldn’t stop myself! The spirit moved me to tell the Truth. I’m ready for Jondoe to call me a freak, kick me out of the car, and dash away faster than an unbroken pony.
But he doesn’t.
“You’re a surprising girl, Miss Melody Mayflower,” he says. “So encrypted.”
My cheeks are roaring now, I can feel it.
“I’ve been in the business for three years now,” he says. “I showed up here today thinking I knew everything I needed to know about you to make this transaction go as smoothly as possible. But . . .”
He leans back, looks me over. If I could show him all of me, my soul, my everything, I would. I will. It’s time to make my confession.
“I’m not the girl in the file!”
Jondoe doesn’t hesitate. “I’m not who I am in my file either.”
“You’re not?”
Even though there’s just the two of us together in his car, he motions for me to come closer. My flesh goose bumps at the warmth of his whisper on my neck.
“Jondoe obviously isn’t my real name. That’s just the name my agent at ECM gave me because she thought it would be better for my man brand. I’ve never told a Surrogette my real name. But you, Miss Melody Mayflower, are no ordinary Surrogette. You’re special. Do you want to know my real name?”
“I want to know everything.”
And not just in the spiritual sense of knowing him in my heart, but the physical, tangible sense of knowing him, a knowing that lets me reach out and touch his hands, as he touched me moments ago.
“Then let me take you somewhere else that isn’t on the itinerary,” he says.
I tell him I’m ready to be taken.
REBIRTH
Push it out or pull it out
Ain’t nuttin’ to worry ’bout.
—Fed Double X, “Bumpin’”
I OPEN MY EYES TO SEE THE MAN WHO HAS WALKED BESIDE me in my dreams for as long as I can remember dreaming.
“Wake up,” Jondoe says.
I unstick my cheek from the window, dislodge my tongue from the roof of my mouth, wipe the sleep out of my eyes.
“How long was I asleep?”
“Not long.” Then he looks as if he’s about to add something, then reconsiders.
“What?” I ask.
“What what?”
“You looked like you were about to say something. . . .”
He lowers his chin, looks up at me through his lashes.
“You talk in your sleep.”
My cheeks burn. How shameful for him to know this about me.
“Now, now,” he says, patting me on the back, “Don’t be embarrassed. You didn’t say anything too incriminating. . . .”
“No man has ever heard me talking in my sleep!” I say. “Not even my h—”
I should have just come out and said it. Husband. Not even my husband.
“Who?” Jondoe asks.
“No one,” I reply.
I think about Ram. I hope he hasn’t come looking for me. I pray he uses this time apart to recognize that he’ll never be able to hold up his side of the marital quadrangle: God, man, woman, child(ren). I know this, our parents know this, and the Church Council knew it when they put us—two unteachable spirits—together. If he finally accepts the truth about himself, then I’ll know I did him a favor by leaving. I only wish I’d had the courage to do it before the wedding.
Ma remembers the last horse-and-buggy days and the arrival of the first truck. “A Dodge Ram,” she likes to remind me, as if this alone would make him the ideal husband. Ma has seen how Orders are made and Orders are unmade as mere men interpret God’s Word one way and then change their interpretations to see it another, altogether different way. Maybe one day I’ll tell my daughter about how I had to wear veils and dresses that fell to my ankles and she, in her T-shirts and jeans, won’t believe me. Maybe I’ll tell my daughter about having to marry a man I didn’t love, and how lucky she is that she grew up in a different time.
If I have a daughter.
If I ever go back.
“Let’s do this,” Jondoe says, opening the car door.
I get out of the car and make note of our surroundings for the first time. We’re parked in the circular driveway of a two-story house that sits on the wide corner lot of a block lined up with near-identical homes. The large, boxy structure doesn’t look all that different from our houses in Goodside. True, the front and side yards aren’t cultivated with any plants worth growing—it’s three-quarters of an acre of wasted greenspace. And there’s a detached garage where a barn should be. Otherwise, this vinyl-sided house with the stone facade is in keeping with the outsize suburban fashion of the early to mid ’00s. Just like ours—only we fill our houses with four families instead of just one.
A lamp turns on in the downstairs window. Someone knows we’re here.
“I haven’t been back here in almost a year,” Jondoe says.
“Where is here?” I ask.
“Where Gabriel spent the first fourteen years of his life.”
Gabriel. Like the angelic messenger sent by Jesus to work on His behalf.
The front door swings open and a man and a woman step out onto the front porch. They’re both wearing robes over pajamas, bedroom slippers, and big, toothy grins.
“Gabriel!” they cry out, arms outstretched.
“Who are they?” I ask.
“Gabriel’s parents,” Jondoe says as he takes the first steps toward them.
I point at him. “Gabriel?”
He says nothing, answering instead with a smile brighter than all the shining lights in the heavens.
I AM QUITE LITERALLY FLOORED, PARALYZED BY THE NEWS that my married, trubie twin sister spermjacked my RePro, not just any RePro, but the hottest on the MiNet. Which meant that if she hadn’t showed up on my doorstep, I might have already bumped with the hottest RePro on the MiNet.
If that’s not enough to floor a girl, I don’t know what is.
I have stared at his fotos for . . . I don’t know? Hours? Weeks? Aeons? His is an unlookawayable face. Jondoe’s face defies any improvements made by the attractiveness app. No tweaking of the distance between his chin and lips, forehead and the bridge of his nose, or between the eyes. The geometry of his face is scientifically perfect. And don’t even get me started on his abdominal muscles, which are a study in anatomical symmetry.
I’m supposed to bump with him?
Or was.
Finally, after whatever amount of time it was, Zen speaks up.
“If Jondoe thinks he’s with you,” Zen says, “he’s probably been messaging you this whole time.”
I gasp, knowing that Jondoe has been messaging me this whole time . . . only I thought it was spam! I double-blink-wink-left-right-left-blink to read the rest of Jondoe’s messages.
Amid all the flattering messages about how reproaesthetical I am, I got an itinerary that matches up with what I saw in the fotos: