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

“I’m happy for you,” I say, crawling across the lumpy turtle bottom until we’re side by side, our sweaty arms and shoulders sticking together. “You know that, right?”

“I know.” She leans her head against my shoulder. It’s too hot for this much skin contact, but I don’t move away. “I just wish we could both be happy and in love at the same time. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

I shrug, staring down at my red-tipped knees. “I’m not unhappy.” I’m lying through my teeth. Ginger’s kind enough to not call me on it, though, even if she knows unhappy is exactly what I am. She just pats my hand sympathetically, and then she stands up, her itty-bitty red polka-dot bikini barely covering her lady bits as she shakes herself dry.

“I love you,” she says, sweeping down to kiss my forehead. Her long hair, almost sheer white at this point in the summer, tickles my face. “Call me later tonight if you want. I’ll come sleep over after I gorge on chicken fingers and loaded baked potato skins.”

I nod, and then she’s gone. The water is so low I can barely submerge my toes anymore. But I stay in anyway, because there’s nothing else to do and it’s too stuffy in the house. Mama and Mimmy won’t be home for at least another hour. I’m not hungry for dinner yet. I’m not hungry all that often these days.

Ginger’s right. School will be a good thing.

Except Max will be there, too, at least to start the year. Wandering the halls by himself, no one caring enough during senior year to bother with the new kid. Or maybe a cute girl sitting next to him in Art Club will take him under her wing. Show him around, become his new Green Woods guide.

I sink down until my neck hits the water and my legs have to dangle off the edge of the opposite side. My eyes close and I stay like that, not moving, for what could be five minutes or an hour. It’s peaceful here. Like nothing else exists around me. Maybe this is what it felt like to be inside Mimmy’s body for nine months.

“Calliope? Are you okay?”

I open one eye slowly, then the second.

Noah is standing over me, a giant from my vantage point. He’s studying me with a look of grave concern, thick eyebrows furrowed and lips pulled into a deep frown.

“Hey, Noah. I’m fine. Really. Just a little spaced out.”

As I start to sit up, I remember that my bikini is four years old, the last clean one I had in my drawer, and that it’s almost as scandalous as Ginger’s. Much less intentionally so, but undersized all the same.

“Could you throw me my towel from the bench? It’s getting a little chilly, isn’t it?”

It’s definitely not anything close to chilly out here. But Noah politely nods and grabs the towel anyway, having the good sense to keep his eyes on the grass as he holds it out to me.

When I’m properly swaddled and sitting on the hammock, I notice that Noah and I aren’t alone out here in the yard.

“You brought Harold?” I ask, looking over at the large black cello case propped against the side of the picnic table. Harold the cello. Ginger and I had picked the name, so many summers ago. I don’t remember why. Maybe only because it was ridiculous—who would name a cello Harold?

“Yeah,” he says, still not looking at me, even though I’m no longer indecent.

I pick at a stray thread on my towel and wait for him to offer up more. He doesn’t.

“Okay, so is there something you want to play for me?”

He clears his throat and, finally, looks up at me.

“I wrote something,” he says. “A song. For you.”

“For me?” I repeat, as if his words weren’t clear enough.

“Yes. I’ve been working on it all summer.”

My stomach twists and knots like the thick hammock ropes swaying under me. “Oh,” I say. I’m not capable of much else, and it seems kinder and easier than why. But I’d hoped any awkward conversations or overtures were behind us.

“Can I play it for you?”

I nod. Hopefully not too reluctantly.

He slowly undoes the case, pulls out Harold, the bow, a creased piece of paper that he smooths between his fingers.

It’s an unfathomably long ordeal, Noah setting himself up at the picnic table, making sure Harold is positioned just so, as if he hasn’t been cradling cellos since he was in third grade. The paper is placed carefully on the grass in front of him, though from the hammock I can see the notations are tiny and scrawled and must be nearly indecipherable from his vantage point. He most likely has it memorized. He usually does—he has the kind of uncanny musical genius that allows him to absorb a song after just a few reads.

Noah starts playing then, bow against the strings, no preamble. His eyes close.

The song starts slowly, deep, rich notes that swirl around us in the fading light, picking up speed as they go. Layers of melody peel back to reveal more layers, smooth and satisfying, like I’m unwrapping a piece of dark chocolate and every bite tastes better than the last. I don’t want it to end; I feel like I can reach out and grab it, this feeling, make it mine. Everything is good, so good. Too good. Because then, just like that, the chocolate becomes bitter. Far too dark, not enough sugar and milk to balance out the cacao.

There’s no pause, no bridge, but it’s a different song. Strident at first, Noah’s bow furiously moving across the strings, a slurring of sharp notes. Eruption. Destruction. Chaos. And then, slower again, so very slow, lethargic almost. The notes are flat and low and oddly empty. I feel empty, too, listening to them. I can feel the good draining away, the happy taste disappearing completely from my tongue. It was never there. Never real.

Just as I’m