The People We Choose by Katelyn Detweiler (best selling autobiographies .TXT) 📕

But I’m too far ahead to lose now. Max’s house is peeking out between sheets of rain and soggy leaves, and I push myself through to the clearing, arms raised above my head in victory. I keep moving until I’m on the porch, so determined to be first under the roof that I briefly forget to be anxious.

The Jackson home is well suited for this day. It’s somehow less sinister looking in the rain—like maybe it’s the contrast with yellow sunlight and blue sky that ordinarily makes the house so fearsome. I take a deep breath to refill my lungs, and there’s a sharp whiff of rot and decay beneath the smell of fresh summer rain and wet earth.

“That wasn’t a fair race,” Max says, panting as he hops onto the porch behind me. “You had rain boots and you know the path better. There will definitely be a rematch.”

I shrug and smooth down my hair, wringing out the end of my braid. “Whatever will make you feel better about yourself. Next time it rains, maybe you should stay inside?”

Before he can respond, the front door opens with a creak and a woman I presume must be Max’s mom appears on the porch. Her skin is a darker brown than his, but she has his amber eyes and high-cut cheekbones. She’s tall like Max, probably within an inch or so of his height. But when she smiles at me, it’s not full and easy like his, not as happy.

“So. This must be the wonderful Calliope my son can’t stop talking about?”

“I won’t even try to deny that,” Max says as he steps up next to me.

“Come in,” his mom says, reaching out, slipping her arm loosely around my damp shoulder. “I’ll get some towels. I just unearthed our extras this morning.”

“Thanks, Mrs.…” I realize I don’t know Max’s last name. We haven’t gotten to that stage of the friendship yet.

“Joanie. Please just call me Joanie.”

We take our muddy shoes off and step inside.

My eyes adjust gradually to the dim foyer around us. It’s two stories high with vaulted beams and mostly bare still, except for a few stacks of cardboard boxes and a dusty gold-framed mirror hanging on the wall opposite an old wardrobe. Stairs rise in front of us, wide wooden boards with banisters that were probably very elegant back in the day, carved deeply with twisting vines and leaves. But now the stairs sag tiredly to the left and only a few slats still hold up the banisters, like a grin missing most of its teeth—a crooked jack-o’-lantern with no eyes.

“Home sweet home.” The way Joanie says it, it doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s all that sweet. “You two get cozy in the kitchen while I grab those towels. The kitchen is our only room that’s fully set up. We have our priorities. Oh, and Max? Please wash those filthy paws of yours before you touch anything. I would have thought you were a little old to still be making mud pies. How sweet.”

She smiles again, a slightly happier one this time, and then she starts up the steps, favoring the right side.

“Mud pies.” Max shakes his head as he turns to me. “I bet you made lots of those growing up, am I right?”

“It’s a strong possibility that my childhood involved making intricate mud pies, yes.”

“Knew it,” Max says, laughing. Before I can think of a witty comeback, he walks off toward a door at the end of the hallway, and I follow him. Most of the kitchen looks like it hasn’t been touched in years—chipped blue cabinet doors, scratched and sliced wooden countertops, a stove that’s missing half of its burners. Stained linoleum tiles on the floor, paint strips flaking from the ceiling. There’s no dishwasher that I can see. But there’s a bright white refrigerator and a shiny black microwave. Some hints of the modern era.

“There’s a new stove coming this week,” Max says, watching me take it all in. “It’s a work in progress.”

“No, it’s… charming.”

“You’re a bad liar.” He turns on the faucet and applies a liberal amount of soap to his hands before scrubbing.

Joanie walks in then and drops a plush black towel around my shoulders, gently tucking it under my braid so it cradles my neck. “There you go, sweetie. Don’t ever say there’s no luxury in this old house.” She moves aside, handing a second towel to Max, and then she opens the refrigerator door. “We don’t have the fridge stocked yet, but I can offer you some cheese and crackers and pickles that made the trip here with us. I’m determined to get to the store this afternoon. Would you believe we still don’t have sugar?” She shakes her head, staring vacantly into the empty refrigerator racks.

“I’m fine, Joanie, really. Don’t worry about me.”

“After you made my son the delicious dessert that he didn’t share with me?” She kicks the door shut. “I insist. Marlow locks herself in her room all day, and I’m just so glad one of my kids isn’t brooding right now.”

Joanie asks pleasantries about Green Woods and my moms as she slices the pale orange cheese and spreads it on a plate with Ritz crackers and a few neon-green pickle wedges. Like Max, she doesn’t seem fazed by the fact that I have two moms and no dad.

“Okay then,” she says finally, setting down the plate on a round, polished kitchen table that clearly came with them from Philadelphia. “I’ll leave you to it. I just wanted to make sure my boy wasn’t making you up. Who knows what sorts of creatures and fairies live in those wild woods? We have our fair share of weird just in this house, that’s for sure.”

I look at her, willing her to elaborate. But she’s already turned her back to me, walking toward the hallway door. I wait until she’s on the steps to ask Max, “What kinds of weird things?”

He looks down at the plate. “Nothing.