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Call me cocky, but I’m going to take a little bit of the credit for that.
21
RUBY
Birds chirp in the trees. The lake shimmers under the bright afternoon sun. More than a dozen nine- and ten-year-olds hoist poster boards into the air, showing me their cartoon self-portraits, which are absolutely hysterical, and wacky, and out of proportion, and perfect.
My chest is warm, but it’s not from the summer day.
I’m glowing from the inside, surprising myself.
I mean, sure, I like kids. But I’m not one of those kid people who babysits, or teaches classes, or volunteers to work with them after school.
Yes, plenty of kids come into the pie shop, but Gigi’s always been better with them than I have. Gigi has a natural ability to connect, to listen, to meet a person—kid or adult—at his or her level.
Me? I’m better with older folk. I love volunteering at the senior center over the holidays, helping them wrap presents to send to their kids and listening to their stories over slices of pie and cups of decaf. And yes, sometimes we craft or draw together, but today is a first for me. I’ve never taught art to kids before.
Try something new.
I glance at the sky, sending a quick, private message to Claire. Look at me, trying something new up at Camp Knick Knack Paddywhack.
And liking it.
The enthusiasm, the bright eyes, the excitement, the questions, the check this out, look what I made, the hands in the air—all of this speaks to my soul.
A part that nothing has spoken to before.
A boy with glasses and a thatch of dark hair calls me over with a shout, stretching my name so it sounds like he’s mooing. “Roo-by how does this look? I put my glasses in really big!”
I bend over, regarding his cartoon. He looks like . . . a raccoon. A brilliant half-boy, half-animal hybrid. I trace my finger across the top of the sketch. “Love it. Why don’t you thicken up your hair a bit more, and then I’d say you’ve got your very own Picasso.”
He beams, and I stroll around to the other kids, sharing thoughts, giving tips.
When class ends, some of them hug me, some of them thank me, and some of them run off to their next activity without saying a word.
All of which are fine by me.
I like that they feel free to be themselves. Manners are good and all, but sometimes you’re just too excited for what’s next to bother with “please and thank you.”
As I clean up, I catch a glimpse of Jesse leaning against a tree, a satisfied smile on his face.
He joins me. “So, can we add ‘substitute camp art teacher’ to your résumé now?”
I blow on my fingernails, pausing as I gather the last of the pens and pencils. “Think so. You know that’s going to nab me all the job offers. Mom’s going to have to raise my salary to keep me around.”
He laughs and drapes an arm around me. “Absolutely.”
After I put the supplies away in the main building, I return to the picnic tables, scanning the panorama of the lake, the trees, the grass, the sun. I draw a deep breath. “So pretty. I can see why Claire loved it here.”
“And you? Do you love it? Enjoy the art class?”
“I do and I did.” My brow furrows. “You know, drawing has always been a thing that I did by myself.” I nudge him with my shoulder. “Or with you. But sharing it with kids for the first time . . . teaching them how to get the picture in their head out onto the paper . . . was pretty cool.”
“You know what else is cool?”
I arch a brow. “Do tell.”
He casts a meaningful glance toward the water. I follow his gaze to where a canoe bobs at the edge of the lake.
Oh yeah, I like this idea.
I like it very much.
22
JESSE
We loll about in a canoe at the far end of the lake, away from the camp so it’s quiet and peaceful.
Ruby leans back on the bench, pressing her palms to the wood, lifting her face to the sun. “It’s official. Kid Ruby would have loved being a camper here.”
“Why’s that?”
“Paddywhack lets you be. Like, you can go full throttle with the classes and games if you want. Or you can sit back, be quiet, and watch the clouds roll by.”
Spot on. “Claire was the full-throttle type, of course.” It feels good to talk about my sister like this. To talk about her when it’s simply . . . remembering, rather than mourning.
“And I was the watch-the-clouds-go-by type,” Ruby says, a newfound confidence in her tone, maybe one that’s coming from this day, from the class, from the list.
From owning who she is.
“You guys were kind of each other’s yin and yang. Like puzzle pieces,” I say, slowing the pace of the paddle in the water.
