A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #4)(17)

“Very disappointing.”

“I know. I’d rather have flying cars.”

“I mean it’s disappointing that you’ve turned out to be such a liar. I really had high hopes for us. Ah, well.”

“I just had to get it out of my system. No more tricking, I promise!”

“You promise promise?”

“Ask me something else. I promise promise to tell you the truth.”

“Okay.” She grinned, raked wet bangs away from her eyes, and crossed her arms. “Tell me about your first kiss.”

I felt myself blush and tried sinking into the water to hide it—but of course I couldn’t really because I had to breathe.

“I walked right into that, didn’t I?”

“You know practically every nook and cranny of my romantic history. How is it fair that I don’t know anything about yours?”

“Because there’s nothing worth knowing.”

“Oh, bunkum. Not even a kiss?”

I glanced around, hoping for some distraction that might interrupt her line of questioning.

“Um . . .” I let my mouth sink below the waterline and mumbled something that came out as bubbles.

She lay her palms on the surface of the water. After a moment it began to hiss and steam. “Tell me or I’ll boil you!”

I bobbed upward. “Okay, okay, I confess! I dated a supermodel rocket scientist. And a pair of twins who won a grant for their humanitarian work and exotic lovemaking skills. But you’re better than any of them!”

The steam had briefly obscured her, and when it cleared, she was no longer there.

“Emma?” I panicked, searching the water. “Emma!”

Then a splash came from behind me, and I spun around and got a face full of water. There she was, laughing at me.

“I said no tricks!”

“You freaked me out!” I said, wiping my eyes.

“You can’t expect me to believe that such a handsome young lad never had a single kiss before I came along.”

“Okay, one,” I admitted, “but it’s hardly worth mentioning. I think the girl was, like, experimenting on me.”

“Oh my. Now, that does sound interesting.”

“Her name was Janine Wilkins. She kissed me behind the bleachers during Mehlanie Shah’s birthday party at the Stardust Skate Center. She said she was tired of being a ‘kiss virgin’ and wanted to see what it felt like. Then she swore me to secrecy, and said if I told anyone about it she’d spread a rumor that I still wet the bed.”

“Goodness. What a trollop.”

“And that’s my whole exciting history.”

Her eyes got wide, then she lay back in the water and let herself float. The happy chatter of our friends rose and fell beneath the gentle crash of surf. “Jacob Portman, pure as the driven snow.”

“I, uh—yeah,” I said, feeling awkward. “That’s a weird way to put it.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know.”

“I know,” I said, though I’m not sure I did, then. Every movie and TV show aimed at teenage guys made it seem like not having lost your virginity by the time you had your driver’s license was some kind of personal failure. Which I knew was idiotic—but it’s hard not to internalize that stuff when you hear it so often.

“It means you’re careful with your heart,” she said. “I appreciate that.” She cocked an eye at me. “And I wouldn’t worry, in any case. I’m certain it’s not . . .” She dragged a finger across the water, a trail of steam chasing it “. . . a permanent condition.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, a little thrill shooting through me.

“Time will tell,” she said, letting her legs sink, then righting herself. She was focused on me in this intense way, studying me as we drifted closer, our hands linking and feet entangling underwater. Before anything else could entangle, we heard shouts, and I saw Miss Peregrine and Horace waving us in from the shore.



* * *



? ? ?

“It’s Hugh,” said Horace, handing me my phone as I slogged out of the surf.

I held it away from my dripping head. “Hello?”

“Jacob! Your uncles are waking up. Your parents, too, I think.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” I said. “Just keep them where they are.”

“I’ll try, but hurry,” said Hugh. “I don’t have any more of that dust stuff, and your uncles are mean.”

And then all of us who could run, ran.

Bronwyn carried Olive. Miss Peregrine, who could walk and fly but could not run, told us to go on ahead, and over my shoulder I watched as she dove into the sea and disappeared beneath the waves. A moment later her clothes floated to the surface without her, and then she burst out of the water in bird form and flapped over our heads toward my house. Seeing her shape-shift always made me want to clap my hands and shout, but I restrained myself in case any normals were watching, and ran on.

We arrived at my front door sweaty, sandy, and panting, but there was no time to clean up. I could hear my uncles’ angry voices through the garage door. We had to take care of them first, before old Mrs. Melloroos heard and called the cops.

As soon as we got inside, I went to the garage and began apologizing to my uncles. They were angry and confused and starting to get belligerent, and after a minute they barged past me into the house. Miss Peregrine was waiting in the hall with her feather and her penetrating stare, and soon both uncles were calm, quiet, and as pliable as Play-Doh. Their minds were so easy to wipe it was almost disappointing. In the dopey, highly suggestible state that followed, Miss Peregrine let me do the talking. I sat them on counter stools in the kitchen and explained that the last twenty-four hours had been totally uneventful, that my mental health was beyond reproach, and that all the recent family drama was the result of a misdiagnosis on the part of my new psychiatrist. Just to be on the safe side, I told them that any strange British people they might run into over the next few weeks—or speak to on the phone if they called the house—were distant relatives on my dad’s side, and they had come to pay respects to my dear departed grandfather. Uncle Bobby replied with hypnotized nods. Uncle Les kept muttering “Mm-hmm,” while filling his pockets with scrambled eggs from the leftover scraps of breakfast. I told them to go get some sleep, called them taxis, and sent them home.