Dreamland Social Club by Tara Altebrando Page A

section, and then flipped through pages and pages of alphabetical student photos until she found her.
    Clementine Porcelli.
    Her mom had long, straight hair in the photo and was wearing a T-shirt with some kind of writing on it, though you could only see the tops of the letters and thus couldn’t read what it said. She was smiling with her mouth closed, and had a look in her eyes that said she really couldn’t be bothered. Still, she looked pretty.
    Under her name appeared the words “Founder, Dreamland Social Club.”
    “No way , ” Jane whispered to herself.
    Heart thumping with the thrill of discovery, she compared her mother’s entry to some others. Most of the seniors pictured had long lists—Math Team, Drama Club, Editor-in-chief of The Siren (which she gleaned was the school paper, though she hadn’t seen it yet) and on and on—underneath their names.
    But not her mother.
    It made sense on some level that her mom was a nonjoiner—the woman had practically un-joined her own family—but she had started the Dreamland Social Club? And it was still going after all these years? Something about discovering a legacy, even if Jane had no idea what it actually was , made her happy.
    When the section for club photos turned up no picture of the Dreamland S.C., she went back to the beginning of the alphabet and started looking for other people who’d listed it among their extracurriculars. But the whole thing proved more time-consuming than she’d realized and, by the time the bell rang, she’d only gotten to the D’s and hadn’t found any other members.
    The second she stepped out into the hall to head to her next class, a voice said, “Well, look who we have here.”
    She turned to face Cliff Claverack, whose face was red, as if from a workout. He said, “We are going to make your life a living hell.”
    As nonconfrontationally as she could manage, Jane said, “I didn’t know about the horse.”
    He leaned in close to her, so close that she could see the pores on the face of the dragon tattooed on his neck. For a second she half feared that that tattoo was going to open up and breathe a stream of fire at her.
    “Doesn’t matter whether you did or didn’t,” he said. “He was a piece of shit and shit runs in families.”
    “But I never even met him!”
    He’s not even really my family! she almost added. But of course he was.
    He covered his ears and said, “Not-listening-notlistening-not-listening,” then pulled his hands away and said, “Just turn over the horse and we’ll leave you alone.”
    Fine, Jane almost said. I will!
    But a voice came from down the hall—“Giddyup, Claverack”—and Cliff looked up and over Jane’s shoulder. Jane turned and saw a black kid walking down the hall. She recognized him as the guy who had no legs, but here he was. Walking. Wearing jeans and shoes.
    “None of your business!” Cliff sang in a sort of singsong.
    “Is if I make it.” He was standing beside Jane now, taller than her by several inches. His teeth were straighter than any Jane had ever seen, and his arms were tight with muscle.
    Cliff backed away. “That’s how it’s gonna be?”
    Jane didn’t understand how it was possible, kept looking at those jeans, those shoes.
    He said, “That’s how it’s gonna be,” with a crooked smile that made the teeth look even straighter.
    Cliff clomped away then, and she turned to her savior and said, “Thanks.” But confusion must have tinged her features, because he bent to knock on his thigh and said, “Prosthetics.”
    “Oh,” Jane said.
    “I’m H. T. Astaire.” He held out a hand, which Jane shook. It was calloused, rough; felt the complete opposite of how the skin on his face looked.
    “Officially Henry Thomas,” he said. “Unofficially, Half-There.” He hit his prosthetics again.
    Jane put it together. “Half-There Astaire.”
    “I dance”—he held up his hands—“mostly on these. Which might be the reason Claverack is scared shitless