Avatarcade
Underground All-Sports Arena
U.S. Buff-A
Surprise!
Then Jondoe spammed me with a bunch of flattering feeds about . . . himself.
But it’s the last few messages that made no sense at all:
PSALM 127:3
PSALM 128:3
PSALM 37:5
If Harmony told him that I have God, why would Jondoe send me psalms? Unless, maybe, he was trying to impress her . . .
“Ram! What are the Psalms?”
He thinks for a moment, scratching his head. “Bible verses.”
I am dangerously close to throwing a clot.
“Even I know that!” I snap. “But what are they?”
I don’t even wait for Ram to say “don’t know” or Zen to look up the passages before messaging Jondoe back. The whole time he’s been with Harmony, he thought he was with me. And now he thinks I have God! She converted me behind my back. I waste no time in updating my status.
THIS IS THE REAL MELODY
“Psalm one hundred twenty-seven, verse three,” Zen reads from the quikiwiki. “‘Don’t you see that children are God’s best gift? The fruit of the womb his greatest legacy?’”
U R WITH MY GODFREAKY TWIN SISTER
“Psalm one hundred twenty-eight, verse three,” Zen continues. “‘You will bear children as a vine bears grapes.’”
ASK WHAT HER REAL NAME IS
“Psalm thirty-seven, verse five. ‘Open up before God, keep nothing back; He’ll do whatever needs to be done.’”
TELL HER I’M FOR SERIOUSLY PISSED
A second goes by. Five. Ten.
“That’s some righteous versin’ right there,” Ram says.
Nothing.
“It looks like Jondoe changed his strategy,” Zen says, trying to lighten the mood, “from humpy to thumpy.”
I. Am. Beyond.
“TERMINATE! NOW! SERIOUSLY!”
I don’t need to say it twice. Zen and Ram disappear into the kitchen.
WTF?
Another second goes by. Five. Ten.
I check his location on the MiStalk but he’s nowhere to be found. No surprise. He’s either blinded himself or has gone off the grid.
WHERE R U?
WHERE R U?
WHERE R U?
THE SOBBING, HEAVING COUPLE IS HUGGING JONDOE (GABRIEL!) with no signs of ever letting go. The emotional embrace that began outside on the front porch has danced itself inside to the entrance hall.
“It’s been so long!”
“Too long!”
I’m uncomfortable watching this reunion.
I’ve never shared a group hug with my parents. It’s just not appropriate. Church folk don’t glorify displays of affections, choosing to support each other through shared labor rather than shared embraces. My father was remote even by Church standards and was always far more interested in my housebrothers than me. Occasionally he gave me pats on the head, but only when I was much younger and after I had made myself useful by cleaning the chicken coops. I’m not sad that he never hugged me because that’s just the way it was.
My most intimate moments with my mother were also when I was much younger, when I sat in her lap as she braided my hair. Those mornings are the only times I can say her affections were fully focused on me and me alone. She would hum hymns to herself as she smoothed and straightened and plaited my hair, but her fingers were too deft for my liking. Her one-on-one attention never lasted more than a few short minutes before my next housesister was in her lap. I know it’s wicked, but I often tied knots into my hair just so Ma would need extra time to comb them out. I don’t remember the pain of having my hair pulled into submission, just happiness that I would get to hear Ma hum a whole hymn.
Jondoe’s parents haven’t noticed my presence, or likelier, they don’t care. Even though it’s the middle of the night, they are overjoyed beyond words by Jondoe’s surprise arrival, barely communicating through undecipherable keening punctuated by the occasional semicomprehensible word burst.
“Gabey! It’s you! It’s really you!”
“My boy! I can’t believe it!”
Jondoe is more object than participant, at one point going out of his way to wink at me over his mother’s fluffy pink shoulder, to let me know that he at least remembers that I’m still here.
Motivated more by a need for a distraction than genuine curiosity, my eyes are drawn to one of several small wooden signs mounted by the front door.
GET AN AFTERLIFE!
I quickly read some the other plaques adorning the walls.
THIS HOUSE IS PRAYER-CONDITIONED!
AMERICA NEEDS A FAITH LIFT!
I’ve never seen so many forms of idolatry in one place! And we’ve barely gotten through the front door! As a contrast to the humorous exclamatory plaques, there are other more serious displays of faith: A foot-long wooden cross, a large mirror etched with an image of the Last Supper, an ichthus symbol. The Church and other plain sects strictly prohibit any such objects of worship. Crosses and other symbols or artistic representations of passages from the Bible are all too showy. I know these things exist, and that many devout Christians consider such displays a way of being bold for God. But I never, ever expected to see such things in this house. . . .
Oh my grace! Could it be?
“Praise the Lord!” chorus his father and mother.
Jondoe’s parents have God!
FOR ALMOST TWO YEARS I WAITED.
I kept my eye on the purity prize. I said no to Tocin. I stayed on the sidelines during group gropes, or stayed home and missed the masSEX parties altogether. I turned down offers from unaccredited worms and free-agent Sperms until they stopped asking. I watched amateurs turn into pros, accidents into possibilities. I watched my MiNet status fall from the “six-figure Surrogette” to a “virge on the verge.” I resisted the pressure to get an everythingbut. I strenuously avoided touching any member of the opposite sex, refusing so much as even a first kiss in the fear that any accidental skin-to-skin contact could—
A warm hand brushes my waist and I nearly leap across the room.
“AHHHH!”
“Dose down,” Zen says. “Get Lib on the MiVu! He’s got too much at stake in this to just let the whole deal fall apart, right?”
I nod mutely.
Zen is in his element now. This is where he excels: crisis management.
“Only Lib can tell you when Jondoe signed up with the Jaydens,” he says. “Only he can explain why you didn’t get the news and how Harmony wound up being your doppelbanger.”
I call up Lib on the MiVu.
“LIIIIIIIIIIIIB,” I shout. “WHEREVER YOU ARE. GET IN VIEW RIGHT NOW.”
I stare at his icon, willing it to animate already.
“LIIIIIIIIIIIB,” I call out, yanking Zen in front of me. “I’M IN CRISIS. I’M ABOUT TO BUMP WITH A FIVE-FOOT CHINO-CHICANO.”
Zen doesn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. “Five foot eight.”
I shoot him a look.
“Five foot seven and a half,” he huffs.
I drag Ram into view. “FOR SERIOUS, LIB. I’M GONNA ORGY WITH AN ILLITERATE AGRI-
CULTY UNLESS YOU TRY TO STOP ME. . . .”
In an instant, Lib’s frozen icon comes to life, or as much life is possible when 95 percent of your face is made from synthetic skinfeel. He starts raving and doesn’t stop.
“WHY are you threatening the man who made you the hottest Surrogette on the MiNet? WHY haven’t you responded to any of my messages, gorgeous? I’ve been TERMINAL over here. How many hours has it been since insemination? Is it time to piss on the stick? I’ve already written the press release. It’s fertilicious. Knowing Jondoe, I bet you bumped it out on the first try! Though I certainly wouldn’t blame you, Miss Melody Mayflower, if you wanted a few do-overs.”
It’s only when he notices that I’ve got my arms around Zen and Ram that he breaks from his tirade. His eyes narrow as narrowly as his
surgeries will allow.
“Who are these two . . . wor—?” He stops short of calling them “worms.”
“Oh, these two?” I say with feigned casualness. “They’re my top prospects for going amateur.”
Zen and Ram tense up on either side of me.
“WHAT?” Lib mops his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. “Where is JONDOE?”
“I have no idea where Jondoe is,” I say. “I never met Jondoe, Lib. I didn’t know he had signed with the Jaydens until I saw the news.”
Lib laughs high and hysterically. “You’re scamming me.”
“No, I’m not,” I say.
And that’s when Lib loses it.
“I SET IT ALL UP WITH YOU THIS MORNING,” he yells. “I SAW THE FOOTAGE. YOU AND JONDOE AT THE HOUSE, THE AVATARCADE, THE ALL-SPORTS ARENA, THE U.S. BUFF-A. EVERYONE HAS!”
“It wasn’t me, Lib,” I say, leaving it to him to figure out the rest.
His perma-tan pales as much as such artificially tinted synthetic skinfeel can pale, as he suddenly grasps the truth.
“I spoke to her this morning?” His voice is barely audible.
“My twin,” I whisper. “The only flaw in my file.”
THE THREESOME BREAKS APART. HIS PARENTS’ FACES ARE wet and shining with tears of joy. Jondoe is smiling but his eyes are dry.
“It’s okay that I came home without telling you first?” Jondoe says, knowing the answer already.
His father looks up at him with adoration and says, “‘My son, you are always with me, and everything I have is yours.’”
He couldn’t have chosen a more appropriate passage.
“The parable of the lost son,” I say in appreciation.
And for the first time, Jondoe’s parents have pulled their attention away from Jondoe and are gazing upon me with more than mere interest. Awe.
“Mom and Dad, this is Melody,” Jondoe says.
His parents pull me into their group hug with no time to make room for the Holy Spirit between us. My mouth smashes up against Jondoe’s collarbone, my bosom presses against his torso. I let lose a little squeak of shock.
“We’re crushing the poor girl!” his mother exclaims as she loosens her grip on me without letting go entirely.
“I’m fine.” I realize that I don’t know Jondoe’s last name. “Mrs. . . . ?”
This question inspires orchestral laughter from parents and son.
“Mrs.?” His mother whoops when she finally catches her breath. “No need for such formalities! Please call me Shelby!”
Shelby has her son’s fair hair and skin. Or he has hers, I suppose. Despite it being the middle of the night, her pretty features pop with more makeup than all the women of Goodside will ever use in their entire lives: slick pink lips to match her bathrobe, thick black lashes, a golden shimmer across her cheekbones.
“And I’m Jake.”
His father is a faded version of Jondoe, which is to say that there is a handsome paternal resemblance—warm brown eyes, elastic expressive mouth, strong jaw—and yet he still lacks that mesmerizing quality that makes Jondoe so . . . How did he put it? Unlookawayable.
“Thank you,” I say, then to be polite, “I was admiring your . . .” I stop myself from saying “idolatry.” “Decor.”
“We truly believe that a joyful heart is good medicine,” says Jake.
I identify the passage automatically. “Proverbs.”
His parents gape at each other, then Jondoe.
“She’s quite special, isn’t she?” Jondoe says.
“You’re special!” Shelby cheers, fresh tears springing to her eyes.
“You’ll have to forgive us, Melody,” Jake says. “We are the proudest parents you are ever likely to meet!”
Proud?
“And we don’t get to see too much of our boy these days. Not since he got the call!”
The call?
“He has given so much of himself over to his mission.” Jake honks into a tissue and tries to get ahold of himself. “Well, we don’t have to preach to you about the joy of doing the Lord’s work. I’m sure your parents are just as proud!”
“I’ll tell you all about it,” Jondoe says to his dad before turning to his mother and asking, “but any chance that a prodigal son can get a home-cooked meal around here first?”
And despite the late hour—it’s well past midnight—his mother is all too happy to comply. Of all the grown women and young girls I’ve watched fall helpless to Jondoe’s charms, there is none who is more at his mercy than the one who carried him for nine months in her womb. And his father is equally enthralled by his presence, stopping to turn back and look at him three times on the short trip down the hall to the kitchen.
I don’t know what to make of all this. There is no way his God-having parents would so happily welcome their son home if they had any idea he was getting rich from premarital sex and sin! If Jondoe is so famous, how has his devilish vocation remained a mystery to his parents? I have to ask.
“Your parents don’t know about your . . .” I search for the right word.
“Job? Of course they know about my job. That’s not a secret. Why do you think they’re so happy to see me?”
“They think you’re a missionary?” I ask.
“I am a missionary.” His eyes are twinkling with irrepressible mischief, like one of my housebrothers when he’s rigged a bucket of water to fall onto an unsuspecting head. “Surely by now you’ve guessed my secret?”
I shake my head no, even though I mean yes. I want to hear him say it.
“Gabriel has God too.” He taps his fingertip on my nose. “Just.” Tap. “Like.” Tap. “You.”
This confession should shock me. But it doesn’t. And not just because of his parents’ showy faithing. His revelation is confirmation of the knowledge I held in my heart all along. Faith is accepting what makes no sense, what we cannot prove, but know down deep in our souls is real.
Now that I’ve heard it from his lips, that he too has God, everything that has happened to me since leaving Goodside—even my decision to leave Goodside—now makes perfect sense of the sort that could never stand up to the scrutiny of the logic and reason revered by Melody and Zen. I know I’ve done the right thing in leaving Ram behind, even leaving Melody behind, even if my actions have unfortunate unasked-for consequences.
“Come,” Jondoe says. “My mom’s mac-and-cheese is a taste of Heaven here on earth.”
I KNEW ABOUT HARMONY WAY BEFORE SHE KNEW ABOUT ME.
I knew about her because Lib is very good at what he does. The best. So Lib did what any high-stakes broker does: He did a beyond-thorough genetic background check on me, a process made more complicated—and necessary—because of my unknown bioparents.
You know what great lengths I went to to make sure your file was flawless. He’d remind me at least once during every conversation we’ve ever had. I put my reputation on the line for you. I pulled strings. I called in favors. I earned my 15 percent.
I don’t know who he paid off or how much he paid out, but Lib gained access to my Good Shepherd Family Placement Services records two years before I was legally allowed to do so myself. And that’s how he—we—found out I was, in fact, a monozygotic twin.
At first this was thrilling news. Imagine! A sister! An identical twin! With no genetic connection to my parents, I was fascinated by the possibility of seeing myself in another person. Even though she was a Churchy, I desperately wanted to meet her. There’s no closer biological relationship between two people and I just knew that this sister would understand me the way no other person ever had.
“You CANNOT meet her,” Lib said. “You CANNOT TELL ANYONE SHE EXISTS.”
“Why not?”
“It’s very bad for business.”
Years later, I’d hear this same line from my parents when they got the news.
“My job is to talk up your unique quotient,” Lib explained. “When I make my pitch to affluential parental units, I must convince the
m that you are the ONLY GIRL ON EARTH whose DNA is designed so deliciously. ONLY YOU can make the DELIVERY of their DREAMS. I can’t very well do that if there is someone else who is EXACTLY LIKE YOU and can do the job just as well as you can.”
I told him it was unlikely that a Churchy would ever agree to be a Surrogette.
“Hellllooooooo? There are Surrogettes in the Bible,” Lib says. “Genesis, chapter sixteen. Sarah gives her maid Hagar to bump with her husband, Abraham.”
I had no idea that there was anything in the Bible like that. But I was even more stupidified by the fact that Lib knew so much about it.
“It’s my JOB to know things like that, gorgeous. To have the inside angle on any and all competition for my clients. It’s what makes me the best.” Lib tipped his head back and laughed. “If she was convinced that Surrogetting was a way to serve God, she most certainly would COUNTERFEIT YOU in a THUMPY HEARTBEAT. And because her religion rejects material riches, she’d do it for FREE. Now I ask you: How can YOU compete with THAT? I’ll answer: You CAN’T. And that’s why SHE is bad for OUR business.”
My parents had been prepping me—pushing me—toward platinum-level Surrogetting my entire life, even before such arrangements were legal. Ash and Ty predicted that market demands would eventually call for the decriminalization of commercial pregging, and who better than their only daughter to put their theories to the test?
Of course, I didn’t think about this when I was fourteen. All I knew then was that I owed my parents for saving me when I was an infant. I couldn’t let them down just because the identical twin they didn’t pick underbid me.
“She isn’t your sister,” Lib said. “She is the COMPETITION. The ENEMY.”
I tried to repeat this out loud to prove how committed I was to our commercial venture. And yet I couldn’t bring myself to say the words, to betray this person who was quite possibly my only living blood relative. . . .
“I will never speak of this twin again,” Lib said. “And if we are to continue our professional relationship, neither will you.”
So I didn’t tell my parents—they found out for themselves when Harmony contacted me two years later. I only confided in Zen, who knew this was the one topic for which no questions were allowed. He kept his promise and didn’t tell anyone.
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