Dreamland Social Club(69)

“Just a sense I got, and I mean, there’s some history, right?”

“Right,” Jane said. “Our mothers were friends.”

As if that explained it all.

“I heard that. And I thought you were going to go for him, but then I guess the whole Tsunami thing happened.” Legs chewed a bit, moved onto his third dog. “People stare at him, too, but it’s different.”

“How is it different?” Jane was pretty sure she already knew.

Legs swallowed, and Jane watched his Adam’s apple—like the size of a baseball—travel down his neck. “They look at me because they’re grateful they’re not me. They look at him because they want to be him.”

Jane said, “I bet there are people out there who’d want to be you.”

“Name one good reason why anyone would want to be seven and a half feet tall.” Before she could say anything he added, “And the reason can’t be basketball.”

She was stumped for a second, but then she said, “I think some of the, you know, little people. Minnie. Babette. I think they sometimes wish they were you.”

“They wish they were taller,” he said. “Not this tall.”

“Well, there are good things about it, right? I mean, you can always see if you go to a concert.”

Legs let out a loud “Ha” before continuing. “I have to stand in the very last row or at the back edge of a crowd or I piss people off.”

She felt her own pout.

“You’re sweet.” Legs started to gather his trash. “And it’s not the worst thing in the world, no. But it’s not that great either.”

“Dude,” someone said as Legs stood up. “You play basketball?”

“No,” Jane snapped. “He doesn’t.”

She was angry—had been angry the whole time, she realized—and finally felt the need to ask Legs, “Why didn’t you sign the petition?”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“What did you want to do?” Her whole body seemed to tighten.

“I don’t think it’s a big deal either way.” Legs threw his trash into a large bin. “It’s not like a stupid petition is going to change anything.”

He was right. But Jane wanted to smack him anyway.





Peach Fuzz had a new Mets shirt but the same tire belly and the same old lines. “Check-check-check it out,” he said into the mike. “Shoot the Freak in the freakin’ head.”

Jane had half a mind to slap down ten bucks and let rip. She’d pretend the Freak was Leo again and she’d nail him.

He deserved it.

Not for trying to save his father’s bar or trying to stop Loki from building a shopping mall, but for just not getting it. Not getting that none of it—Loki, the Anchor, the Tsunami, nothing—had anything to do with them, not really. For not getting that they had had something that was worth pursuing that fall and that they owed it to themselves to follow through and see what it really was.

The more time that had passed, the more knishes they’d shared during their truce, the more sure Jane had become that he’d wanted to kiss her that night on the roof of the bumper car building, when they’d gone to Luna Park and the Elephant Hotel in their minds.

The more time that had passed the surer she was that she was the one who’d screwed it up, by not realizing she’d agreed to a date with Legs, by not telling Leo about the Tsunami sooner.

But he hadn’t helped.

She watched as a few shooters splattered orange and green paint on the trash can the Freak had ducked behind and then found herself, once more, staring at the Mad Hatter and his teapot. She was suddenly very, very thirsty, like there was a webby moths’ nest in her throat. And when she walked by the carousel house and saw the sign that said that the ride had been removed, to be restored, and would be back next year, she knew what she had to do.





CHAPTER four


I THINK WE SHOULD GIVE THE HORSE BACK,” she said at dinner that night. The three of them were eating sausage-and-pepper sandwiches made with sausages Marcus had cooked out back on the grill, and from her seat at the table Jane could see the horse, frozen in its gallop to nowhere. She was surer than ever of what was right.

“What?” Marcus said, chewing. “No way. Why?”

“I thought you said you didn’t care.” Jane took another bite.

Marcus wiped his mouth and put his sandwich down. “I thought you said Birdie was on it the first time Preemie met her.”

“She was?” their dad said, and Jane nodded, then turned to Marcus. “I repeat,” she said. “I thought you didn’t care.”

“Children,” their father said. He had already devoured his own sandwich and was picking at a salad Jane had made.

“Harvey gave me a black eye,” Marcus said, then he popped the last bit of his bread into his mouth.

“You neighed at him,” Jane said between bites.

“Have they been bothering you again, Jane?” her father asked. “Is that what’s going on?”

“No, actually.” They’d stopped—right after she talked to their father and grandfather. She almost hadn’t realized it at the time. “But I’ve been thinking.” She glanced into the living room again. “It just doesn’t belong here.”