text: Last summer, we spent a month at my dad's cabin. Just the three of us, hiking and fishing and watching out for bears and moose. A week before we left, my dad took us on a canoe ride across the lake; sitting single-file on the woven seats with Dad in back, me in front, and you squeezed in the middle. Dad and I both had a paddle, but you, sitting between us, didn't, so you just sat with your knees almost up to your chin and complained. You didn't like the spiders that made their homes in the canoe while it was on land, nor the mosquitoes that settled on us and buzzed around our heads, nor the thick, muggy air with moisture hanging heavily. It was June, and hot, humid days were to be expected, but I never said that. I thought the trip was wonderful. So quiet, the silence broken only by the screeching blackbirds on the cattails and the paddles dipping into the water. So beautiful, with trees reflected on the mirror-still surface of the greenish lake, turtles basking on protruding logs, dragonflies skimming over the water and darting around our slow canoe. And so captivating, with Dad pointing out regal herons or overhead eagles and telling us stories about the summers he spent on this lake, growing up. I could've spent all day on that lake, drinking in the surroundings so different from my home in Indianapolis. But we only paddled for about an hour before you grew bored and we returned to the cabin. You're always like that, you know. Oh, I can hear you arguing about it, insisting that you're not that bad. And you aren't. Peace and quiet, all alone on the lake, just isn't meant for you, even if we had it in Indianapolis (we don't). But I let you drag me all over the city, exploring and having your kind of fun, meeting new people and trying new things, so haven't I earned a little time for my own style of fun? Sometimes we're so different, in a way I can't always place. * * * Take Halloween. We always go trick-or-treating together, although this year we were too old for that and handed out candy at your house- eating most of it ourselves, of course. I was glad to skip the tradition. Sure, it's fun to dress up, but visiting all those houses, talking to all those near-strangers, having the same conversation thirty times in one night? It always sapped my energy. But you insisted we attend the Halloween party hosted by one of your friends (weren't we too old for that stuff? Never mind), so there was no getting out of it, after all. I was an owl, you were a tarantula. You helped me apply the gold eye shadow and brown-and-white feathers, and I put on your extra four arms and six eyes, but we took most of it off when we arrived and found that almost no one was wearing a costume. Always the braver one, you strode into the midst of the party, laughing with friends you probably made on the spot; while I lurked by the snack table with the sugar cookies and orange punch, hoping I looked like an ordinary girl and not an owl or a weirdo with heavy eye shadow and a lightly feathered sweater. At first, it wasn't bad. A few of my other friends were there, and I sort of enjoyed talking to people I barely knew, but the chaos gave me a headache, and my energy petered out. I spent the last half of the party alternating between the bathroom and the far wall. You came back for me, of course. You spotted me hovering at the snack table, feigning interest in the Halloween treats so that no one would approach and try to speak with me. I was too drained for any form of social interaction. You came up behind me and whispered, "We might as well go. This party is boring," as if you were the one sick and tired of people, and not me. I nodded once, as if the idea of leaving had never occurred to me, and we slipped out the door, halfway back to my house before I thanked you. You rolled your eyes and said, "It was my fault for making you come. I guess you don't really like that stuff." "Not really, but it wasn't so bad," I lied, and we chattered our way down the sidewalk, putting it behind us. And I never, ever- still haven't- held it against you, just like how you never held it against me for being so antisocial. * * * Remember last February? While pink roses wilted in vases and discarded valentines papered the school's hallways, the last winter holiday over and forgotten, we all felt a little droopy. Like the old, slushy snow piled on rooftops and beginning to melt off again, I could feel you start to sag. I felt the same way. And so, when your mom offered to drive us to the butterfly gardens that had opened at the zoo last summer, during our time at Dad's cabin, even you agreed. Maybe butterflies were for babies, but we were sick and tired of winter. You and I looked up and up as we found our way through the snow-capped iron gates of the zoo and all the way to the butterfly gardens. They were inside a big, plain-looking building with only the sign over the doors hinting at the presence of butterflies. We shivered inside and found ourselves in between doors- the one we'd just gone through, and a second glass one right in front of us, a paper taped to it. Blind as a mole- always have been- you stepped up, squinting, to read it. "Don't let out the butterflies," you read. We shrugged at each other, and I think Mom shrugged too, behind us, and then we entered. Instantly, we were smacked with warm, sticky air. The gardens were just that- gardens- with shaggy plants and trees arching over the path. At first, I didn't see anything special, but then you pointed, and I craned my neck to see a big yellow butterfly. Then I saw another, which we hurried to look at before it fluttered away, and another, and they kept on coming. We watched them flit around for ages. There was a butterfly in every color, and a case filled with examples of the different life stages of butterflies, and a big poster on the wall charting the different species and what they looked like, and one or two butterflies smushed into the path that I didn't look at. You got tired after a while, and resorted to looking up butterfly facts on your phone, though you must have been enjoying the warm air as much as I was; I, however, kept on wandering and watching the butterflies come and go. When we left, we noticed that one had attached itself to your shirt, but after removing it we kept going. I was buzzing with energy from the great time I'd had, but you seemed unaffected by the experience. I noted this, aloud, and you just shrugged, saying, "I like butterflies, but it wasn't that exciting or anything." I couldn't see why something had to be exciting to be fun, but there's no arguing with your shrug. At least you didn't hate it. We're very different people, you know. Maybe that sounds too philosophical, but it's true- you take energy from classes and parties and conversations with random strangers, while that would kill me. It makes us a good pair, a good team. You handle the real world, I take care of the details. We both enjoy the other's company. And I wouldn't want to make a single change.