Katelyn Detweiler - The People We Choose

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KATELYN DETWEILER

The UNDOING

Of THISTLE TATE

Margaret Ferguson Books

Copyright 2021 by Katelyn Detweiler

All Rights Reserved

HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

Printed and bound in March 2021 at Maple Press, York, PA, USA.

www.holidayhouse.com

First Edition

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Detweiler, Katelyn, author.

Title: The people we choose / by Katelyn Detweiler.

Description: First edition. | New York : Holiday House, [2021] A Margaret Ferguson Book. | Audience: Ages 14 and up.

Audience: Grades 1012. | Summary: Seventeen-year-old Calliope Silversmiths lifelong friendships are transformed when she starts dating new neighbor, Max, but her life is turned upside-down when she learns the identity of the sperm donor her mothers chose.

Identifiers: LCCN 2020034226 | ISBN 9780823446643 (hardcover)

Subjects: CYAC: Best friendsFiction. | FriendshipFiction. Lesbian mothersFiction. | IdentityFiction. Sperm donorsFiction. | FamiliesFiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.1.D48 Peo 2021 | DDC [Fic]dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020034226

ISBN: 978-0-8234-4664-3 (hardcover)

To Danny and alfie,

the people I will choose,

every day, always.

Chapter One

A T first I wonder if hes a mirage.

The air certainly seems hot enough.

Rustling branches along the tree line, and then two legs, two arms, one head. The pieces come together to make a boy, and that boy walks across our wild grassy lawn and up to where I sit on the porch.

I put down my dog-eared copy of Sense and Sensibility to take him in. Long limbs and warm brown skin, black T-shirt and black cutoff jeans. His clothes are splattered in streaks of bright paint, golds and blues and reds and greens and purples, like he is the painting. He is the work of art.

Im out here early today because I needed to breathe. Mama and Mimmy are firm believers in open windows and fans, even during the first heat wave of the summer. They only have air conditioners at Hot Mama Flow, their yoga studiowith aerobics classes and weight-machine circuits, too, because yoga isnt popular enough to sustain an entire business in our small town of Green Woods, Pennsylvania. And even there they keep the AC off for most classes. A little hot yoga is good for the soul, Mama says, usually as shes upside down, balancing on her hands, legs in a split, as if gravity is not an actual thing. And maybe for Mama its not.

I was looking for some sign of life, the boy says, his voice somehow deeply growly but sweetly musical at the same time. I just moved in next door. If you can call it next door when theres five minutes of woods between us. I mean, Jesus. How is this only an hour outside of Philly? I feel like Im lost in some kind of West Virginia wilderness.

I raise my eyebrows. He looks less art worthy now. And its really more like ninety minutes most days because of traffic, at least during rush hours, but I dont correct him.

So anyway, he starts. Stops. Runs one hand through his tight-cropped curls. Sorry. Im Max. Should have started with that.

Calliope.

Thats an interesting name.

My moms are big on mythology. I emphasize moms and say it like a challenge. Its a hard habit to break, maybe because Green Woods still has some people clinging to the Dark Ages. But Max doesnt react.

Thats cool. I like it. I dont actually know why my parents named me Max. My mom does love a good T.J.Maxx deal, but I hope thats not the reason.

Uh-oh. The closest T.J.Maxx is a forty-minute drive from us. Will your mom survive out here? You can assure her we do get mail. Much faster since they ditched the horse and buggy last year. Mail trucks now, can you believe it? I smile, kicking back in my midnight-colored rocking chair. Right between Mamas sky-blue chair and Mimmys sunny-yellow one. The wooden slats of the porch floor creak. Our little stone house was built sometime in the early 1800sor so the Realtor said when Mama and Mimmy bought it before I was born, and I believe it because every last piece of it feels old and persnickety.

Max squints up at me with dark amber eyes and laughs. I get it. I was trash-talking your home before I even introduced myself. Not the best way to meet a new neighbor. My mom would tweak my ear for that one. So maybe dont tell her?

I shrug. I dont love his attitude. But its not every day I get to meet someone who hasnt spent their whole life here.

Lets start over, he says, taking it upon himself to climb the porch steps. He sits on Mamas chair, like it was put there just for him.

I hope all that paint is dry. Mama will ruin you if you mess with her favorite chair.

He looks down at his shorts. Oh right. I was painting my bedroom walls this morning. I was just going to do normal boring gray on all of them, but then I had this vision of our apartment view, so I painted a mural of my old bedroom window and the scene outside it on one wall. We lived in the tallest building on our block, so I got a peek of the Philly skyline right when the sun comes up. Thats always my favorite time to paint. He grins at me, bright white teeth with a small gap in the middle. Its a really good smile.

Why did you move here then? If you love Philly so much?

The whole porch seems to shift around us with that one question. The good smile disappears.

Family stuff, he says. There is an extra-bold black period at the end of his sentence.

Im sorry, I say, because Im not sure what other response there is. But Green Woods isnt so awful. I promise. Youll get used to it. Theres plenty of good to go with the bad. I glance above me at the sprawling canopy of deep green leaves that line the woods surrounding our housedark and dense, swallowing us up from the rest of the town. Just close your eyes for a minute.

He looks like he wants to ask why, but doesnt.

Just sit there and listen, I say. Breathe.

I close my eyes, too, even though I know all the sounds and smells as well as I know my own fingers and toes: the soft rumble of the creek that coils behind our meadow of a yard, the buzz of cicadas and grasshoppers and the sea of other insects that come to life every summer, the heady scents of damp soil and wildflowers and freshly cut grass.

I bet you didnt have all this in Philly, did you?

Nope. He sighs. Definitely not.

I sneak a peek through lowered lids. Hes leaning back in the chair with his eyes still closed, arms spread open. Like he is drawing it all in, this day, this porch, these woods.

Our old landline phone rings from inside, and his eyes flip open. He looks around, like maybe hes in a dream. But then his gaze falls on me, and he blinks again, like worlds have clicked back into place.

I let the call go to voice mail. Only robots call that number these days.

I actually came over here for sugar, he says, laughing. Which sounds like a bad line from an old TV show. But my mom and I found everything for coffee this morning except the sugar, and theres no way Im drinking that stuff unsweetened. Dads got the car for a Philly trip today and I have no clue what direction the store is in or if I can even get there on foot. I wont talk down on your town our town, wowanymore, but theres something to be said for having three bodegas within a block of your home. Ill leave it at that.