The People We Choose

by Katelyn Detweiler

  “Not done yet,” I say, slipping back out the door.

  Marlow is still in the chair, rocking, when I come back out. “Thanks,” she says, looking down at the bag as I hand it to her. She stays like that for a minute, not moving, and then, “Did Max tell you? We might move away?”

  “He did tell me.”

  “It’s not a done deal. But we don’t have much reason to stay.”

  It hurts when she says it, but I try not to show just how much. “What do you want?” I ask. I watch her, waiting.

  “I want,” she starts, lifting her head up to meet my gaze, and I realize for the first time that she has Max’s eyes. Not Elliot’s. Not mine. “I want a home and for my family to feel like a real family.”

  “I want that for you, too.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  TWO days pass with no visits from the Jackson family.

  It’s eating me alive, wondering if they’ll move. Leave Green Woods in the dust forever. I might never see Marlow again. Or Max. Or Elliot. My concern right now lies in that order. Funny, how Elliot is the first one I’d cut, after all those years spent wondering about him. Maybe I’d feel more of a connection with him if we had more time. Maybe not.

  “Thank god this summer is almost over,” Ginger says to me, dipping her glittery yellow sunglasses down her nose to make her stare more pointed. “Because this funk you’re in? It can’t go on forever. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m actually excited for us to be back in school. Homework and tests and battling with the school board about helping the environment will do you some good.” She pushes her glasses back up, leans against the slowly deflating edge of the turtle pool.

  There’s a slow leak we can’t find despite several intensive searches. The turtle is destined to live for one season and one season only.

  “But you’ll see Vivi less,” I point out.

  She waves me off. “That might be good, too. She’ll miss me enough to finally try to lock me down. Imagine how much she’ll worry, wondering about all the cute girls throwing themselves at me in the halls of Green Woods High.”

  “Does she know there’s only one other out girl in the whole school?”

  “Of course not,” she says, chuckling. “I play my cards carefully.”

  “I don’t think you have to play anything with her. She likes you.”

  “She does, doesn’t she?”

  I toss the stick from my ice pop at her face.

  “Speaking of Viv, I should head out soon. Hot date tonight. She’s taking me to her dad’s old-guy-softball-league game.”

  “Wow. Cheering for her dad in his sweaty polyester uniform. That’s a pretty big deal.”

  “Right? And who knows, we might even hit up TGI Fridays or Applebee’s after.” She’s smirking, or pretending to, anyway. But there’s a glow to her. And not just because we’ve been soaking in this sad pool for the last three hours.

  “I’m happy for you,” I say, crawling across the lumpy turtle bottom until we’re side by side, our sweaty arms and shoulders sticking together. “You know that, right?”

  “I know.” She leans her head against my shoulder. It’s too hot for this much skin contact, but I don’t move away. “I just wish we could both be happy and in love at the same time. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  I shrug, staring down at my red-tipped knees. “I’m not unhappy.” I’m lying through my teeth. Ginger’s kind enough to not call me on it, though, even if she knows unhappy is exactly what I am. She just pats my hand sympathetically, and then she stands up, her itty-bitty red polka-dot bikini barely covering her lady bits as she shakes herself dry.

  “I love you,” she says, sweeping down to kiss my forehead. Her long hair, almost sheer white at this point in the summer, tickles my face. “Call me later tonight if you want. I’ll come sleep over after I gorge on chicken fingers and loaded baked potato skins.”

  I nod, and then she’s gone. The water is so low I can barely submerge my toes anymore. But I stay in anyway, because there’s nothing else to do and it’s too stuffy in the house. Mama and Mimmy won’t be home for at least another hour. I’m not hungry for dinner yet. I’m not hungry all that often these days.

  Ginger’s right. School will be a good thing.

  Except Max will be there, too, at least to start the year. Wandering the halls by himself, no one caring enough during senior year to bother with the new kid. Or maybe a cute girl sitting next to him in Art Club will take him under her wing. Show him around, become his new Green Woods guide.

  I sink down until my neck hits the water and my legs have to dangle off the edge of the opposite side. My eyes close and I stay like that, not moving, for what could be five minutes or an hour. It’s peaceful here. Like nothing else exists around me. Maybe this is what it felt like to be inside Mimmy’s body for nine months.

  “Calliope? Are you okay?”

  I open one eye slowly, then the second.

  Noah is standing over me, a giant from my vantage point. He’s studying me with a look of grave concern, thick eyebrows furrowed and lips pulled into a deep frown.

  “Hey, Noah. I’m fine. Really. Just a little spaced out.”

  As I start to sit up, I remember that my bikini is four years old, the last clean one I had in my drawer, and that it’s almost as scandalous as Ginger’s. Much less intentionally so, but undersized all the same.

  “Could you throw me my towel from the bench? It’s getting a little chilly, isn’t it?”

  It’s definitely not anything close to chilly out here. But Noah politely nods and grabs the towel anyway, having the good sense to keep his eyes on the grass as he holds it out to me.

  When I’m properly swaddled and sitting on the hammock, I notice that Noah and I aren’t alone out here in the yard.

  “You brought Harold?” I ask, looking over at the large black cello case propped against the side of the picnic table. Harold the cello. Ginger and I had picked the name, so many summers ago. I don’t remember why. Maybe only because it was ridiculous—who would name a cello Harold?

  “Yeah,” he says, still not looking at me, even though I’m no longer indecent.

  I pick at a stray thread on my towel and wait for him to offer up more. He doesn’t.

  “Okay, so is there something you want to play for me?”

  He clears his throat and, finally, looks up at me.

  “I wrote something,” he says. “A song. For you.”

  “For me?” I repeat, as if his words weren’t clear enough.

  “Yes. I’ve been working on it all summer.”

  My stomach twists and knots like the thick hammock ropes swaying under me. “Oh,” I say. I’m not capable of much else, and it seems kinder and easier than why. But I’d hoped any awkward conversations or overtures were behind us.

  “Can I play it for you?”

  I nod. Hopefully not too reluctantly.

  He slowly undoes the case, pulls out Harold, the bow, a creased piece of paper that he smooths between his fingers.

  It’s an unfathomably long ordeal, Noah setting himself up at the picnic table, making sure Harold is positioned just so, as if he hasn’t been cradling cellos since he was in third grade. The paper is placed carefully on the grass in front of him, though from the hammock I can see the notations are tiny and scrawled and must be nearly indecipherable from his vantage point. He most likely has it memorized. He usually does—he has the kind of uncanny musical genius that allows him to absorb a song after just a few reads.

  Noah starts playing then, bow against the strings, no preamble. His eyes close.

  The song starts slowly, deep, rich notes that swirl around us in the fading light, picking up speed as they go. Layers of melody peel back to reveal more layers, smooth and satisfying, like I’m unwrapping a piece of dark chocolate and every bite tastes better than the last. I don’t want it to end; I feel like I can reach out and grab it, this feeling, make it mine. Everything is good, so good. Too good. Because then, just like that, the c
hocolate becomes bitter. Far too dark, not enough sugar and milk to balance out the cacao.

  There’s no pause, no bridge, but it’s a different song. Strident at first, Noah’s bow furiously moving across the strings, a slurring of sharp notes. Eruption. Destruction. Chaos. And then, slower again, so very slow, lethargic almost. The notes are flat and low and oddly empty. I feel empty, too, listening to them. I can feel the good draining away, the happy taste disappearing completely from my tongue. It was never there. Never real.

  Just as I’m about to ask him to stop, say I’ve had too much, the song changes again. It’s not as happy as it was to start, not as full. But it’s not as sad either. There is a bouncing rhythm to it, the notes higher and warmer. My toes tap along.

  This section, the last one, I suspect, is meant to feel hopeful.

  Noah stops. The final note lingers in the leaves all around us. He puts the bow down on the bench.

  We don’t say anything.

  I should, though. I should say something. Thank him.

  I stand up, tucking the towel under my arms, and walk over to him. I stop when I’m a few inches away, our eyes locked.

  “Thank you,” I say, reaching for his hand. “That was beautiful. I felt…everything.”

  He’s blushing now, a bright red flower spreading over his cheeks. “I didn’t know how to say all of that to you. Not without messing it up somehow. So instead I spent the summer finding a different way to express myself. A more foolproof way.”

  “Noah,” I start, more anxious than ever about finding the right words, the best words, “I care about you so much, I do, you have to know that—”

  He puts his free hand up to stop me. “Wait. Before you say but, I just need to get something out. I didn’t play that song to make you change your mind about us. The opposite, actually. I wrote it so I could purge all those feelings and we could move on. For good. I just wanted you to hear it. So you could… understand me better, I guess.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I’m not proud of how I acted this summer. I just didn’t know how to face it, the truth—that you would never love me like I loved you. But seeing you hurt? It was way worse than seeing you love someone else. I wish things were different for you and Max. And I’m sorry I let you falling in love with someone get in the way of our friendship.”

  “I forgive you,” I say, and I do. Completely. “I’m sorry for lots of things, too. For starters, we should have been honest with each other sooner. Like when I knew you gave me that Valentine’s Day card sophomore year. And how the rule was at least partly to avoid having a real conversation about it. I wanted to protect us, but maybe that wasn’t the best way.”

  “I kind of figured. Not at first, but…” He shrugs. “I could have said something, too.”

  I shake my head. “No. That was on me. And I wasn’t the greatest friend this summer either. I should have spent more solo time with you. And Ginger. Maybe I’ll just never date again, period. That’s probably the easiest solution. My rule was pretty smart, after all, only it should go above and beyond senior year.”

  Noah laughs. “Nah. I don’t want that for you. Or me. We both deserve love. Someday. Whenever it’s meant to happen.”

  I nod. And then, “I love you, Noah,” the words tumbling out before I have time to be self-conscious—because that’s all there is, and it’s as true as anything else in my life. I may not know a lot of things about love right now, but I do know this: “I love you in the way that matters most.”

  “I love you that way, too.”

  I look around us, my mind running with a nonstop montage of Noah memories from this yard: the three of us trying to hang a swing from one of the trees on our own, Noah—and the swing—flying ten feet in the air on the first trial run; Noah filling an old kiddie pool with strawberry juice ice cubes and blue Kool-Aid packets, his “most greatest idea ever”; Ginger screaming hysterically when she found a half-dead baby bird along the tree line, and me and Noah delicately nursing it back to life in a shoebox.

  “Can you promise me something?” I ask, turning back to focus on Noah.

  “I can’t promise until I know what you’re asking. But I’ll try my best.”

  “Promise me we’ll always be friends. No matter how complicated life gets around us. We don’t give up. Not on this.”

  He nods. “I think that’s a promise I can keep.”

  We both reach out at the same time, our double-pinkie oath. One pinkie each never felt like enough. Two hands, two pinkies, full promise.

  His grin is brighter than the blazing August sun, and I throw myself against him for a hug.

  “You seem cheerier tonight,” Mama says, putting a plate piled high with grilled tofu and veggies on the table.

  I shrug, picking at the crispy brown edge of a piece of tofu and popping it in my mouth.

  “Did it have anything to do with Noah visiting?” She’s trying to sound indifferent, but her hungry, searching eyes give her away. Like if she stares long and hard enough, she’ll be able to see the answer for herself inside my mind without me having to say a word. I wouldn’t put it past her. I don’t doubt Mama has superpowers.

  “Maybe. Yes. I feel like we finally understand each other.”

  “So you’re friends again?” Mama asks, smiling extra wide.

  Mimmy’s smile is just as big as she settles into the chair next to me with a basket of fresh homemade corn bread.

  “I think so.”

  “Good,” Mama says, loading up her plate with a stack of tofu. “It wasn’t right, the two of you being separate. The three of you belong together.”

  “I know that. Noah’s my blood. Ginger, too. Just like the two of you. And as for Marlow and Max and Elliot… I don’t know what they are to me yet. I don’t know how to label them.”

  “And that’s okay, my sweet girl,” Mimmy says, lifting her palm to rub my cheek. “Give it some time. Maybe your family only got bigger this summer, even if it came about in an unusual way. It’s not traditional or normal, but what family is?”

  “Ha!” Mama laughs loudly around a mouth full of eggplant and pepper. “I would never want to be normal.”

  “Good thing, too, since there’s no hope for you,” Mimmy replies sweetly.

  “All I ever want to be is a Silversmith,” I say, and looking around the table at the two of them, those words have never felt truer. “I never want to know.” The words, the proclamation, they aren’t planned. Even I’m stunned by my own conviction. But I have no doubts. “I never want to know which one of you is biologically half me. Because it doesn’t matter. It never mattered. I was silly to ever think that it did.”

  Mama makes a strange sound, somewhere between a snort and a sob, hand pressed against her lips. Mimmy is beaming at me like I just won the Nobel Peace Prize and made her the proudest mother in the universe.

  We don’t say anything for a moment. We just stare at each other, eyes all pink and shiny with tears. Even Mama’s.

  “You weren’t silly,” Mimmy says finally, dabbing at her damp cheeks with a napkin. “You were curious. Exploring your identity. That’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Ever.”

  “Maybe not. But either way, this summer taught me a lot, good and bad. And I know the truth now. The one that matters, at least. You are both my moms, equally. You are my family. Period. No scientific evidence needed.”

  “We are family.” Mama stands up, walking over to wrap me up tight in her strong, trembling arms. “And family is everything.”

  Family.

  Not just the family we’re born into, a random collection of chance and odds and good old-fashioned luck. But the family we create. The people we choose for ourselves. Our people.

  That family—it really is everything.

  Chapter Nineteen

  MAYBE your family only got bigger this summer, Mimmy had said.

  Marlow is back on our porch the next morning, happily working through a plate of lemon bars. She showed up with no warning, a
ppearing along the edge of the woods as I sat in my rocking chair sipping iced tea. I wondered at first if I was imagining it—if Mimmy’s words had forced her into my subconscious. But no, she gave a small wave and walked closer, until she was coming up the steps, then she was on the porch next to me, sitting in Mama’s chair. She was real. Marlow Jackson. Dressed in a plain black T-shirt and artfully distressed denim short-shorts, and this time with a hint of mascara on her naturally long lashes. Still subdued, but like her usual life force was slowly recharging.

  “No real sugar? You’re messing with my head,” she says, licking the buttery crumbles from her fingertips. “I feel like I’m dancing in a happy, sunny field of sugar when I eat these things.”

  “A little raw honey and coconut oil. Magic, right?”

  “Total magic.” She takes another bite, closes her eyes as she swallows. Just like Max does. I wonder what she sees then—if she sees brilliant swirls of color like he does. I want to ask, but it feels like too intimate a detail. “You know how lucky you are, right? Growing up with a mom who makes food like this all the time? I mean, damn.”

  Damn. Is she allowed to curse? Did I curse at her age? I’m sure I did. But if I was a real older sister, would it still be my duty to say something?

  I’m not, though. Not a real sister. Not even a real half sister.

  “My mom hasn’t really made anything but microwave popcorn and frozen dinners since we got here. She didn’t cook much in Philly either, but at least we had a thousand places that delivered. So her kitchen skills didn’t matter much. But now? I ate cold soup straight out of the can yesterday. Cold soup, Calliope. It was very sad.”

  “You must miss the city so much,” I say gently—hoping this will steer the conversation to the move without me outright asking.

  “Yeah. Most stuff. But…” She stares down at the half-empty plate, an odd look on her face. I wonder if the lemon bars she ate might all come back up. At least the porch is easy enough to hose off. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m ready to leave either.”