The People We Choose Katelyn Detweiler (graded readers TXT) 📖

“Got it. I’m glad you survived.”

Noah is quieter than usual while we eat. He’s never the chattiest in our trio—that’s Ginger’s role, obviously, while I land somewhere in the middle, and Noah spends a lot of time listening to us banter with an amused grin on his face. But tonight he studies his plate as if the wild Alaskan salmon is deeply fascinating. I try to pull him in at first, telling Max about what a magician Noah is on the cello, and how our moms used to swap our clothes when we were little—I was bigger than him the first two years, and then he doubled up on me. Noah smiles at that at least, but he doesn’t add much of anything to the conversation.

Max is animated, though, talking about his old neighborhood in Philly, asking questions about teachers, cafeteria food, classes and teachers to avoid, and it’s easy to focus on him. It’s easy to talk, easy to listen.

Easy to imagine our trio becoming a quartet after all.

Chapter Four

“YOU do realize you could ask for my number,” I say, opening the screen door for Max. It’s pouring rain again. “Save yourself a muddy walk through the woods. I’m not always here with no plans.”

“Really?” He whips his head back and forth, fat droplets of water streaming from his hair. One splashes against my cheek. I don’t brush it away. It feels nice, cool. The air is thick and muggy, a heavy curtain that even the rain can’t draw aside.

“Actually, I had a desk shift at my moms’ studio this morning and then took a class with Mimmy, so I just got home. You lucked out.” I look down at my bright rainbow-striped yoga pants and neon-blue sports bra. It felt perfectly acceptable at the studio—most women practice in their sports bras, even the ones using their senior discount. Mama encourages it. She’s all about stoking that fierce confidence, that sense of our own divinity. But right now I wish I’d thrown on a T-shirt after class. Mama would be disappointed in me. Or maybe not, given I’m in a bra in front of our new neighbor.

“I definitely lucked out.” Coming from another teenage male, that could be suggestive. But Max doesn’t seem to notice the extra dose of skin and cleavage, or if he does, he tactfully keeps his eyes on mine. “Do you want to come over to my house today? My mom is so relieved I’ve made a friend already, and she’s asking to meet you. She said she’d offer to host you and your moms for dinner, but she’s too embarrassed by the state of our house right now. Someday. You can just come by for a little, though, say hi. If you want. No worries if you have lots of other big plans this afternoon…”

I don’t want to step inside Max’s house, but I don’t know how to say that.

If we’re going to be friends, a visit there is inevitable.

And besides, it’s all town gossip. I hope.

“Yeah, okay,” I say, “but let me hop in the shower first. I need to wash yoga off of me.”

“Sure, whatever you need to do. I’ll just wait here on the porch, if that’s okay. Maybe the rain gods will give us a break by the time you’re ready.”

I nod and then walk up the stairs, into the bathroom. I let the water run much colder than usual, shocking my hot skin with its sharpness as I step into the old claw-foot tub. The half-open window alongside the shower looks out over our porch roof, and rain is streaming in sideways through the screen.

I rush through the shower. Turn the water off. And then I hear it—Max, singing. Low and slow, a song I don’t recognize. I close my eyes and listen. Certain words catch—love and please and sorry, so sorry. His voice is warm and beautiful and unexpected.

The song comes to an end and I pull myself out of the tub and away from the window, into my room to change. I put on a black romper and pull my wet hair into a messy side braid, then smear a dollop of coconut oil on my lips for one last casual finishing touch.

My phone has been rapid-fire chirping, and I check it after tugging on my red rain boots. A text exchange between Noah and Ginger, planning a movie night for later today—at my house, our assumed meeting place—compiling a long list, one horror movie for Noah for every rom-com Ginger picks. I’ll chime in when I get home. I leave my phone on the dresser and head downstairs to the porch.

Max is sitting on Mimmy’s yellow rocking chair, swaying gently back and forth with his eyes closed. He startles when the screen door flaps behind me, jumps up to stand. The porch creaks loudly under his feet.

“You look nice,” he says. “Though you looked nice before, too.”

“And you have a nice voice.”

“Oh god, you heard that?” He pretends to grimace, but he looks secretly pleased.

“Don’t act like you’re embarrassed.”

He chuckles. “So, we’re making a dash for it? Do you want to grab some umbrellas?”

“Nah, umbrellas will just catch on the branches and slow us down.”

Without waiting for him to respond, I leap from the porch onto the slick grass and shoot off toward the woods. A few seconds pass before Max lets out a hearty whoop and sets off behind me.

We slip not so gracefully between the trees, laughing and shouting as we switch leads, until Max loses a sneaker in the mud and slides dramatically, catching himself with his hands just before he fully face-plants in a puddle. It’s an impressive show of strength, but still—Max zero, rain two. I slow down, glance back to make sure he’s okay as he shoves his filthy shoe back onto his foot—and then he springs right back up, grinning wider than ever, unfazed.