Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - BOOCarz

answer them frankly. What was my world like? What
did people eat, drink, wear? When would sickness
and death be overcome by science? They lived in
splendor but were starving for new faces and new
stories. I told them whatever I could, racking my brain
for nuggets of twentieth-century history from Mrs.
Johnston’s class—the moon landing! the Berlin Wall!
Vietnam!—but they were hardly comprehensive.
It was my time’s technology and standard of living
that amazed them most. Our houses were airconditioned.
They’d heard of televisions but had never
seen one and were shocked to learn that my family
had a talking-picture box in almost every room. Air
travel was as common and affordable to us as train
travel was to them. Our army fought with remotecontrolled
drones. We carried telephone-computers
that fit in our pockets, and even though mine didn’t
work here (nothing electronic seemed to), I pulled it
out just to show them its sleek, mirrored enclosure.
It was edging toward sunset when we finally started
back. Emma stuck to me like glue, the back of her
hand brushing mine as we walked. Passing an apple
tree on the outskirts of town, she stopped to pick one,
but even on tiptoes the lowest fruit was out of reach,
so I did what any gentleman would do and gave her a
boost, wrapping my arms around her waist and trying
not to groan as I lifted, her white arm outstretched, wet
hair glinting in the sun. When I let her down she gave
me a little kiss on the cheek and handed me the
apple.
“Here,” she said, “you earned it.”
“The apple or the kiss?”
She laughed and ran off to catch up with the others.
I didn’t know what to call it, what was happening
between us, but I liked it. It felt silly and fragile and
good. I put the apple in my pocket and ran after her.
When we came to the bog and I said I had to go