Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - BOOCarz

“That’s because I’m not going swimming! I agreed
to sneak out and meet you in the middle of the night,
fine, but just to talk, not to—”
“We will talk,” she insisted.
“Underwater. In my boxers.”
She kicked sand at me and started to walk away
but then turned and came back. “I’m not going to
attack you, if that’s what you’re in a knit about. Don’t
flatter yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“Then quit mucking about and take off those silly
trousers!” And then she did attack me, wrestling me to
the ground and struggling to remove my belt with one
hand while rubbing sand in my face with the other.
“Blaggh!” I cried, spitting out sand, “dirty fighter,
dirty fighter!” I had no choice but to return the favor
with a fistful of my own, and pretty soon things
devolved into a no-holds-barred sand fight. When it
was over we were both laughing and trying in vain to
brush it all out of our hair.
“Well, now you need a bath, so you might as well
get in the damned water.”
“Okay, fine.”
The water was shockingly cold at first—not a great
situation vis-à-vis wearing only boxer shorts—but I got
used to the temperature pretty quickly. We waded out
past the rocks where, lashed to a depth marker, was
a canoe. We clambered into it and Emma handed me
an oar and we both started paddling, headed toward
the lighthouse. The night was warm and the sea calm,
and for a few minutes I lost myself in the pleasant
rhythm of oars slapping water. About a hundred yards
from the lighthouse, Emma stopped paddling and
stepped overboard. To my amazement, she didn’t slip
under the waves but stood up, submerged only to her
knees.