Every Little Thing in the World by Nina de Gramont Page A

Meredith and Lori exchange terrified looks. Neither of them wanted to end up in a canoe with Mick, who sat at the edge of the dock, running his bare feet back and forth in the water.
    Natalia’s hand shot up into the air. Jane ignored her, continuing about her business. So Natalia swung her long limbsout of the canoe, splashed through the water, and tapped Jane on the shoulder. Jane turned around and looked up. Natalia towered over her by a good eight inches.
    â€œYour plan doesn’t make any sense,” Natalia said. “Sydney knows how to steer. So why can’t I go in the front of her canoe?”
    Silas stood on the dock, unrolling Meredith and Lori’s sleeping bags to let them dry out. “She’s right,” he said to Jane. “There are four people who can do a J stroke. You, me, her”—he pointed to me—“and him”—he pointed to Charlie. Unlike Jane, Silas didn’t seem to care if we got off any time today, even though the eleven o’clock groups were starting to gather behind us on the hill. He picked up a bird book and interrupted his reasoning to leaf through it. “I think that’s a warbler,” he said, pointing in the sort-of direction of a nearby tree. I didn’t know who he was talking to, and I didn’t see any bird.
    â€œSilas,” Jane pleaded, wanting some help.
    â€œOkay,” said Silas, snapping out of it. “You.” He pointed to Brendan. “She’ll teach you how to do a J stroke.” At first I thought he meant Jane, but then I saw his finger pointed directly at me. His attention wandered off again, this time to the placement of his guitar in his own canoe, and Jane took over. Brendan waded out toward me, and I paddled to him. We met halfway, in water that hit him just above the knees. I climbed out of the canoe and stood next to him.
    â€œIt’s pretty easy,” I said, willing myself not to be starstruck, or even attracted. Already I felt loyal to Cody. “Just think ofa J ,” I told him, “and think of using the water as leverage for the direction you want to go. The person in the bow keeps paddling in straight strokes, and then you use the J stroke to pull the stern around.”
    Brendan stood close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck. He smelled good, a musky jasmine scent that would draw every mosquito and black fly in Ontario. By now, everyone else had finally teetered into a canoe. Meredith and Lori, looking relieved, sat in the bows of Silas and Jane’s canoes. Charlie had Sam, and of course I had Natalia, which left Mick—still sitting on the edge of the dock like he wanted nothing to do with our entire operation.
    All of our canoes were painted bright blue. Brendan walked back to the dock, and Natalia splashed her way back to ours. Brendan didn’t get into his canoe but pulled it through the water and over to the dock. Like Silas, Brendan had brought along an acoustic guitar—the only oversize item Camp Bell allowed. He had wrapped the case in plastic and tied it carefully to the bar in front of the stern seat, which we now knew—thanks to Jane—was called the aft thwart.
    â€œI guess you’re with me,” he said to Mick, and then climbed into the stern seat.
    Mick shrugged and dropped his pack into the middle of the canoe. His bag looked half-full, and so light that I couldn’t imagine it contained a sleeping bag. Which I guess it didn’t, because a minute later he threw in another bulky bundle that looked like it was made of cloth, like the old zippered Snoopyblanket I used to bring to slumber parties. It hit Brendan’s guitar, striking a muffled chord. I thought about telling Natalia we didn’t have to worry about Mick, because he was going to freeze to death during these frigid Canadian nights. But I would have had to speak in a normal voice for her to hear me, and I remembered how sound carried across water.
    Mick