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time, and it was worth all the hassle just to watch Ventura’s status suffer by comparison. We were the right brand at the right time, making our MiNet debut right after the nation’s most prolific eighteen-year-old, Zorah Harding, sadly announced that the Virus had finally claimed her uterus and she would not be delivering baby number eleven after all. Before we could blink, The Hotties were global. Memers couldn’t go viral fast enough with what we were saying, wearing, eating.
    And selling. Always selling. Harmony and I have earned more than enough money to buy our independence. But what if Harmony stands her ground and refuses to choose freedom? Zen insists that no matter what happens with Harmony, I am a “movement in the making.” When he starts talking like this, I for seriously consider living off the interest of my earnings, partying my ass off, and never making a single positive contribution to society. If that’s what I want to do, I can. I’ve earned the independence to make that choice.
    But as I sit here, fat and cranky, watching helplessly as Zen laughs at one of Ventura’s jokes, I can’t help but ask myself: At what cost?
    “WHERE IS HE?” Lib is back and even shoutier than before.
    “Where’s who?” I ask distractedly, my eyes still trained on Zen and Ventura.
    “Who? WHO?! JONDOE! He’s gone OFF THE GRID.”
    Now is probably not a good time to mention that the last time I saw Jondoe he was in the middle of a sexistential crisis.
    “Um . . . He’s got to be around here somewhere. . . .” I say unconvincingly, looking out the window and down at the crowd below. It doesn’t look any different from any of the other parties thrown in our honor. Harmony’s fans are swaying and praying. Mine are dancing, drinking, dosing. The groups don’t mingle, but they can coexist in the same room without any drama, which was impossible to imagine just eight months ago. We received medals of honor from the National Association for Procreation for “giving common ground to radically different ideodemographics.”
    “Oh, wait,” I say. “Ram’s down there!”
    Harmony’s husband is working his way through the crowd, making it rain religious tracts like dollar bills in a strip club. He’s got a huge smile on his face and—ha!—did I just catch him in a fist pump? Of all of us, I must say that he seems to be the one who gets the most genuine enjoyment out of these events. Either he really lives to serve God, or he really loves a party.
    “RAM IS NO JONDOE.”
    And Lib races off again to berate a Team Hottie intern. I’ve never seen Lib so stressed out. I think I might have seen an actual wrinkle denting his forehead’s synthetic skinfeel.
    “Hot-TIES! Hot-TIES!” the crowd chants.
    I fear that if I don’t give them some face time soon, this party will get real ugly, real fast.
    “It’s getting crazy down there, huh?”
    Zen is back by my side. By himself.
    “Where’s Ventura?”
    “In the bathroom.”
    “Probably to confirm that she’s peaking,” I say, immediately regretting making any reference to the subject of Ventura’s overactive ovaries.
    Zen’s face is stony. “And if she is ovulating? What? You think we’re gonna bump pretties tonight?”
    Bleeeeeeeeeep! Gah. This thing is worse than the polygraph app.
    “Sweet Darwin! You do ! That’s why you’re bleeping like a lunatic.”
    “Maybe I got the ninth-month nutsies a little bit early,” I say sarcastically.
    Zen doesn’t say anything. He knows I’m being ridiculous and doesn’t want to dignify that with a response. He takes a moment to quietly sip his Dr. Peppermint soda. I’ve seen him do this to unnerve his competition in debates, which makes the stalling tactic all the more frustrating.
    “Melody . . .”
    He takes a step toward me, so we’re only inches apart. He tilts his face even closer to mine, and I lift my chin to meet his parted lips. . . .
    But he doesn’t kiss me.
    “You know I have to