The People We Choose

by Katelyn Detweiler

  “You didn’t really need more lemonade, did you?” I ask.

  “Nope. But seriously, whether you like it or not, you two have some kind of intense chemistry. He’s cute and artsy and funny, and seems like your type—not that I knew what your type was before today. It sounds cliché, I know, but it’s true. There’s something there.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I busy myself with the lemonade pitcher, stirring in a few more chunks of sliced strawberries and a handful of raspberries.

  Ginger chuckles. “Oh-kay. Whatever you say.”

  “I’m being friendly to a neighbor. He’s the new kid in school for senior year.”

  “Very altruistic of you, being the welcoming party. That’s all there is to it, I guess.”

  “That is all. And really, the three of us should be working on our friend-making skills. We won’t have built-in womb buddies at college.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of making friends, thank you.” She plucks a few raspberries from the pitcher and pops them in her mouth. “But Noah will be relieved to hear there’s nothing going on between you two. Poor baby boy. He’s looked so terrified all night, and I don’t think it had anything to do with the cheap and gratuitous gore on the TV screen.”

  My stomach pinches. “He’d be okay. Even if I was interested in dating Max.”

  Ginger cocks her head, those green eyes squinting hard at me. “You sure about that, sweet thing?”

  Before I can answer, Max interrupts us from the kitchen doorway.

  “I knew it,” he says. “The lemonade refreshing was all an elaborate excuse to talk about me.” He leans against the doorframe, looking like he belongs there, like it’s not odd at all that he’s suddenly a part of our group. “Please, don’t keep me in suspense. Did I get the Ginger seal of approval? Am I officially a part of the crew?”

  Ginger laughs, stepping away from me. She hoists herself up to sit on the counter, studying Max with raised eyebrows. “I’m not one for rash judgments. I might need all summer to decide.”

  He lets out a low whistle. “That’s intense. I was nervous about making it into the Art Club, but I guess this will be the real test.”

  “I’m pretty sure anyone enrolled in an art class is allowed to be in the club, so actually that one won’t be a test at all. And besides, if you’re joining any club, it has to be Calliope’s. Help her petition for solar panels and a plastic-straw ban and whatever else is on her agenda for the Environmental Club this year.” Ginger pauses, then says, “So why did you move out here to a haunted house in the middle of bumblefuck anyway?”

  I try to catch Ginger’s eye, but she’s too intent on Max to notice me.

  “Well, according to old Green Woods lore, anyway,” she continues when he doesn’t immediately respond. “But who knows? You could say better than anyone at this point.”

  Max rubs his hand along the back of his neck, slowly, deliberating. He finally says, “I don’t know about any ghosts living there. But a few brave humans must have come in and out over the last few years, based on the beer cans and food wrappers that were scattered around the floor. Nice welcome to the new home. That wasn’t you two, was it, partying in an old abandoned house?”

  He’s skipped past the why of the move. Luckily Ginger’s far more interested in the ghosts.

  “I can assure you, that was not our trash,” Ginger says, laughing. “We were always way too terrified to make it past the porch on our paranormal investigations. Calliope was the biggest wimp of the three of us.”

  “She’s exaggerating,” I say. “Don’t listen to her.” I scowl at Ginger, and this time she notices. She sticks her tongue out at me in response.

  “Interesting.” Max cocks his head, studying me. “Maybe that’s why Calliope seemed nervous coming over today, even in broad daylight. And yours truly took it upon himself to personally destroy all cobwebs, so it wasn’t that either.”

  “I didn’t not want to be there,” I say, too loudly maybe.

  Max raises his right brow, smirking. “Mm-hmm.”

  “I promise. I’ll go over there anytime.”

  Ginger slides off the counter. “I’m going to go check on Noah, and you two can finish up that lemonade freshening. Seriously. I actually do want more.”

  I turn back to the pitcher after Ginger leaves, busy myself with adding a few more raspberries to replace the ones she stole.

  “Silversmith?” Max asks. “Is that your last name?”

  I glance over to see him studying an old article featuring Hot Mama Flow taped to the refrigerator door.

  “Yep. Mimmy was a Silver. Mama was a Smith. They lucked out with two names that worked as a combo. They would have been flipping coins otherwise.”

  “I like that. Your family is totally its own. Different than everyone who came before.”

  He’s looking at the article still, a serious expression on his face.

  “What’s yours?” I ask.

  “Martz.”

  Max Martz. I nod. “Solid name. I like the alliteration.”

  He’s quiet for a moment before he turns back to me, that serious expression replaced with a smile. “Calliope Silversmith, would you go on a totally platonic non-date with me tomorrow?”

  An easy question. I don’t need time to consider.

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Five

  THE sun comes out the next day, blindingly bright. A good omen, I hope.

  Not that I should be worried about a non-date, as Max put it.

  But I’ve never flown solo, even platonically speaking. Maybe because I’ve had the same best friends since I was zero years old. We have other school friends, sure. Acquaintances. Ginger and Noah more so than me. But no one I hang out with unless Ginger and Noah are there, too. We’re a package deal, the three of us.

  This is new.

  I do a few sun salutations and headstands to get the blood flowing, then take an extra-long shower. After I’ve brushed through my tangles and laid out three—very casual—dresses to choose from tonight, I head to my moms’ room for their laundry. My eye catches on their bureau, Mimmy’s favorite bottle of perfume. It’s teeny tiny and yet disgustingly expensive, for special occasions only. Mama once said it’s a crime for anyone to spend that kind of money on a few drops of synthetic chemicals. But she buys it for Mimmy every year like clockwork, on the day that was once their official dating anniversary, and that seven years ago became their official wedding anniversary. Or, more like a courthouse marriage and a big party at the studio. Still, a wedding.

  I have the strange urge to try some today. Just a splash.

  I dab some on my wrists, sniff. Floral, earthy, wild.

  “Calliope?”

  I drop the bottle like it’s a bag of cocaine, just as Mama steps into the room.

  “Mama? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “Got home a few minutes ago. I gave away the rest of my classes today. I’m teaching back-to-back classes tomorrow and I wanted to get some things done around here. But… perfume, huh?” Mama puts down the yoga mat she carried in, perching her hands on her hips. “I know that’s not for poor Noah’s benefit.”

  “Why is everyone suddenly so concerned about Noah? He’s not some lovesick puppy. He gets it.” He should at least. I hope he does by now.

  She gives me a sad smile. “Regardless, it’s not your fault. As long as you two communicate honestly about it, you’ll figure it out. But if the perfume’s not for Noah…?”

  “It’s not for anybody.” I flop down onto their king-size waterbed, enjoying the satisfying tidal roll that moves under me. “I’m just hanging out with the new neighbor. Max. Not a big deal. He came over with Ginger and Noah last night while you and Mimmy were at book club.”

  “I’m sorry I missed that. I hope he’ll be picking you up tonight.” It’s not a question, the way she says it. He will be picking me up.

  “Okay. But it’s not a date, so no interrogation necessary.”

  �
��It’s still a boy spending alone time with my little girl, and I’m allowed some curiosity. I’ll be excited to meet him later,” Mama says, very definitively. She turns away, moves the perfume bottle back to its rightful place on the bureau. I grab the laundry basket and leave the room.

  Mama must have shared my news when Mimmy got home from the studio. They both hover in the living room, watching an episode of I Love Lucy. Mimmy’s favorite—the great chocolate-wrapping debacle. I join them, because it’s impossible to pass up on Lucy, and because she’s a nice distraction.

  Max had told me to be ready at six. The doorbell chimes at 5:57, startling us all. I jump up and move toward the front hallway. Mama and Mimmy stay seated on the sofa, but their eyes are definitely not on Lucy anymore.

  I open the door and Max is there, a wide smile on his face.

  “Hey, neighbor,” he says. “You look nice. Though I liked the drenched-and-mud-soaked look, too. It’s a tie.” I’m glad he didn’t say he preferred the yoga-sports-bra look. Mama might have had words.

  “Thanks. You look nice, too.” Nice isn’t adequate. He looks much better than nice in his crisp short-sleeved white button-up shirt, tight dark blue jeans, and those glasses that only make the gold flecks in his eyes pop brighter. “Want to come in for a minute? My moms are excited to meet you.”

  “Of course.” His eyes light up. He stands a little straighter, growing at least an inch. He is pure confidence.

  “Well, hello there, neighbor!” Mimmy hops up from the sofa, rushing over to Max. She grabs his hands and wrings them effusively. “I’m Mimmy to Calliope, but you can call me Margo. I hear you approved of my cobbler recipe? That’s a good start for you and me. A very good start.”

  Max pumps his hands and arms in sync with hers, kindly reciprocating the overzealous shake. “We lived near one of the best bakeries in all of Philly, I swear, and your bars were better than anything I ever ate from there. Must have been that stovia stuff you use. Who needs sugar anyway, Margo, am I right?”

  I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s stevia, not stovia, and fortunately even Mama somehow resists a jab. Though I hear a quiet snicker behind me.

  “And I’m Stella,” Mama says, stepping next to Mimmy. She extends one arm, much more stoically, and Max transitions from Mimmy’s hands to hers. “To be candid with you, Max, I’m the tougher mom. The one to be wary of.”

  “Ha ha.” Mimmy elbows her. “She’s kidding. She’s acts hard, but she’s really softer than a month-old peach. Don’t you worry about her.”

  “I can confirm that Mama’s a major softie,” I chime in. “I caught her crying at an episode of Queer Eye last week when she thought I was out with Ginger. My only regret is not recording it before I started laughing my ass off.”

  Mama shakes her head. “I refuse to confirm that claim.”

  “And notice that she also won’t deny it,” Mimmy says, patting Mama’s shoulder affectionately. “Anyway, we’ll let you kids go light up the streets of Green Woods. But Max, we’ll have to have your family over for dinner sometime. Welcome them properly.”

  “That would be nice, thank you.”

  We say our goodbyes and head out to the porch. There’s a banged-up dark-mossy-green car in the driveway. One door is a completely different shade, more Easter-mint pastel.

  Max notices me staring. “Yep, that’s our sweet chariot for the night. My parents bought a second, newer car this weekend, now that we’re country folk who need wheels to get around, but this is still my favorite. Dad always said there was no point in having a nice car in the city if you didn’t buy a parking space. We got a new scrape every week. I like to see all the dings and dents as Philly leaving her mark. Each one tells a story.”

  “That’s very artistic of you.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” He hops down the porch steps. “What about you? Do you have a car? Hard not to around here, I would think. Like being a clipped bird.”

  “My moms and I share two cars, too,” I say, following him down the path to our driveway. “Usually they try to work the same hours at the studio, so I get the free car. Otherwise, I can ride my bike into town. Or beg Ginger or Noah to drive me. They’re both spoiled having their own cars, so it’s only fair they share their good fortune with their best friend.”

  “Well, my mom barely drives. So sign me and this green dream machine up to chauffer you, too.” He opens the minty passenger door and grandly gestures for me to enter. “It would be our honor.”

  As he strolls to his side of the car, I see Mama’s face peeping out from behind the kitchen curtains. I stick my tongue out, and the curtain falls back in place.

  “Your moms seem cool,” Max says as he starts up the car. “That Stella’s got some fire. I like it.”

  “Mama’s definitely a character. She’s not really that hard to please, though, as long as someone is a decent person who thinks for themselves.”

  Max starts slowly down our long driveway, the gravel crunching loudly under his tires. “Okay. So I have a question,” he says, eyes flitting from the driveway to me, “and it might be totally rude and inappropriate and out of left field, in which case please just tell me to shut up and mind my own business and I will never ask another question like it again.”

  “Wow.” I cross and uncross my legs, the cracked faux-leather interior sticking to my thighs. “That’s quite a lead in. I’m dying to hear this question now.”

  “Right. Ha. Probably not the best intro.” He pauses for a minute, turning left onto the main road. “But I’m just curious, wondering… is one of your moms your biological mom? Or… uh… neither? If you were adopted, that is.”

  “What do you think?”

  He glances over. “What do I think?”

  “Yeah. You’ve seen them both now. You’ve seen me. So, what do you think?”

  “This feels like a terrible test that doesn’t have any right answer.”

  “Well, you asked, and I’m turning the question around to you. It’s my right to do that.”

  “True. Okay.” He looks back and forth a few times, squinting. His gaze on my lips, then my eyes, my nose, my chin. “You’d think as an artist I’d be better at this, but nope. I don’t think you were adopted because you have Stella’s blue eyes, but Margo’s smile and freckles. And personality wise, I’d say you have some of Stella’s sass, but you’re warm and friendly like Margo. So you must be a genetic miracle. You’re not one or the other—you’re both of them.” He dances his fingers on the steering wheel, grinning at the road ahead of us. “Am I right? Did I pass the test?”

  Without thinking, I reach out and touch his wrist. “That was the best answer you could have given me.”

  He lets out a deep breath. “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay.”

  “The truth is, one of them is my biological mom. But I’m not sure if it’s Mama or Mimmy. They don’t want to tell me—it doesn’t matter, they say. And they just happened to luck out and pick a sperm donor who was freakishly like whichever mom didn’t actually contribute DNA.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know anything about the donor. We just call him Frank. But I can find out, if I want. When I’m eighteen. Next month.”

  “So… will you? Find out then?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  We’re silent for a few minutes. Trees and houses blur past us. I take my hand off his wrist.

  “I won’t bring it up again,” he says finally. “Unless you want to talk about it.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Want me to tell you something hugely personal about my family so we’re equal?”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Nah, it’s cool. So, I can officially tell you that dads aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Mine cheated on my mom back in Philly. More than once. I’ll spare you the gorier details—can’t unload all the family drama at once.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, but I’m not sure if th
ose are the right or best words.

  He nods. “Thanks. Anyway, long story short, he begged her back, and they decided moving would be a fresh start for the whole family. But they’re definitely not happy, so I didn’t see the point in trying to fix things. I freaked out about leaving Philly. Threatened to move in with some friends so I could stay there. I didn’t want to put Mom through that, though. Or Marlow. So I sucked it up and came along.”

  The car stops, and I realize we’re in town, parked along Main Street. The bright neon sign for Mario’s Pizzeria lights up my side of the car with a faint red-and-green glow.

  “Don’t worry. We’re not eating inside. The photos I found online looked too depressing. But I did compare reviews for all four pizza places in town—a remarkable number, really, considering the only other option was Chinese or a deli—and Mario’s came out tops. Your moms let you eat cheese, right?”

  “Yes, they let me. Well, that’s if Mama milked the cow and curdled it on her own.”

  His jaw drops.

  “I’m kidding. Yes, cheese is great. I ate delicious cheese and pickle cracker sandwiches at your house, remember? My moms are pro–small farm and local and we’re not big meat eaters at home, but even they occasionally can’t resist some Mario’s. Your assessment was good. Some people say Vinnie’s is better, but the sauce is way too sweet.”

  “Great. Nailed it. I’ll be right back. You wait here.”

  I watch him as he waits in the storefront, until the cashier must have called his name and he disappears from sight.

  He gets back in the car a few minutes later with a pizza box and a paper bag, and we drive some more. I don’t ask where to. I like the surprise of it all. I like that I’m in my same small, dusty town, but it feels exciting tonight. I don’t recall ever feeling that way about Green Woods before.

  We pull into the dirt lane that leads to the local lake. It’s not much—a nature loop around the rocky beach, a few picnic tables, a grill I’ve never seen anyone use, a creaky set of swings, and a long dock for fishing. But twilight at the lake is far better than sitting in the plastic chairs at Mario’s, where you can see every pore and stray eyebrow hair on your dining companion’s face, thanks to the glaring fluorescent lights.