Summer has camped out at the Peregrine household, making herself quite at ease, all 90+ degrees of herself. I slip the Labrador ice cubes and frozen bananas to cool her down as the Saint and I break out the fans and water jugs. Summer flits her radiant, sun bleached hair and twitters about, remarking about the rising level of humidity and how much she enjoys melting things…
After a particular trying day, I’m in my office trying to write and Summer is determined to distract me. She twirls a purple daisy with her fingers and pulls the petals out, one by one, chanting: “He loves me, he loves me not…” She spots my red sunburn at the last petal and smirks, shaking her head at my predicament and lethargy.
“Tut, tut,” Summer cajoles. “I might have mistaken you for a sleepy lobster, you poor thing. Cheer up and buck up. I’m going to be here until August–September if you’re lucky. You might as well get used to me. Because it’s going to be hot-hot-hot!”
I watch her dance around my writing room as she mimes maracas and drains me of any energy to write. I want to trip her down the stairs, all the way out the front door. Run away, Summer, and return when you’ve cooled down. Sixty degrees should do it. And I want wind. Remember Wind?
He was nice.