“A private jet? Am I suddenly Jay-Z in this scenario? Did I marry someone from the Kardashian family?”
“Um, no, you would never marry a reality star. That’s just how much I believe in you and your ability to become magnificently wealthy with that talent of yours. All on your own.”
“I hope that’s not why you keep me around.”
“Nah. I keep you around for the cooking. Clearly.”
He tosses a handful of kale stems at my face.
The conversation moves along to other things—Noah’s part-time job making hoagies at Wawa and his favorite people-watching anecdotes of the week, a ranked list of the worst horror movies he’s made me and Ginger endure, whether or not we should use Mimmy’s prefrozen dough to make ginger cookies for dessert.
I am taking the salmon out of the oven when the doorbell chimes. It’s a full, resonating sound, and I jump, almost dropping the hot pan. I forget the bell is there usually. Ginger and Noah always come right in.
“I’ll get it,” Noah says, already on his way toward the front hallway. I put the pan down on the stovetop and pull the oven mitts off my hands.
I hear the door open. Then a brief snippet of a pause, the space of two blinks. The rest of the house is silent, waiting with me. “Hey?” Noah says. I can hear the question mark at the end, but probably because I know him so well.
“Oh, hey. You must be Noah.”
Max.
“I’m Calliope’s new neighbor. Max.”
“Oh! Max. Of course. Calliope told us about you. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
Hands slap, presumably some type of complex male handshake.
“Yeah, thanks. I heard all about you, too. The mom club and everything.”
The door closes and footsteps start down the hallway.
I immediately regret the faded Green Woods Middle School T-shirt and cutoff sweatpants I threw on earlier. Not because I’m trying to impress Max—but because no one but my moms and Ginger and Noah need to see me in my ratty old pajamas.
Noah turns the hallway corner and steps into the kitchen, Max right behind him.
Max smiles at me. I smile back.
“So where’s Ginger?” he asks, leaning against the counter. Making himself instantly at home. “I need to meet her, then my introduction to Green Woods will feel complete.”
“She’s waitressing. You’ll have to win her over another day.”
His eyes land on the salmon, the pan of vegetables. “Oh, sorry. Am I interrupting? I can come back later. Or not.”
“Why don’t you eat with us,” I say. Even though there’s not really that much food.
“You sure?” Max looks at Noah. Noah nods. “Cool. We haven’t done any real shopping yet, so the only food at home is canned or boxed. Actual food would be nice.”
Noah asks Max where he lived before, what grade he’s in. Polite small talk.
I pull out plates and start divvying up little thirds of food while Noah fills three glasses with water. I can feel Max watching us move together: the way I step back to let Noah into the sink, the way Noah helps me balance the hot pan as I scrape out every last sliver of shallot.
“I’m impressed,” he says. “I mostly make eggs and grilled cheese. But you two are like an old married couple. You must do this all the time.”
“My moms care about food. Good food. But Noah’s even better than me in the kitchen,” I add. “A valuable life skill around here because we don’t have a lot of takeout options. You’ll have to get used to it, too, city boy.”
He laughs loudly, and it feels so good to hear that sound, like finding a twenty-dollar bill on the sidewalk. “Nah, I just have to come over here. One more point for the new neighborhood. First that scenic view, then the dessert you brought over—I may have forgotten to share it and accidentally ate the whole thing for lunch.” He lifts the empty plate in his hand, which I didn’t notice when he came in. “So yeah, Green Woods is crushing it today. Philly? Bye.”
“What view?” Noah asks. He’s watching Max closely, his thick brows pinched in a V.
“The top of the hill. We were up there today right when the rain hit. I nearly expired in the mud when I slid and fell on the way down.”
“Got it. I’m glad you survived.”
Noah is quieter than usual while we eat. He’s never the chattiest in our trio—that’s Ginger’s role, obviously, while I land somewhere in the middle, and Noah spends a lot of time listening to us banter with an amused grin on his face. But tonight he studies his plate as if the wild Alaskan salmon is deeply fascinating. I try to pull him in at first, telling Max about what a magician Noah is on the cello, and how our moms used to swap our clothes when we were little—I was bigger than him the first two years, and then he doubled up on me. Noah smiles at that at least, but he doesn’t add much of anything to the conversation.
Max is animated, though, talking about his old neighborhood in Philly, asking questions about teachers, cafeteria food, classes and teachers to avoid, and it’s easy to focus on him. It’s easy to talk, easy to listen.
Easy to imagine our trio becoming a quartet after all.
Chapter Four
“YOU do realize you could ask for my number,” I say, opening the screen door for Max. It’s pouring rain again. “Save yourself a muddy walk through the woods. I’m not always here with no plans.”
“Really?” He whips his head back and forth, fat droplets of water streaming from his hair. One splashes against my cheek. I don’t brush it away. It feels nice, cool. The air is thick and muggy, a heavy curtain that even the rain can’t draw aside.
“Actually, I had a desk shift at my moms’ studio this morning and then took a class with Mimmy, so I just got home. You lucked out.” I look down at my bright rainbow-striped yoga pants and neon-blue sports bra. It felt perfectly acceptable at the studio—most women practice in their sports bras, even the ones using their senior discount. Mama encourages it. She’s all about stoking that fierce confidence, that sense of our own divinity. But right now I wish I’d thrown on a T-shirt after class. Mama would be disappointed in me. Or maybe not, given I’m in a bra in front of our new neighbor.
“I definitely lucked out.” Coming from another teenage male, that could be suggestive. But Max doesn’t seem to notice the extra dose of skin and cleavage, or if he does, he tactfully keeps his eyes on mine. “Do you want to come over to my house today? My mom is so relieved I’ve made a friend already, and she’s asking to meet you. She said she’d offer to host you and your moms for dinner, but she’s too embarrassed by the state of our house right now. Someday. You can just come by for a little, though, say hi. If you want. No worries if you have lots of other big plans this afternoon…”
I don’t want to step inside Max’s house, but I don’t know how to say that.
If we’re going to be friends, a visit there is inevitable.
And besides, it’s all town gossip. I hope.
“Yeah, okay,” I say, “but let me hop in the shower first. I need to wash yoga off of me.”
“Sure, whatever you need to do. I’ll just wait here on the porch, if that’s okay. Maybe the rain gods will give us a break by the time you’re ready.”
I nod and then walk up the stairs, into the bathroom. I let the water run much colder than usual, shocking my hot skin with its sharpness as I step into the old claw-foot tub. The half-open window alongside the shower looks out over our porch roof, and rain is streaming in sideways through the screen.
I rush through the shower. Turn the water off. And then I hear it—Max, singing. Low and slow, a song I don’t recognize. I close my eyes and listen. Certain words catch—love and please and sorry, so sorry. His voice is warm and beautiful and unexpected.
The song comes to an end and I pull myself out of the tub and away from the window, into my room to change. I put on a black romper and pull my wet hair into a messy side braid, then smear a dollop of coconut oil on my lips for one last casual finishing touch.
My
phone has been rapid-fire chirping, and I check it after tugging on my red rain boots. A text exchange between Noah and Ginger, planning a movie night for later today—at my house, our assumed meeting place—compiling a long list, one horror movie for Noah for every rom-com Ginger picks. I’ll chime in when I get home. I leave my phone on the dresser and head downstairs to the porch.
Max is sitting on Mimmy’s yellow rocking chair, swaying gently back and forth with his eyes closed. He startles when the screen door flaps behind me, jumps up to stand. The porch creaks loudly under his feet.
“You look nice,” he says. “Though you looked nice before, too.”
“And you have a nice voice.”
“Oh god, you heard that?” He pretends to grimace, but he looks secretly pleased.
“Don’t act like you’re embarrassed.”
He chuckles. “So, we’re making a dash for it? Do you want to grab some umbrellas?”
“Nah, umbrellas will just catch on the branches and slow us down.”
Without waiting for him to respond, I leap from the porch onto the slick grass and shoot off toward the woods. A few seconds pass before Max lets out a hearty whoop and sets off behind me.
We slip not so gracefully between the trees, laughing and shouting as we switch leads, until Max loses a sneaker in the mud and slides dramatically, catching himself with his hands just before he fully face-plants in a puddle. It’s an impressive show of strength, but still—Max zero, rain two. I slow down, glance back to make sure he’s okay as he shoves his filthy shoe back onto his foot—and then he springs right back up, grinning wider than ever, unfazed. But I’m too far ahead to lose now. Max’s house is peeking out between sheets of rain and soggy leaves, and I push myself through to the clearing, arms raised above my head in victory. I keep moving until I’m on the porch, so determined to be first under the roof that I briefly forget to be anxious.
The Jackson home is well suited for this day. It’s somehow less sinister looking in the rain—like maybe it’s the contrast with yellow sunlight and blue sky that ordinarily makes the house so fearsome. I take a deep breath to refill my lungs, and there’s a sharp whiff of rot and decay beneath the smell of fresh summer rain and wet earth.
“That wasn’t a fair race,” Max says, panting as he hops onto the porch behind me. “You had rain boots and you know the path better. There will definitely be a rematch.”
I shrug and smooth down my hair, wringing out the end of my braid. “Whatever will make you feel better about yourself. Next time it rains, maybe you should stay inside?”
Before he can respond, the front door opens with a creak and a woman I presume must be Max’s mom appears on the porch. Her skin is a darker brown than his, but she has his amber eyes and high-cut cheekbones. She’s tall like Max, probably within an inch or so of his height. But when she smiles at me, it’s not full and easy like his, not as happy.
“So. This must be the wonderful Calliope my son can’t stop talking about?”
“I won’t even try to deny that,” Max says as he steps up next to me.
“Come in,” his mom says, reaching out, slipping her arm loosely around my damp shoulder. “I’ll get some towels. I just unearthed our extras this morning.”
“Thanks, Mrs.…” I realize I don’t know Max’s last name. We haven’t gotten to that stage of the friendship yet.
“Joanie. Please just call me Joanie.”
We take our muddy shoes off and step inside.
My eyes adjust gradually to the dim foyer around us. It’s two stories high with vaulted beams and mostly bare still, except for a few stacks of cardboard boxes and a dusty gold-framed mirror hanging on the wall opposite an old wardrobe. Stairs rise in front of us, wide wooden boards with banisters that were probably very elegant back in the day, carved deeply with twisting vines and leaves. But now the stairs sag tiredly to the left and only a few slats still hold up the banisters, like a grin missing most of its teeth—a crooked jack-o’-lantern with no eyes.
“Home sweet home.” The way Joanie says it, it doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s all that sweet. “You two get cozy in the kitchen while I grab those towels. The kitchen is our only room that’s fully set up. We have our priorities. Oh, and Max? Please wash those filthy paws of yours before you touch anything. I would have thought you were a little old to still be making mud pies. How sweet.”
She smiles again, a slightly happier one this time, and then she starts up the steps, favoring the right side.
“Mud pies.” Max shakes his head as he turns to me. “I bet you made lots of those growing up, am I right?”
“It’s a strong possibility that my childhood involved making intricate mud pies, yes.”
“Knew it,” Max says, laughing. Before I can think of a witty comeback, he walks off toward a door at the end of the hallway, and I follow him. Most of the kitchen looks like it hasn’t been touched in years—chipped blue cabinet doors, scratched and sliced wooden countertops, a stove that’s missing half of its burners. Stained linoleum tiles on the floor, paint strips flaking from the ceiling. There’s no dishwasher that I can see. But there’s a bright white refrigerator and a shiny black microwave. Some hints of the modern era.
“There’s a new stove coming this week,” Max says, watching me take it all in. “It’s a work in progress.”
“No, it’s… charming.”
“You’re a bad liar.” He turns on the faucet and applies a liberal amount of soap to his hands before scrubbing.
Joanie walks in then and drops a plush black towel around my shoulders, gently tucking it under my braid so it cradles my neck. “There you go, sweetie. Don’t ever say there’s no luxury in this old house.” She moves aside, handing a second towel to Max, and then she opens the refrigerator door. “We don’t have the fridge stocked yet, but I can offer you some cheese and crackers and pickles that made the trip here with us. I’m determined to get to the store this afternoon. Would you believe we still don’t have sugar?” She shakes her head, staring vacantly into the empty refrigerator racks.
“I’m fine, Joanie, really. Don’t worry about me.”
“After you made my son the delicious dessert that he didn’t share with me?” She kicks the door shut. “I insist. Marlow locks herself in her room all day, and I’m just so glad one of my kids isn’t brooding right now.”
Joanie asks pleasantries about Green Woods and my moms as she slices the pale orange cheese and spreads it on a plate with Ritz crackers and a few neon-green pickle wedges. Like Max, she doesn’t seem fazed by the fact that I have two moms and no dad.
“Okay then,” she says finally, setting down the plate on a round, polished kitchen table that clearly came with them from Philadelphia. “I’ll leave you to it. I just wanted to make sure my boy wasn’t making you up. Who knows what sorts of creatures and fairies live in those wild woods? We have our fair share of weird just in this house, that’s for sure.”
I look at her, willing her to elaborate. But she’s already turned her back to me, walking toward the hallway door. I wait until she’s on the steps to ask Max, “What kinds of weird things?”
He looks down at the plate. “Nothing. We’re just used to a much newer apartment building. This house never shuts up. Creaks and groans and rattles. Like it’s settling into its own deathbed or something. It just takes getting used to, that’s all.”
We quietly chew our cheese and pickles and crackers.
“What?” Max asks.
“What do you mean what?”
“You have something on your mind. I can tell. You have something to say about this house, but you’re nervous for some reason.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Like I said—bad liar. I’ve only known you for a few days and I can already tell. You squinch your eyes up a little. Like this.” He dramatically squints, flickering his eyelids.
“That is definitely not something I ever do.”
He watches me as I slowly eat a cracker.
“Okay. Fine. Listen, it’s just… there have always been stories about this house. Ginger and I used to freak ourselves out with it when we were younger. Daring each other to step on the porch, touch the door, dumb stuff like that. It’s the local spooky haunted house. Every small town probably has one.”
“What were the stories?”
I glance around the room, at the cracked window above the sink, the peeling yellow floral wallpaper. The dripping faucet, one loud plink every three seconds.
“People always said that someone was killed here. I don’t know. No two versions of the story were ever the same. Ginger and Noah and I tried to look through newspaper archives in the library once, but we couldn’t find anything. There was an old man who lived here when I was a kid. A total hermit. He died—of old age, probably. Nothing dramatic.”
“Hmm,” Max says. He chews the last bite of his cheese-pickle-cracker sandwich slowly before speaking again. “You finished?”
I nod.
He steps away from the table and cracks open the side kitchen door. I follow him into a closed-in glass structure that was once a sunroom, but now, with half of the glass panels gone, it’s more like a back porch. There are two rusty lawn chairs set up side by side on the cracked-tile floor. Max sits in one. I sit in the other. My seat is missing two slats, and my bottom is balancing precariously in the middle.
We’re both silent, listening to the rain clink against the metal roof above us.
I glance over at Max and he smiles, but his eyes look sad. Maybe—probably—because of what I said about his new home. Good job, Calliope. As if this place wasn’t already bad enough. Throw a murder story in, too, why don’t you?
I close my eyes and pretend we’re anywhere but the Jackson house.
“Oh, sweet lord,” Ginger whispers, though not quietly enough. Max and Noah are in the living room, only one thin wall away from us. Mama and Mimmy are out of the house for their monthly book club. “I am so glad you invited the new boy to movie night. You were right. He’s very pretty.”
The People We Choose Page 4