Thumped by Megan McCafferty

like this? How you look doesn’t matter to me.”
    He keeps tugging on his hair spikes and is bouncing his knees up and down so rapidly that the whole bed is vibrating.
    “Are you high?” I ask him.
    “No! I’m just . . . ready. Really, really, really ready to do it. Is that so wrong? I want to use this while I still can!”
    No one can break through when Zen is going full-on manifesto. Before I can stop him he punches the padlock, removes the condom from its box, and tears open the square foil package.
    When he examines the contents, his crazed grin disappears.
    “What? Can I see?”
    I’ve never seen a condom out of its wrapper, but I’m afraid Zen might mistake my scientific interest for interest of an altogether different kind.
    “Mutherhumper,” he mutters. He tips open the package and a small pile of brownish dust collects in his palm.
    This is not what I was expecting. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but that definitely wasn’t it. Zen laughs in a cheerless way, gets up, and brushes the dust into the nearest trash bin.
    I gasp. “That was one of the last condoms left in the country!”
    “No,” Zen replies flatly, rubbing the last bit of residue off his hands. “That’s what happens to one of the last condoms in the country when it’s improperly stored for more than a decade.”
    Zen sits back down on my bed, his head in his hands. Crushed.
    “I want to do it with you. I’ve always wanted to do it with you.”
    “But why the emergency? Why right n—?”
    And before the question leaves my mouth, it hits me.
    I look at Zen and he looks back at me guiltily. We silently share this new bit of information as swiftly as a MiChat, only our exchange is totally no-tech.
    Something could happen between Zen and Ventura. And I’m not talking just physically, but like, emotionally .
    Which is way, way worse.

harmony
     
     
    I’M PERCHED ON A STOOL IN MELODY’S PARENTS’ BATHTUB with a shower cap on my head. Jondoe is blasting my scalp with the hair dryer. It’s impossible to talk over the whooshing air, which is probably better right now anyway because there’s still too much to say and I have no idea where to start.
    He turns off the dryer but my head still feels like it’s smoldering.
    “That’s normal,” Jondoe assures me. “That’s how you know the color activation process is . . . um . . . activated.”
    “Oh,” I say. Part of me wishes he would turn the hair dryer back on again to ease the burden of conversation.
    I remove the cap and shake out my dry, freshly dyed hair with my fingers.
    Jondoe is agog.
    “You hate it,” I say.
    “On the contrary,” he says, “I’m just surprised how the darker color suits you. It’s like you were a brunette trapped in a blonde’s body all this time.”
    I have a quiet laugh at this. I’ve spent my whole life feeling trapped, but hair color does not rank high on my list of oppressors.
    “You still want to go short?” Jondoe asks.
    I nod.
    “I’ll have to cut it down with scissors before you use the shaver. . . .”
    “ I’ll have to cut it down,” I say. “I’m doing this. Not you.”
    I had also insisted on applying the dye all by myself with him hovering over me, coaching me through it. It wasn’t merely a matter of propriety. It’s important for me to be in control of my destiny, even if it’s just my hair at stake. Plus the task at hand required my full concentration, so all conversations were put on hold.
    “I’ve done business with so many actresses and models—” He stops short, slaps his hand over his mouth. “What I mean is, I have a lot of experience.” He grimaces and corrects himself again. “ Styling experience! I have a lot of styling experience, you know, from all those photo shoots and spending so many hours with the fashion elite. . . .”
    Jondoe is mistaken if he thinks any reminder of his past will convince me that he’s in no way ready to repent. He seems to be forgetting that the