Dreamland Social Club by Tara Altebrando Page B

of me. You gotta use what you got, you know?”
    “Well, thanks,” Jane said, not sure she had anything to use at all.
    “He’s just a big, dumb bully.” He shook his head. “I got no time for that. And yo, do not give them that horse.”
    “But their grandfather made it.”
    And it’s my ticket to freedom!
    “Doesn’t matter who made it. Doesn’t belong in their grubby mitts.”
    A late bell rang, and Jane consulted her schedule. When she saw that she was expected in gym, possibly her most dreaded class in the history of the world, she thought about hiding in the bathroom. Then again, she’d need to be fit if she was going to survive that five-mile swim.
     
    After school that day, Jane studied a bulletin board for information about The Siren , then found the offices, located in a far corner of the school’s basement, and dared to knock. She poked her head in after someone called out, “It’s open!”
    She walked into a cement-walled room with rectangular windows and exposed pipes running along the ceiling and heard only the buzz of a printer or scanner. At a desk in a far corner, one covered with piles of papers, the giant stood up from his chair. A shadow fell over Jane as he blocked the lights like a big cloud in front of the sun.
    “Hey.” He held out an oversize hand. “I’m Legs Malstead.”
    She went to shake it but her hand barely covered the span of his palm; it was more of a high-five than anything until Legs enclosed her hand in his other hand to hold in there long enough to have a proper shake. Jane was grateful he had a system.
    “I’m Jane,” she said. “Dryden.”
    “I know.”
    “Oh.” She figured she should just cut to the chase. “I was wondering, do you keep archives?”
    He bent down on one knee and, irrationally, Jane thought he might propose. Instead he said, “We do.” And then he seemed a little bit irrationally excited when he said, “What are you looking for?”
    Jane felt her cheeks tighten at the thought of having to say any of it out loud, so she kept it short and sweet. “My mom went to school here.” Talking about her mother out loud, with a stranger—and a giant, no less—took the wind out of her. She had to concentrate hard in order to speak again. “I wanted to see if she was ever written up in the paper.”
    And of course the founding of a new school club seemed potentially newsworthy, but she didn’t feel the need to elaborate. Not until she knew more, anyway. Not until she could breathe again.
    Legs nodded quickly and said, “Just give me one minute to finish something up. . . .” He handed her an issue of the paper. “Read while you wait.”
    Jane’s eyes landed on a Faculty Q&A in a box on the first page of the paper. It definitely offered up some interesting facts about Coney Island High’s chemistry teacher—like that he worked at the Coney Island Sideshow during the summer, as Garth the Human Garbage Disposal—but the reporter hadn’t asked the questions Jane would have asked. Then again, she probably wouldn’t have chosen a teacher to shine her spotlight on. She wished for a spotlight on H.T. or Leo, even one about Babette. Because she couldn’t just flat-out ask her new classmates things like “What’s the best thing about being a goth dwarf?” and “What’s the worst?” Or “Why do you get tattoos?” Or “Do you envy people with legs?” She’d be tagged a Looky Lou forever. And besides, the core question behind every question she wanted to know the answer to was unanswerable. It was “What’s it like to be you?”
    And not me.
    She sort of felt like it was the only question ever worth asking anybody. Not where are you from? Or what do your parents do? Or what do you want to be when you grow up? Or any of the usual bunk. Just what is it like ? What are you like?
    It was a question she couldn’t answer.
    You know who you are.
    Or you don’t.
    “Okay,” Legs said finally, putting some papers in some sort of courier bag.