Free Bumped by Megan McCafferty Page B

opinion.
    “Y-y-yes?”
    She slaps her hand to her forehead. “Look who I’m asking!” She gestures at my full-skirted day dress and matching gloves. “I bet you never worry about what to wear.”
    When I realize that she’s being playful, not judgmental, I return her smile. “By dressing simply and humbly, we don’t waste time worrying about our appearance. We have more time to serve God and our community.”
    “I wonder how much more I could accomplish,” Melody says, throwing the T aside and reaching for a gauzy floral blouse, “if I didn’t go through this every single day.”
    I think about my big housesisters, Mary, Lucy, and Annie, and it makes me giggle to imagine them agonizing over whether to wear the pink day dress or the other pink day dress, blue or blue. Even my little housesisters, Laura, Katie, and Emily, don’t dither over which shade of white they’ll wear today. They’ve been awake for two hours already, have already done their outdoor chores (gathering eggs, milking cows, collecting wood for the fire) and indoor chores (setting the table, serving the meal, clearing up) and are now gathering for the Monday-morning prayershare. This is the first one I’ve missed since I was struck down by mule flu last year. Forgive me for saying so, but I don’t regret not being there.
    Please don’t think I’m disrespecting the power of fellowship and group prayer. When we join together in worship, we gain one another’s strength. However, we’ve been taught that we can only ask for things that bring glory to God and I don’t see how it glorifies God when Laura asks Him to cure her bad breath. He’s is all the way up in Heaven and not sharing the same loom. She’s wasting God’s time.
    It pains me to say this, but Katie uses prayershare to shed embarrassing light on others’ failings under the pretense of saving a soul. For example, a few weeks ago she said, “Please pray for my friend who has lust in her heart for her fiancé’s brother.” And nobody could pray hard for the rest of the session because we were too busy not so quietly speculating who in our prayerclique had lust in her heart for her future brother-in-law. Such gossip isn’t praiseworthy. And it was doubly pointless because everyone already knows that Emily sobbed for a week after she was betrothed in her Blooming to the younger, bucktoothed Stoltzfus boy.
    “Thanks for cleaning up.”
    Without even realizing it, I have gathered up all of Melody’s T-shirts and folded them neatly in a stack. The one on top is printed with an image of a green pill on a wet pink tongue with the words OPEN UP WITH TOCIN . I instinctively turn it over to the blank side.
    “So. What do you think?”
    I look up to see that Melody has changed into a silky sleeveless T in a beautiful sky blue hue that I’m forbidden to wear unless—I mean, until —I give birth to a son.
    “I like the flowery one better,” I say, thinking quickly. “It’s more . . . maternal .”
    “Maternal as in ‘ready to bump.’ Right?”
    “Right,” I reply, this time without a stammer.
    Melody sighs as she puts the other blouse back on, assesses herself in the mirror once more. A look of triumph lights up her face. “Now, a last check on my hair and makeup!” she says as she runs out of the closet.
    I don’t follow her.
    Instead, I pick up the blue shirt from the floor. The fabric is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, virtually weightless, and so unlike the rough-hewn cotton and wool we use to make most of our clothing. I hold it up to marvel at the lack of discernible seams or stitches, clearly the product of neither spindle nor loom.
    Melody bursts back into the closet. “Oh! I almost forgot!”
    I yelp and drop the offensive shirt to the floor. Did she see me? No, she’s too busy searching for something in her jewelry box. She holds what’s she’s looking for—a chain with a single, small bead—and regards it with a frown before putting it around her