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.
Then it was time to deal with my parents. I asked Bronwyn to carry them upstairs to their bedroom before the sleep dust wore off, so they wouldn’t wake up in a wrecked car, surrounded by reminders of the previous night’s trauma. She left them in their bed and closed the door, and for a minute I paced the hall outside, leaving sandy footprints on the carpet, nervously trying to figure out what to say.
Emma came up the stairs. “Hey,” she whispered. “Before you go in, I wanted you to know something.”
I went to her and she clasped my hand. “Yeah?”
“She fancied you.”
“Who?”
“Janine Wilkins. A girl doesn’t lose her