The Mostly True Story of Jack by Kelly Barnhill Page B

suddenly transformed into an infernally hot and scratchy wool sweater—a gift from a relative, perhaps, that he was obligated to wear. In any case, it seemed as though his skin was not his skin anymore, that his body was trying to be something… else. And he didn’t know what. And it irked him.
    It didn’t help Jack’s growing sense of discomfort that, for days after the break-in, he saw Mr. Perkins hurrying past him on a bicycle. Each time, Jack instinctively darted away, his skateboard easily outpacing the bike, but still he had the distinct impression that Mr. Perkins was laughing at him. That Mr. Perkins knew something that Jack did not.
    But
Jack
, and not Mr. Perkins, had the book. That had to count for something—Jack was sure of it. Mostly sure anyway.
    What do you know?
Jack wanted to shout. He had already checked every page, and it didn’t look as though anything had been ripped out. Still, Mr. Perkins had read
something
to make him this happy. And Jack was going to figure out what it was.
    Mr. Perkins, Jack noticed, left the Exchange at ten o’clock every morning and rode his bicycle past the park toward a large, beautiful mansion right next door to the college campus. On the fifth day of watching the man go by, Jack decided to follow him. There was a tangled hedge that separated the park from the row of houses on its eastern side, and Jack crawled in, crouched down, and waited. The branches pressed around him gently, and though they looked like they might scratch and cut his skin, Jack was surprised at how soft they were. The leaves breathed as he breathed. He watched the road. Mr. Perkins paused his bicycle when he reached the park, planted one foot on the ground, and scanned the grounds. Jack held his breath. The branches of the hedge seemed to curl around him just a little bit tighter, shielding him from view.
    “Hello!” Mr. Perkins called.
    Why is he looking for me?
Jack wondered.
    “Only cowards and sneaks hide,” Mr. Perkins yelled in a higher, squeakier voice. Tough words, Jack thought,from the guy who had worn camouflage clothing while following him.
    Mr. Perkins reached into his pocket, pulled out a small brown strap, and stroked his face with it before kicking at the pavement and pedaling down the street. Jack eased his body out of the hedge (Was it his imagination, or did the branches seem to hang on to his arms and legs? Did the leaves curl themselves on the curve of his skin?), dropped his skateboard on the ground, and followed him.
    The skateboard noiselessly skimmed the road without so much as a push from Jack, eclipsing the distance between him and the peddling Mr. Perkins. Jack tried dragging his foot on the ground, but he continued to pick up speed. The mansion at the end of the road—Mr. Avery’s house, according to the map his uncle had given him—loomed closer and closer.
    “Slow down,” he pleaded. “Slow down.” But the skateboard did not slow down, and if Jack didn’t do something soon, he’d hit the bicycle’s back wheel. Thinking fast, he stepped hard on the back deck, tipping the board up and sending sparks flying behind. He leaped off lightly, caught the board in mid-spin under his arm, and hid behind a parked car. Mr. Perkins paused and turned, but too late. Jack was already hidden. Mr. Perkins stood in front of the mansion at the end of the road and waited.
    A very old, very rusty station wagon pulled to a halt, and a tall, well-dressed man stepped out, his lips curlingin distaste. He brushed his hands along his suit, as though trying to wipe away dirt and germs.
    “
Perkins!
” he roared.
    “I’m right here, sir,” Mr. Perkins said, letting the bicycle topple to the ground and holding out the manila envelope. “Welcome home, welcome home! We have been lost without you, sir, utterly lost. I’m sure you simply
forgot
to leave your itinerary with us, but I will say I had quite the time trying to rearrange your meetings when I didn’t