A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #4)(16)

“You mean you aren’t coming back with us?” said Olive.

Emma had just arrived, dripping seawater, and when she heard this she narrowed her eyes at me. We hadn’t talked about this privately yet, but here I was discussing it with everyone.

“I’m going to finish high school first,” I said. “But if I handle this right, we can see one another all the time over the next couple of years.”

“That’s a very big if,” said Millard.

“Just imagine,” I said, “I could come help with the reconstruction efforts—on weekends, maybe—and you guys could come here whenever you like, and learn about the normal world. You could even go to school with me, if you wanted.”

I glanced at Emma. Her arms were crossed, her face unreadable.

“Go to school with normals?” said Olive.

“We don’t even answer the door when the pizza arrives,” said Claire.

“I’m going to teach you how to deal with them. You’ll be experts in no time.”

“This is sounding more far-fetched by the second,” said Horace.

“I just want to give my parents a chance,” I said. “If it doesn’t work . . .”

“If it doesn’t work, Miss P can wipe their memories,” said Emma. She walked over to me and threaded her arm through mine. “Doesn’t it seem tragic that Abe Portman’s own son doesn’t know who his father was?”

She was on board. I squeezed her arm, grateful for the backup.

“Tragic, but necessary,” said Horace. “His parents can’t be trusted. No normal can. It makes me nervous just thinking about what they might do. They could expose us all!”

“They wouldn’t,” I said, though a little voice in my head added, Would they?

“Why don’t we just pretend we’re normal when they’re around?” asked Bronwyn. “Then they won’t be upset.”

“I really don’t think that would work,” I said.

“Some of us don’t have the privilege of pretending we’re normal,” said Millard.

“I hate pretending anyway,” said Horace. “How about we just be ourselves and Miss Peregrine can wipe their memories at the end of every day?”

“Too many wipes and people go soft in the head,” said Millard. “Moaning, drooling, the whole bit.”

I looked to Miss Peregrine, who verified this with a quick nod.

“What if they were to go on holiday somewhere far away?” Claire suggested. “Miss P could plant the idea in their heads after the wipe, when they’re suggestible.”

“And what about after they come back?” I said.

“Then we lock them in the basement,” Enoch replied.

“We should lock you in the basement,” said Emma.

I was causing everyone stress and anxiety they didn’t need. They would worry. I would worry. And all for the sake of my parents, who had caused me nothing but grief for the last six months.

I turned to Miss Peregrine. “It’s too complicated,” I said. “You should just wipe their memories.”

“If you want to try telling them the truth, I think you should,” she replied. “I find it’s nearly always worth the effort.”

“Really?” I said. “Are you sure?”

“If it looks like it could work, I’ll seek council approval retroactively. If it doesn’t, I have a feeling we’ll know rather quickly.”

“Fantastic!” said Emma. “And now that we’ve got that sorted . . .” She pulled me by the arm toward the water—“It’s time to swim!”—and I was caught so off guard that I couldn’t stop her.

“Wait—no—my phone!”

I rescued it from my jeans pocket just before I fell chest-high into the water, then tossed it to Horace back on the shore.



* * *



? ? ?

Emma splashed me and swam away, and I paddled after her, laughing. I was suddenly wildly happy. Happy to be among friends, my eyes dazzled by the sun, paddling after a beautiful girl who liked me. Loved me, she’d said once.

Bliss.

Up ahead, Emma had found a sandbar. She stood in waist-high water despite being far from shore. It was a trick of these friendly tides that I had always loved.

“Why, hello!” I said, slightly out of breath as I planted my feet on the sandbar.

“Do you always go swimming in blue jeans?” she said, grinning.

“Oh yeah. Everyone does. It’s the latest thing.”

“It is not,” she said.

“Seriously. It’s called nano-denim, and it dries five seconds after you get out of the water.”

“Really. That’s astounding.”

“It folds itself, too.”

She squinted at me. “You’re serious?”

“And it makes you breakfast.”

She splashed me. “It’s not nice, playing tricks on girls from past centuries!”

“You make it too easy!” I said, ducking and then splashing her back.

“Actually, I was expecting more in the way of flying cars and robot assistants and such. Robot pants at the very least.”

“Sorry about that. We made the internet instead.”