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

over the last few years, based on the beer cans and food wrappers that were scattered around the floor. Nice welcome to the new home. That wasn’t you two, was it, partying in an old abandoned house?”

He’s skipped past the why of the move. Luckily Ginger’s far more interested in the ghosts.

“I can assure you, that was not our trash,” Ginger says, laughing. “We were always way too terrified to make it past the porch on our paranormal investigations. Calliope was the biggest wimp of the three of us.”

“She’s exaggerating,” I say. “Don’t listen to her.” I scowl at Ginger, and this time she notices. She sticks her tongue out at me in response.

“Interesting.” Max cocks his head, studying me. “Maybe that’s why Calliope seemed nervous coming over today, even in broad daylight. And yours truly took it upon himself to personally destroy all cobwebs, so it wasn’t that either.”

“I didn’t not want to be there,” I say, too loudly maybe.

Max raises his right brow, smirking. “Mm-hmm.”

“I promise. I’ll go over there anytime.”

Ginger slides off the counter. “I’m going to go check on Noah, and you two can finish up that lemonade freshening. Seriously. I actually do want more.”

I turn back to the pitcher after Ginger leaves, busy myself with adding a few more raspberries to replace the ones she stole.

“Silversmith?” Max asks. “Is that your last name?”

I glance over to see him studying an old article featuring Hot Mama Flow taped to the refrigerator door.

“Yep. Mimmy was a Silver. Mama was a Smith. They lucked out with two names that worked as a combo. They would have been flipping coins otherwise.”

“I like that. Your family is totally its own. Different than everyone who came before.”

He’s looking at the article still, a serious expression on his face.

“What’s yours?” I ask.

“Martz.”

Max Martz. I nod. “Solid name. I like the alliteration.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he turns back to me, that serious expression replaced with a smile. “Calliope Silversmith, would you go on a totally platonic non-date with me tomorrow?”

An easy question. I don’t need time to consider.

“Yes.”

Chapter Five

THE sun comes out the next day, blindingly bright. A good omen, I hope.

Not that I should be worried about a non-date, as Max put it.

But I’ve never flown solo, even platonically speaking. Maybe because I’ve had the same best friends since I was zero years old. We have other school friends, sure. Acquaintances. Ginger and Noah more so than me. But no one I hang out with unless Ginger and Noah are there, too. We’re a package deal, the three of us.

This is new.

I do a few sun salutations and headstands to get the blood flowing, then take an extra-long shower. After I’ve brushed through my tangles and laid out three—very casual—dresses to choose from tonight, I head to my moms’ room for their laundry. My eye catches on their bureau, Mimmy’s favorite bottle of perfume. It’s teeny tiny and yet disgustingly expensive, for special occasions only. Mama once said it’s a crime for anyone to spend that kind of money on a few drops of synthetic chemicals. But she buys it for Mimmy every year like clockwork, on the day that was once their official dating anniversary, and that seven years ago became their official wedding anniversary. Or, more like a courthouse marriage and a big party at the studio. Still, a wedding.

I have the strange urge to try some today. Just a splash.

I dab some on my wrists, sniff. Floral, earthy, wild.

“Calliope?”

I drop the bottle like it’s a bag of cocaine, just as Mama steps into the room.

“Mama? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“Got home a few minutes ago. I gave away the rest of my classes today. I’m teaching back-to-back classes tomorrow and I wanted to get some things done around here. But… perfume, huh?” Mama puts down the yoga mat she carried in, perching her hands on her hips. “I know that’s not for poor Noah’s benefit.”

“Why is everyone suddenly so concerned about Noah? He’s not some lovesick puppy. He gets it.” He should at least. I hope he does by now.

She gives me a sad smile. “Regardless, it’s not your fault. As long as you two communicate honestly about it, you’ll figure it out. But if the perfume’s not for Noah…?”

“It’s not for anybody.” I flop down onto their king-size waterbed, enjoying the satisfying tidal roll that moves under me. “I’m just hanging out with the new neighbor. Max. Not a big deal. He came over with Ginger and Noah last night while you and Mimmy were at book club.”

“I’m sorry I missed that. I hope he’ll be picking you up tonight.” It’s not a question, the way she says it. He will be picking me up.

“Okay. But it’s not a date, so no interrogation necessary.”

“It’s still a boy spending alone time with my little girl, and I’m allowed some curiosity. I’ll be excited to meet him later,” Mama says, very definitively. She turns away, moves the perfume bottle back to its rightful place on the bureau. I grab the laundry basket and leave the room.

Mama must have shared my news when Mimmy got home from the studio. They both hover in the living room, watching an episode of I Love Lucy. Mimmy’s favorite—the great chocolate-wrapping debacle. I join them, because it’s impossible to pass up on Lucy, and because she’s a nice distraction.

Max had told me to be ready at six. The doorbell chimes at 5:57, startling us all. I jump up and move toward the front hallway. Mama and Mimmy stay seated on the sofa, but their eyes are definitely not on Lucy anymore.

I open the door and Max is there, a wide smile on his face.

“Hey, neighbor,” he says. “You look nice. Though I liked the drenched-and-mud-soaked look, too. It’s a tie.” I’m glad he didn’t say he preferred the yoga-sports-bra look. Mama might have had words.

“Thanks. You look nice, too.” Nice isn’t adequate. He looks much better than nice