The People We Choose Read online

  “I know it’s kind of underwhelming for a first official friend outing,” Max says, “but in all fairness, options within a reasonable driving range were limited. I needed to leave our woods, though. I had to escape my house’s gravitational pull for at least a few hours.”

  I would want to escape, too, if I were him. Every day. “Nah, city boy did well. Trust me, I understand the Green Woods limitations. You do the best with what you have.”

  Max pulls a quilt from the back seat and I grab the food. It’s a crowded night here, joggers running the loop, kids kicking balls and throwing Frisbees, couples sprawled on blankets. We wander around the path, dodging people and flying objects, until we find an empty grassy patch at the water’s edge.

  “Second-best view in town,” he says, spreading the blanket.

  “Eh. Third. I like our pond, personally. It’s intensely green. You can just picture singing water pixies in frilly tulle skirts doing choreographed swims in it at night.”

  Max whistles, a perfect whistle, smooth and even, high but not screechy. “I gotta see this pond of yours. Sounds like a real-life Disney movie.”

  “Pretty much. My own little backyard fairy tale.”

  Max opens the box to reveal a large pesto and spinach and broccoli rabe pizza. “Extra green,” he says. “I assumed you would approve.” And then he empties the bag—mozzarella sticks and marinara sauce for dipping, two glass bottles of Coke, and one massive chocolate cannoli.

  We eat then, mostly in silence. I’m content with my pizza and people watching, and Max seems to be, too.

  “Do you think you’ll go to a college near here?” he asks, dipping his last sliver of crust in the marinara.

  “Maybe? It’s hard to say. I can’t imagine being too far away from Mama and Mimmy. And I need to be near woods and fields. But I also can’t imagine not seeing more of the world.”

  “It does seem like you kind of love it here. You’re proud of it.”

  “Proud of some things. Mostly nature related. The closed-minded people? And the lack of good restaurants? Not so much. But this pizza is good. And some of the people are, too. A lot of them, actually. I probably don’t spend enough time with anyone besides Ginger and Noah.”

  “And me now. Thank god I came along. You needed some diversity.”

  “And you. Yes.”

  “So, speaking of diversity, am I going to be the only Black kid in school?” He glances at the people scattered around us in the grass. “From what I can tell, it’s a sea of white here.”

  I finish my half of the cannoli and wipe my hands on my legs. “No. I mean, not the only one. But it’s definitely a sea of white, as you put it. White and Christian or white and not religious. Maybe we have a closet Wiccan or two. But there aren’t a lot of outliers. We’re pretty… limited. Definitely lacking in any real diversity.”

  “Got it. I assumed. No offense.”

  “None taken. Like I said. Proud of the trees and the pond and the lake and the fields.”

  “Ginger seems cool. And your moms. Noah, too, I guess, though I kind of got the feeling that he isn’t psyched to have me around.”

  “That’s not true,” I say, the words too fast, slippery on my tongue.

  His lips quirk. “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah. He just takes a while to warm up to strangers.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Really. He’s a great person. He just…”

  “Is madly in love with you?”

  I open my mouth. My throat constricts.

  Max laughs. “Yep. Knew it.”

  “We’ve been best friends my whole life,” I say quietly. “That’s all it can ever be.”

  “I get it. It’s a lot of history. Is he… part of the reason for your rule?”

  “Noah knows I wouldn’t date him with or without the rule. And maybe not dating anyone else either feels… easier somehow. But I can’t live to protect his feelings. The rule is about what’s best for me. Right now. Even if, maybe, he was a little bit of the reason. When I first came up with the rule.” I’ve never admitted that before, not out loud.

  “We don’t have to talk about it anymore. It’s not really my business. I was just curious. About Noah.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind talking about it.” And then, before I can stop myself: “What about you? Did you date a lot in Philly?”

  “Not a lot. But I dated. My last date was a few months ago at a way-overpriced and not particularly delicious Mediterranean restaurant that had a rat run out of the kitchen right in front of us mid-meal.”

  “Did the dinner conversation make up for the rat poop you ingested in your hummus?”

  “Nah, the hummus was way better. No second date. To be honest, there usually wasn’t.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe I’m more like you than I realized.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Dating in high school can seem… silly, I guess. People fall in and out of love in a week. Then they date each other’s best friends. Everyone talks about forever as if they actually believe any of the words they’re saying.”

  “Whoa. I had you pegged as a total sweet-talking romantic. It turns out you’re even more jaded than me.”

  His laugh is so loud people on nearby blankets turn to stare. “Not jaded. Just honest. Realistic. I don’t have any rules against dating. I just haven’t expected any of my dates to end up being my soul mate. That’s all.”

  “That sounds reasonable enough.”

  “Thank you. We can cruise through senior year together single and above it all.”

  I lift my Coke bottle and so does he, our glasses clinking in solidarity.

  He swigs the last of his Coke and lies back on the blanket, arms tucked behind his head.

  I fall back, too.

  The park is clearing around us, families packing up their bags and corralling screaming kids. Streetlights flick on along the perimeter of the path, dots of hazy light in the lengthening shadows. The last remnants of hot-pink sun are brushing against the tips of the trees as the moon moves to center stage.

  “Park’s closing.” I jolt upright to see a heavily bearded park ranger hovering above us. “Gate closes after sunset.” He folds his arms over his brown uniform—looking like a grown-up Boy Scout on a power trip—and gives us one last warning glance before moving on to the next blanket.

  “Yes, sir,” I say. Too obediently. Max chuckles under his breath. I jump to my feet, scurrying to pack up the food scraps and garbage.

  “Even more reason to try out your pond next time,” Max says, folding the blanket into a neat triangle. “I’m assuming you don’t employ your own rangers there?”

  I laugh. “We have Mama. No need to employ anyone else.”

  We drive home with the windows down, sweet summer air humming through the car. Fireflies flicker like fairy lights in the trees as we turn onto our road.

  Max slowly pulls up to my house and parks the car. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, slow thrumming beats. Crickets and cicadas chatter all around us, frogs croak, a lone bird sings.

  “Thank you,” he says, cutting through the noisy summer soundtrack.

  “For what?”

  “For hanging out with me tonight.”

  “Of course.” I turn toward the door and reach for the handle, even though I’m not ready to say good night.

  “This sounds cheesy as hell, but I’m saying it anyway.”

  I look back at Max. “I’m okay with cheesy.”

  “I miss home. Philly. The house is a disaster. My family’s maybe an even bigger disaster—and that’s saying something. But I’m glad I’m here now. I’m glad I met you.”

  Chapter Six

  MAX and I don’t make plans. We don’t call or text. But the rest of the week when I’m not at work, we crisscross back and forth through the woods. We find each other. We walk, we talk, we watch TV and eat Mimmy’s baked goods. His parents gave him the summer off from finding a job�
�a perk of moving against his will—so he has lots of hours to fill outside of his painting projects. And it seems like he wants to fill those hours with me.

  Ginger joins us, too, sometimes. Noah’s been busy. But I always invite them at least.

  I want this summer to be about them. Us. Just like always.

  But I want this summer to be about Max, too.

  Friendship, old and new—or silver and gold, like that old song we sang in my Girl Scout days. There’s nothing wrong with that.

  It’s been an endless Saturday morning working the reception desk at the yoga studio. It’s only 10:53, and I’ve swiped the membership card of every mother in town I’ve known my whole life—including Noah’s mom, Beverly—finished all the laundry, mopped the lobby and locker room, and color coded the printed schedule for next week with a rainbow of highlighters. Mama’s in the middle of a brutal ninety-minute flow class, Salt-N-Pepa’s “Push It” pulsing from her studio. Those more delicate yogis expecting soothing whispers and essential oils and quiet chanting music in the background would find themselves sorely disappointed in one of Mama’s classes. Meditative, restorative yoga is Mimmy’s department at Hot Mama Flow.

  The phone rings, Mimmy checking in on her day off. “Everything going okay? Did you get the washer to work? The knob can be a little finnicky, I’ve been putting it right on the edge between permanent press and—”

  “Mimmy,” I say, sighing. I hop up to sit on the front desk, legs dangling over the construction-cone-orange YOGA EVERY DAMN DAY sign taped under the register. “You need to learn to enjoy your rare days away from this place. That’s why I’m here. I got this. It’s nothing but Zen here. Only one broken neck so far this morning. We’re totally good.”

  “Oh, well, that’s a relief! A broken neck, psh. A handstand is only exciting because of the risks! I broke my nose the first time I got up in the air.” She’s most likely grinning to herself as she rubs the tiny, entirely negligible bump on her nose, her war trophy she reminds me of at least once a week.

  We say our goodbyes and I jump down from the counter, pick a few dead leaves off the fiddle-leaf fig tree next to me, wonder what in the world I’m going to do for six more hours. I should have brought a book.

  I pull out my phone to text Ginger, but because we are cosmically connected, she chooses that exact moment to strut through the front door, a little tinny gong sounding as it opens and closes. She’s in her typical yoga attire: animal-print leggings—a mashup of giraffe spots and zebra stripes—and a neon-pink sports bra.

  “Hey, doll,” she says, giving me a full-body squeeze. “I figured you’d be bored by now. I had the predawn shift at the diner today and chugged way too much coffee for a nap. So lucky you, here I am.”

  “You know the next class doesn’t start for an hour, though, right? I assume based on the fact that you’re wearing a bra for a shirt that you’re planning on actually sweating on a mat at some point.”

  “Eh, I don’t really care. I was trying to fit in with the aesthetic, plus”—she wiggles her eyebrows, grinning at me—“you told me Penelope’s mom comes in some weekends for classes. Maybe her lovely daughter will be getting tired of endless summer days.”

  “Mm-hmm, right, so not here to see me at all then?”

  “Not true,” she says, grabbing a spare yoga mat from the shelf by the counter and unrolling it on the floor. She plops down, making herself at home in the middle of the lobby. “Though I do feel like I’ve barely seen you this week.”

  “You’ve barely seen me? We had movie night Monday. You came over for lunch on Wednesday. And then we boiled ourselves in the hot pool for a few hours on Thursday.”

  “Okay, so yes, I technically saw you. But Max was there every time. I couldn’t pry. Or talk about my raging cramps. Or the hot dream I had about making out with some random cheerleader behind the bleachers.”

  “You can talk about your period with Max—you talk about it all the time in front of Noah. And you can talk about your dreams, too.”

  “Firstly, Noah doesn’t count. And, um, did you hear me say cheerleader? I’m not admitting that out loud to anyone else. It’s not my brand.”

  I sit next to her on the yoga mat and stare her down. “What’s definitely not your brand is to not speak your mind. Do you think I’m spending too much time with Max?”

  She holds out her hand, studying her fingers—each nail a different shade of green. “No. I’m not saying that.”

  “I want to spend time with all three of you. That’s the whole point.”

  “The whole point of not dating, you mean?” She smirks, batting her corn-silk lashes at me.

  “We don’t like each other like that.”

  “Sure, girlfriend. Whatever you say.” Her smirk is still there, smirkier than ever. “I want you to have that alone time. I’m giving you that—with my blessing. Because if there’s something there, you should admit it. Embrace it. Just give me some solo time once in a while to ramble on about secretive, sexy womanly things, okay?”

  “Of course we can hang out, just you and me. But there’s nothing to admit. I’ve known him for a week.”

  She waves her hand, dismissing the subject. “What about tomorrow? The Fourth? Are we still watching together from the top of the hill?” It’s the best view in town for the Green Woods fireworks. The three of us go there every year for the holiday—a time-honored tradition.

  My mouth drops. I look over at her. “You shouldn’t even have to ask. The Fourth is sacred.”

  “Just checking. I hope Noah comes.”

  “Um. Why wouldn’t he?”

  “He’s…”

  “He’s what? Don’t tell me he has to work. I will personally drag him out of the sandwich line at Wawa if he’s not at my house tomorrow evening.”

  She scoots closer to me, leans her head on my shoulder. I get a strong whiff of her trademark ginger-coconut shampoo. It smells endlessly better than Mimmy’s overpriced perfume. “No, not work. I think it’s just hard for him—having you spend time with another boy, even if it’s platonic.” I ignore the emphasis. “We tried to hang out yesterday just the two of us while you were at the studio, and it was like a tricycle with a wobbly flat tire on one of the back wheels. We could move, kind of, but not very gracefully and not for very long. I bowed out before we could crash. Lied and told him I felt a migraine coming on. I’ve never had a migraine in my life.”

  “Really?” I laugh. “Noah and I hang out one on one and it’s fine. You’ve known him your whole life. How can it possibly be awkward?”

  She jabs her pointy elbow into my side. “Trust me, it just is without you. You’re our secret ingredient. Our magic sauce. Don’t question it. It’s a compliment.”

  “I’m honored, I guess. Even if it’s weird to me.”

  “Anyway, moving on, you realize you turn eighteen this month? We should start planning for it now to make sure it’s appropriately epic. What about a weekend in New York? Do you think the moms would be on board?”

  “I don’t know. And I don’t care that much, honestly. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. I’d rather wait and celebrate with you on your birthday. I don’t mind sharing.”

  She lifts her head from my shoulder, studying me with narrowed eyes. “Come on. You know most people are hugely excited about turning eighteen, right? It’s a momentous rite of passage.”

  I shrug, looking down. “It’s not really that life changing.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure. Is there something you’re not saying here, Calliope Silversmith? Because it seems to me like you have a weird grudge against this particular birthday.”

  “Maybe. Yes.” I press my fingernails into the spongy yoga mat beneath us. “Eighteen means I can make contact with Frank. If I want.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh. Right.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  She’s silent for a moment. A silent Ginger is a rarity. “I don’t know,” she says finally. “I mean he’s half of your DNA, sure, but he’s
also nothing in every other way that matters. You have the best parents in the universe.”

  I look up at her. “I know.”

  “You have to do what you need to do, Calliope.”

  Do I need to know who he is? Or do I want to? Is there a difference?

  “Would you do it if you were me?” I ask.

  “If I found out now that my dad wasn’t really my dad, would I want to know the biological one? I don’t know. Probably not. Maybe. I’d be afraid to hurt my dad. But it’s totally different, because you’ve known all along. It was scientific and planned, not some lusty one-night stand.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t have to decide right now, but I don’t think there’s a wrong or right answer.”

  “I just… I don’t know, I mean I could request to be in touch, and then go to meet him and find out he’s a terrible asshole who hates everyone and everything and hits kittens and bunnies with bats in his spare time. Or I could wait years to do it, and then find out he died a little after my eighteenth birthday, doing something absurdly heroic, like saving a baby from a burning building, and I’ll never have the chance to know him because I was too indecisive and afraid.”

  “Okay. No way did you come from a bat wielder. I can guarantee you that. You refuse to kill spiders. Plus, you can’t play any sports. Bats are out.”

  We sit for a moment, both lost in our own thoughts.

  “I think it’s perfectly okay to be curious,” she says at last, talking as quietly as I’ve ever heard Ginger talk. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. And it doesn’t mean you don’t love the moms enough. Margo would understand. Stella, too, even if she gets all hot about it at first. They’ll get over it. Both of them.” She wraps an arm around me, rubbing circles on my back. “Like I said, you don’t have to decide this month. Or this year. Do it on your own time. But don’t let it ruin your eighteenth birthday. Because that would be a goddamn shame.”

  It sounds so simple when she puts it like that. But it’s not. It’s not simple at all.