The People We Choose Page 3

  I lie in bed, my feet at the wall, my head on the pillow—the headboard perfectly positioned in the middle of the room so I can see out the round window. The pale sliver of yellow moon smiles down at me through the trees.

  There’s a row of small wooden drawers built into the wall next to my bed, mostly filled with treasures from outside—heart-shaped stones and dried flowers and bits of old pottery and glass that Mama and Mimmy and I have unearthed while gardening. I reach for the bottom drawer, my fingers wrapping around the pocket-size green notebook I’ve kept there for as long as I can remember. Because I can’t shake this morning’s breakfast conversation.

  My moms don’t know about this notebook. Neither does Ginger or Noah.

  Mostly it’s lists of things I’d tell Frank if I ever had the chance. Questions I’d want to ask him. There are notes about Mama and Mimmy, too, speculations about which one’s blood I have pumping through my own veins. Midnight scribbling usually fueled by some kind of disagreement, like Mama telling me I couldn’t die my hair purple, so of course that night Mimmy seemed like the better candidate to be Biological Mom. But some nights, even without any arguing, I couldn’t help but think about Frank before I fell asleep. Does he have a wife? A husband? Other kids? Does he live somewhere close or somewhere on the other side of the world? He’d been here, in Pennsylvania, at least once. To go to the cryobank near Philly, do his business in a little plastic cup, walk away with money in his hands. But that was almost two decades ago. Now? He could be anywhere. Including buried underground or piled up neatly inside a little metal urn.

  I grab a pen from my nightstand. Cons, I write, squinting at the page in the dim moonlight. There are a lot of them, surely.

  1. Hurting Mama’s and Mimmy’s feelings, even if Mimmy would support my decision.

  2. Making them both feel like they’re not enough for me. Like this family, us, isn’t enough.

  3. Complicating and confusing everything.

  4. Feeling crushed/disillusioned/broken if I find out that Frank: is dead; is a horrible human being; doesn’t care even a tiny little 0.01% bit that I exist. Being dead might be better than being horrible. (Though maybe I’m horrible for even thinking that, which makes the genetic odds of him being horrible, too, more likely… )

  5.

  Other cons? That can’t be it. Though I suppose hurting Mama’s and Mimmy’s hearts or hurting my own heart are both two fairly big potential risks.

  But to keep it balanced and fair, just in case: Pros.

  1. Learning more about who I am and who/where I came from.

  2. Answering some of the questions in this stupid notebook so I can sleep better at night instead of doing things like this, such as: Am I the only one? Or do I have half-siblings? Why did Frank donate? Does Frank wonder about me? Does Frank love nature documentaries as much as I do? Does Frank hate fake fast food burgers, too? Does Frank have blue eyes like mine? Does Frank have the same scary dreams about flying over a never-ending icy ocean? Do any of these dumb questions even matter? But if they don’t, why do I keep asking them???

  3. No more worrying/wondering about the truth because I’ll know and whatever it is can’t be that bad because it won’t change anything about my life with Mama and Mimmy.

  Because no matter what, I don’t actually want him in my life. It’s not about that. No. I don’t need him to start playing dad. It’s just about knowing. Scratching an itch.

  I put the pen down. I can’t decide anything for a month anyway.

  I shove the notebook away and slide the wooden drawer shut.

  Chapter Three

  IT would be blasphemous to let peach cobbler go to waste.

  After Ginger goes home the next morning, I try again.

  The sun is hidden behind a vast wall of steely gray clouds. I can smell the rain, even if it’s not here quite yet. Hopefully we’ll have at least a temporary break from the heat.

  I pause in front of Max’s porch, staring up at the house. Waiting for what, I’m not sure. Maybe for someone or something to lurch out at me from behind hedges that clearly haven’t been trimmed in decades. They tower above me like strange, amorphous green monsters. But then I hear a voice inside. I step on the first stair, expertly move straight to the third and onto the porch.

  It only takes one knock before the door swings open.

  A girl stares up at me. She’s petite, but if Max hadn’t told me his sister was thirteen, I would have assumed she could be our age. She must spend hours studying YouTube makeup tutorials, because her cheeks and eyes and lips look airbrushed, they’re so perfect. Even Ginger would be in awe. Thick black-and-blond box braids dangle down her back. She’s wearing a pink dress that is definitely too cool for a Sunday morning in Green Woods and matching sandals that lace halfway up her legs.

  I feel overwhelmingly plain in comparison. Plain blue cotton dress. Plain white slip-on sneakers. Plain face with no makeup.

  “You found your shoes,” I say.

  She looks down to her feet, then back at me, frowning. “Who are you?”

  “Oh, sorry. I’m Calliope. Your neighbor.” I wave toward the woods between our houses. “Max came by the other day.”

  Her frown eases. Slightly. “Right. You’re the weirdos who don’t believe in sugar.”

  I laugh. “That would be my family, yes.”

  “I’m Marlow. So… what’s that, then?” She points at the plate of cobbler in my hands. “Dessert with no sugar? Sounds delicious.”

  “No white sugar. Luckily my moms do believe in honey. In moderation, of course.”

  “Marlow?” Max materializes from the dark hallway behind her. He’s wearing glasses today, half-rim frames, black and silver, looking like he’s walked straight out of a Warby Parker shoot. “And… oh, hey, Calliope.” He grins. “I knew you wanted to be friends.”

  “You got me. I’m here with a welcome-to-the-neighborhood present. It’s my mom’s cobbler recipe.”

  “Super, thanks. I can’t wait to try that. Hey, Marlow, can you take the plate and put it in the kitchen, please?”

  “Why can’t you?” She leans her hip against the doorframe.

  “Because I’m just about to explore the woods with my new friend. Gotta get to know the neighborhood and all that.”

  She raises one thin, perfectly arched black brow. “But Dad said to unpack and—”

  Max cuts her off with a glance. “It’s fine. I won’t be gone long. Okay?”

  “Whatever.” Marlow grabs the plate, her gold nails glittering, and turns away from me, disappearing into the house.

  “She’s not always that rude, promise. She just doesn’t want to be here. I’m not sure any of us really want to be here.” Max catches himself this time. Winces. “No offense. Just the truth.”

  “Then why did you move?” I ask again, and immediately regret it. Family stuff, he’d said before. Meaning: not my business.

  He looks up at the sagging porch roof, all splintered wood and rusting gutters. “Long story. But there was family drama in Philly, and my parents wanted a fresh start for all of us. So, anyway… Green Woods. Here we are. This marvelous old shack.”

  I watch as he skips the second and first steps altogether, leaping gracefully into the tufts of grass. I quickly follow. He pauses for a beat to glance back at the house, his lips curling down. “We came for a family cleaning day before we moved our stuff in, but this place needs a lot more than some Mr. Clean and a dustrag. My dad talks like he’s going to fix it all up, make it nice and shiny, but… yeah, let’s just say my hopes are low. Thank god I only have one year left before college. Poor Marlow.”

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t have the heart to tell him that the house his family chose for their fresh start is a town legend—and not for happy reasons. So I walk and take the lead instead, pushing aside some low-hanging branches as we dip back into the woods.

  It may be shadier here in the leafy shadows, but it somehow feels like the sun shines brighter than it does over the
Jackson house.

  “Did you really want the neighborhood tour, or would you rather I drive you somewhere for sugar and a little taste of civilization? It’s going to rain soon.”

  “Honestly, anywhere that’s not home right now sounds great to me.”

  “I’ll give you the abbreviated tour then, at least until it starts pouring.”

  We walk without talking for a few minutes until we reach a towering oak. “This,” I say, stopping, “is my favorite tree in the woods.”

  “Favorite tree, huh? Can’t say I’ve ever had one of those. What gives this one the edge?”

  I motion for him to follow me to the other side of the trunk, so thick we could easily both hide behind it.

  “See this perfect hole at the bottom?” I motion toward the opening at the base of the tree, a neat arch from the ground up to nearly my waist. “My moms refused to build a tree house for me when I was little—Mama is deathly afraid of heights, though she pretends not to be afraid of anything. But Ginger and Noah and I had this at least. We even slept out here a few times. We couldn’t all fit at once so we’d rotate.”

  “You slept out here?” Max’s jaw drops. He looks genuinely horrified. “In a dirty tree hole where squirrels and beetles and spiders and god knows what else were crawling on you all night?” His hands slap at his arms, fighting off invisible critters. “That’s disgusting.”

  “I’m sure it’s challenging for a city boy such as you to understand. But we survived, and somehow we even managed to avoid any rabies.”

  “It’s a miracle you’re still standing here. So…this is the neighborhood? Maybe I don’t need senior year and a diploma after all.”

  “Probably not if you want to be an artist.” I lean back against my tree, bark scraping at my shoulders. “Is that what you want to do?”

  “My mom says I can only do art if it’s a double major—the second major needs to be something practical so I can have a real career. She majored in history, and has hated every job she ever had, which is why she has no job right now. So… clearly trying to fix her mistakes through me. Though my dad studied philosophy before law school—an equally meaningless major—and he’s turned out to be, well…” He kicks at a dead branch, snapping it in two. It’s clear he doesn’t intend to finish the sentence.

  “I’m a senior, too,” I say, to carry on the conversation. “I’m thinking about environmental studies or biology or ecology—some practical way to appreciate nature. Maybe with a dual major in education so I can teach kids about these things, help them to care, too. Making a permanent decision about colleges and majors feels so scary, though. Sometimes I think maybe I’d rather just live in tree holes and eat acorns and berries for the rest of my life than be an actual adult human.”

  “Sounds about right for a Green Woods girl.”

  “I was joking. We’re not really all backwards, you know.” The words come out sharp. I’m not sorry.

  Max sighs, taking a step closer to me. “You’re right. I’m being a huge prick again, aren’t I? Blame my parents—they never took me on a single camping trip growing up. We went to the Jersey Shore when we wanted a little nature.”

  “I feel sorry for you then.”

  “And come on, who wants to move away right before senior year? Imagine if you had to leave your girl Ginger and this Noah dude behind. Do dances and sports and stuff all on your own and watch your old friends’ lives go on without you. And realize it’s that easy for them to fill the Calliope-sized hole you’d left behind. Trust me. Not fun.”

  “I don’t really do dances and sports and stuff. Mostly Environmental Club and peer tutoring. But I take your point.”

  “Great. So… we’re friends again?”

  “Best.” I roll my eyes and start walking, deeper into the woods as they curve around the back of my house. We cross over the two wide logs that act as a bridge over the narrow creek. What slivers of sky I can see are a sickly looking gray. We should turn around before the rain starts. But there’s one more thing I want to show Max. We start up an incline—not too steep, but still enough for both of us to be panting within a few minutes.

  The trees in front of us slowly start to thin, tall pines lined up against the pale light. I push ahead faster. “It’s hard to tell with the woods blocking the view, but we’re actually pretty high up here.”

  We step out into the clearing, the edge of a long chain of hills. It’s a delicate patchwork world beneath us, the skinny line of Main Street weaving through the heart of our town. Clusters of homes, a few church spires, farmland sectioned off in orderly rows.

  I wave my hand grandly. The Vanna White of Green Woods. “Welcome to your new home, Max. Officially. You can even see the Walmart Supercenter and the movie theater if you squint hard enough. Don’t get too excited, though. It only has one screen, so pickings are slim. But sometimes that’s better than driving thirty minutes for more options.”

  “Wow. I think my neighborhood in Philly was bigger than your entire town, but—”

  “Really? That’s all you can say? You’re an artist. This view isn’t nothing.”

  “Hey,” Max says, reaching for me, his warm fingers brushing against my wrist. “You didn’t let me finish. But… it’s a pretty spectacular view. Definitely more green than I’ve seen in a long time. Who knew there were farms like this so close to the city? Huh.”

  “You’re a funny one.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “I’m supposed to be the simple country girl. But it turns out you’re actually the sheltered one.”

  “Maybe that’s a little bit true. When you live in the city, it can feel like you don’t need anything more.”

  We’re silent for a moment. Staring out. “I know this view right here isn’t what you expected your senior year to look like,” I finally say. “But do you really want to waste the whole year being miserable?”

  “Thank you,” Max says. I glance over to gauge whether he’s being sarcastic, but his eyes are lost over the valley. “I needed to hear that. I’m sure I’ll find the good in living this country life.”

  I smile.

  “So,” he starts. Pauses. “You and this Noah of yours, are you two…?”

  “Dating?” I laugh. And then I think about Noah and his feelings and I instantly want to take the laugh back. He deserves better. “No. We’re too close to date. And to save you from asking, I’m not dating Ginger, either. I’m not going to date anyone until after graduation.”

  “Oh?” He turns to face me, brows raised. “And why is that?”

  I repeat the words I’ve said endlessly to my moms and Ginger and Noah: “Too many other things to focus on first. Friends. Family. School. My entire future. And what’s the point, anyway? Everyone is going their separate ways soon enough.”

  “So… your mind skips ahead to the ending before there’s a chance for a beginning?”

  I shrug and fiddle with the strap of my dress. “Something like that.”

  “Maybe you just haven’t met the right person.”

  “Maybe not, but even still it would be the right person at the wrong time. So—not happening.”

  “Hm,” he says, nodding. “Got it.”

  A thick drop of rain hits my bare shoulder. Another lands on my cheek. I tilt my face up.

  “I love the way it sounds.” Max closes his eyes. The splashes are quickly becoming a steady stream. “The rain on the leaves. My mom had a noise machine that made a sound just like this in our old apartment. She won’t need it here, I guess.”

  He pulls his glasses off, makes a few pointless swipes with his T-shirt before he pockets them in his shorts.

  “Good thing these are mostly just a cool accessory,” he says, grinning.

  “We should probably go.” I’m already turning toward the path. “Heads up, the hill can get slippery in the rain. Odds are high you’ll be sliding your way down.”

  Noah comes over for dinner that night. It’s just us, which doesn’t happen very often. Mama and
Mimmy are hosting a workshop on inversions at the studio, and Ginger has the evening shift at the diner. It’s nice to have the quality time.

  I coat the salmon in soy sauce and a generous squeeze of sriracha. Noah chops up kale and tomatoes from our garden, tosses them into a pan already sizzling with diced shallots. I bump him aside so I can put the salmon into the oven, and he sighs, pretending to be put out. I take longer than I need to, arranging it to be just so on the rack before I step back. Noah shakes his head, rolling his eyes. I pull myself up to sit on the counter, watching as he goes back to stirring.

  “How was the fancy cello lesson yesterday?” I ask.

  “Hard, but good, I guess. I feel like I have so much to do if I have any hope of getting into a decent music school.”

  I dangle my feet, kick him gently with my bare toes. “Well, you’re the best cellist I’ve ever heard in real life, so I have faith.”

  “We live in Green Woods.” He glances over at me, smirking. “I’m the only cellist in the school.”

  “I still have faith.” And I do. He’s good. Good enough to make me cry sometimes when he plays. “You just have to find a partner and you could absolutely give 2CELLOS a run for their money. Maybe you’ll fall in love with another cellist at college, and then you can travel the world together playing. The romance would add to the allure.”

  He laughs, but more of a ha than a ha ha. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “Seriously though, you’ll land somewhere great. Just promise you’ll remember me and Ginger when you move to some glamorous, faraway city.”

  “You two can always move to the glamorous, faraway city, too. If that happens. Ginger could be my publicist. She’s a good blend of charming and stubborn. Like a friendly pit bull. People don’t like to say no to her.”

  “Yeah, and what about me? You know I’d shrivel up and waste away in a city. Visiting is one thing. But living in one? It’d be like ripping the roots from a tree.”

  “We’ll find you a nice quiet suburb nearby, don’t worry.”

  “Or maybe you can just fly me in on your private jet to visit sometimes. A direct line from my cave in the woods to your big-city skyscraper.”