Thumped by Megan McCafferty Page A

worst sinners always have the best testimonies, that the most powerful conversion stories are told by those who had the hardest and longest journey from sin to redemption. Every time he hints at the man he used to be, he serves as a reminder of the person he has become.
    I know this from personal experience. I’ve recounted my own fall from grace many, many times over for the congregations and prayercliques all over the world who have made the minimum donation to hear the holy half of The Hotties witness to them via the MiVu about nearly losing her soul to Satan’s temptations in Otherside. Of course, the version I deliver to the true believers omits the very worst of my sins. Though when I let myself plunge the depths of Jondoe’s eyes, I can’t stop myself from thinking that lying down with him was the best of my sins.
    Dear God. Why do you lay these feelings in my heart?
    I pick up the scissors from the rim of the tub, grab hold of a clump of hair right in front, and hack away at it carelessly. Jondoe flinches at my lack of technique. What’s happening on my head is definitely not pretty. But I think that might be the point.
    Jondoe opens his mouth to make a suggestion.
    “When I need your help,” I say, “I’ll ask for it.”
    He shuts his mouth. Closed.
    For the next few minutes, I just cut and cut and cut with the scissors. I don’t even glance at the mirror, I just feel my way around. Feathery black tendrils fall down all around me and scatter around the inside of the bathtub.
    “If you want it shorter than that, you should probably switch to the electric razor,” Jondoe says tentatively. “How short do you want it anyway?”
    “Short,” I say, pinching a clump of hair at my crown.
    “Okay.” He comes closer to investigate. “That’s about two inches.”
    Jondoe places the correct attachment over the teeth of the razor and hands it over.
    “Are you sure?” he asks.
    “I’m sure.”
    When I press the razor against my scalp, the buzziness shoots straight from my head and electrifies my entire body. When the twins respond accordingly, I have to brace myself on the edge of the tub.
    “Are you sure you’re okay?” Jondoe asks.
    I bite my lip and nod, fighting against this latest wave of pain.
    “Can I help you?” he asks. “With the parts you can’t reach?”
    I know he’s really talking about my hair. But this time I wish he weren’t just talking about my hair.
    “You may,” I reply. Though what I’m really thinking is, You already have.
    Jondoe rests his hand on the nape of my neck and oh my grace. He’s making miracles with his fingertips. His touch makes everything melt way. I feel like I’ve been unburdened of my physical body, my soul promoted to glory. I close my eyes and surrender . . . surrender . . . surrender . . .
    “Harmony?”
    I don’t know how long ago he finished. He’s set the shaver down and stepped backward to take me in. His eyes are wide, his mouth agape.
    “Do you want to see what I see?” he asks.
    “I do.”
    He steps to the side to unblock my view of the mirror.
    “Oh my—”
    I’m looking at the most startlingly pretty girl I’ve ever seen.
    He cropped my hair as short as I had asked him to, except in the front, where it falls down in longer, jagged slices across my forehead. My eyes seem bigger and more indigo than blue. My nose and mouth aren’t as delicate as before, but more dramatic. Striking. Strong. I don’t look anything like the fragile flower I’ve been told I was my whole life.
    I don’t look anything like my twin, either.
    “I haven’t spent much time around preggers,” Jondoe says, “but you have to be the most beautifully bumped girl that has ever been.”
    “You did a praiseworthy job,” I say. “Thank you.”
    He reaches around and unfastens the buttons on the cape draped around my shoulders and removes it with a showy flourish, scattering hair all around the tub. Then he makes a grand gesture out of taking my hand