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

sure if it’s Mama or Mimmy. They don’t want to tell me—it doesn’t matter, they say. And they just happened to luck out and pick a sperm donor who was freakishly like whichever mom didn’t actually contribute DNA.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I don’t know anything about the donor. We just call him Frank. But I can find out, if I want. When I’m eighteen. Next month.”

“So… will you? Find out then?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

We’re silent for a few minutes. Trees and houses blur past us. I take my hand off his wrist.

“I won’t bring it up again,” he says finally. “Unless you want to talk about it.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Want me to tell you something hugely personal about my family so we’re equal?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Nah, it’s cool. So, I can officially tell you that dads aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Mine cheated on my mom back in Philly. More than once. I’ll spare you the gorier details—can’t unload all the family drama at once.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, but I’m not sure if those are the right or best words.

He nods. “Thanks. Anyway, long story short, he begged her back, and they decided moving would be a fresh start for the whole family. But they’re definitely not happy, so I didn’t see the point in trying to fix things. I freaked out about leaving Philly. Threatened to move in with some friends so I could stay there. I didn’t want to put Mom through that, though. Or Marlow. So I sucked it up and came along.”

The car stops, and I realize we’re in town, parked along Main Street. The bright neon sign for Mario’s Pizzeria lights up my side of the car with a faint red-and-green glow.

“Don’t worry. We’re not eating inside. The photos I found online looked too depressing. But I did compare reviews for all four pizza places in town—a remarkable number, really, considering the only other option was Chinese or a deli—and Mario’s came out tops. Your moms let you eat cheese, right?”

“Yes, they let me. Well, that’s if Mama milked the cow and curdled it on her own.”

His jaw drops.

“I’m kidding. Yes, cheese is great. I ate delicious cheese and pickle cracker sandwiches at your house, remember? My moms are pro–small farm and local and we’re not big meat eaters at home, but even they occasionally can’t resist some Mario’s. Your assessment was good. Some people say Vinnie’s is better, but the sauce is way too sweet.”

“Great. Nailed it. I’ll be right back. You wait here.”

I watch him as he waits in the storefront, until the cashier must have called his name and he disappears from sight.

He gets back in the car a few minutes later with a pizza box and a paper bag, and we drive some more. I don’t ask where to. I like the surprise of it all. I like that I’m in my same small, dusty town, but it feels exciting tonight. I don’t recall ever feeling that way about Green Woods before.

We pull into the dirt lane that leads to the local lake. It’s not much—a nature loop around the rocky beach, a few picnic tables, a grill I’ve never seen anyone use, a creaky set of swings, and a long dock for fishing. But twilight at the lake is far better than sitting in the plastic chairs at Mario’s, where you can see every pore and stray eyebrow hair on your dining companion’s face, thanks to the glaring fluorescent lights.

“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