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“Draw something.”
“Here? Right now?”
“It’s not scenic enough for you?” I joke as I take a seat on one of the many benches.
“I don’t usually draw landscapes,” Auden replies as she sinks down next to me.
“Then draw me. Or the canoes. Or pull up a photo on your phone. Just drawsomething, Denny.”
She studies me. “Why?”
“Because I’m pretty sure it’ll be amazing, and I want to be able to tell you so.”
She snorts but takes the notebook and box of pencils. “What are you going to do?”
“Just sit here. Draw fast.”
Auden sighs, flips open the first page, and then snorts. “This yours?”
“No, my youngest sister’s. Why?”
She doesn’t answer, just turns so I can see the scribbled outline of a figure on skates holding a hockey stick. “Pretty sure that’s you.”
I say nothing, surprised and strangely touched. As the baby of the family, Izzie is more inquisitive than my two other sisters, but I wasn’t even sure she knew I play hockey, let alone drew a picture of me. Our age gap, lack of overlapping interests, and very different childhood experiences have all ensured I have little interaction with my three younger sisters.
Auden doesn’t push. She flips to a blank page and pulls out a few pencils. Seconds later, the scratch of pigmented wax against parchment sounds to my left. I suppress the urge to glance over and instead slouch against the wood backing, stretching my legs out and staring out at the lake. The first time my mom brought me here, I thought I was dreaming. In the winter, they set up a rink and wrap white lights around the pines closest to the water; one of those sights that just punches you in the gut. I spend most of my time in an artificial environment: the controlled temperature and neat lines of an ice rink. Maybe that’s why natural, untrained beauty stands out to me so much. Sun filters down from the sky. A bird caws in the distance. Even the sound of children laughing and arguing becomes less grating.
I’m not sure how much time passes before Auden says, “Done,” which is concerning. Usually, I get restless easily.
I glance down. A low, long whistle slips out. “Damn.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re good.Reallygood. I’m going to hang this on my wall.”
“Well then.” Auden tilts the pad back toward her and starts sketching again. A few minutes later, she drops it in my lap. She’s added a shadowed figure to the perfect depiction of the lakes, trees, and mountains she drew before. It’s a hockey player, a thousand times more detailed than the drawing Izzie did, but the same rough outline, with a stick outstretched. He’s transparent, skimming across the surface of the turquoise water like a mirage. “There you go.”
“You’re better than I thought.”
She snorts. “Thanks.”
“It was a compliment, Denny. I already figured you’re the modest type.”
“Oh really?”
“I told you, you can tell a lot about a person right away.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
I tuck the paper and pencils back into my backpack. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Where to? A watercolor studio?”
I shake my head as we walk to the canoe dock. “No. We’re canoeing.”
She glances at the colorful boats. “We can justtake them? They’re free?”
“You’re in Canada—you don’t have to pay for everything here.”
