Dreamland Social Club(42)

In homeroom that same morning it became clear that word of Marcus’s black eye had spread quickly, but not quite as quickly as word of Harvey Claverack’s black eye. Even Jane was caught off guard by the damage her brother had managed to inflict upon the geek, who was easily twice his size. Marcus’s eye region had retreated to its normal size but turned a deep shade of lavender. Harvey’s was a dark eggplant.

Ouch.

When she was sick of fielding questions about it for which she had no answers—and sick of pride and fear doing battle in her heart—she escaped into the basement halls and knocked on the door to the Siren offices.

“Oh, hi!” Legs said. “I was actually just coming to find you.”

“Let me guess,” she said. “You’re doing a story about my brother’s black eye.”

“No.” He smiled. “Though it’s not the worst idea in the world. I wanted to show you something. You never came back to look through the archives, and I felt sort of bad that I brushed you off.” He handed her a large black-and-white photo. “I think that might be your mother?”

Jane took the photo and studied it. In it, her mother wore an Empire-waisted dress in a bright red with black leggings underneath and black boots—like combat boots—on her feet. Three others—one a man with his arm around her mother’s shoulder—stood side by side. “It is,” she said. “What about the other people? Are there names?”

“No,” Legs said. “Sorry.”

And right then she recognized Beth in the photo. Younger, but definitely Beth.

Legs said, “You can keep it,” and Jane said, “Thanks.”

He was probably not the kind of guy who had ever canceled on Minnie. Jane was dreading having to look Leo in the eye and not show her hurt.

“Just don’t tell anybody, okay?” Legs said. “Technically it’s school property.”

“Of course,” Jane said.

The first-period bell rang and they both headed toward the door. Jane stopped to put the photo into her bag and saw, in a light pencil marking on the back, the letters D.S.C.

“So would you, like, maybe want to go rollerskating on Friday?” Legs opened the door for her. “There’s a benefit thing.”

When she didn’t answer right away but kept, instead, looking at those letters, so barely there it was a wonder she’d even spotted them, Legs stammered a bit and said, “A bunch of people from school will be there.”

Sliding the photograph into a folder, Jane looked up. It was sweet of him to want to be friends, to include her in a group outing like that.

But rollerskating?

“Rollerskating isn’t really my thing,” she said, but then she felt such a rush of gratitude for him, for the photo, for his reaching out this way, she said, “But yeah, sure. Sounds fun.”





Venus seemed to want something from Jane in biology lab that morning. A confession of some kind? An apology? But since Jane was going to give her neither, she ignored Venus’s expectant looks and studied the instructions on the handout. They were doing a lab called “Invertebrate Diversity” and were going to be moving around the room to different stations, comparing general characteristics of a bunch of animals without backbones.

It turned out that Leo hadn’t shown up for school, and Jane wondered what that meant about his backbone, or lack thereof. Fortunately, she found that it was much easier to bluff in front of Venus without him around to remind her of what she was trying to hide. And what, exactly, was she hiding? Her feelings for Leo? The night at the Thunderbolt? Their plans to meet again tonight? The fact that she had seen them, maybe, kissing?

It’s just that Venus . . . he’d said on the phone.

It’s just that Venus what?

“So I was hanging out with Leo last night,” Venus said, and it felt like a kick in the gut. They’d just finished studying an earthworm—taking notes on whether it was symmetrical and had legs or eyes and how it moved—and had gone over to the snail station. Venus’s tattoos seemed to be in full bloom that day—she even smelled like roses—and Jane wondered whether the bugs were drawn to her. “He said your moms were friends.”

Jane nodded and studied the markings on the snail’s shell, looking for patterns or anything of interest at all.

“It doesn’t mean anything, you know.” Venus wasn’t taking many notes; just the bare minimum. “I just mean, it’s not like that means you two are gonna be bestest friends or anything.”

“Right.” Jane struggled hard not to add, Go play in traffic, and said instead, “I know.” She was sure now that their specimen had started to inch toward Venus.

Venus picked up the snail then, and Jane said, “I’m not sure you’re supposed to—”

“Read the handout,” Venus snapped, and Jane found the line that said “You are encouraged to handle the earthworms, crickets, and snails, but please be careful and don’t handle them too roughly.”

“He’s out sick today.” Venus coughed a fake cough. “I hope I didn’t catch it.”

Jane sat and stared at her lab sheet, not able to decipher her own notes and wondering: Did getting tattoos hurt more or less than conversations like this? Was there any way to measure physical pain against emotional pain? Did snails and earthworms and crickets know the difference? She wished for a note she could circulate—one about maybe treating her carefully, about not handling her too roughly. She’d give the first copy to Venus and the second one to Leo.