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back in Tokyo so very long ago—the Ocean Dome, the funeral, the rest—and how it all seemed like a dream, too. But not even her dream, somebody else’s.
    Marcus shrugged. “Sort of. I guess.”
    In that moment Coney didn’t look as awful as it did from street level. From way up high in the sky, you could almost imagine it was cleaner, better.
    Jane said softly, “I was thinking of trying to, you know, find some of her friends or something.”
    Suddenly, their car unhinged, and it felt like they were going to plummet to the ground and crash to their death. But after a second it stopped dropping and it just swayed back and forth, back and forth. It had slid down a rail to another part of the wheel.
    Swinging.
    Marcus’s fingers were laced through the metal cage of the car when he said, “It’s just for one year, Jane.”
    “I know,” she said. “But still . . .”
     
    A teeth-deep sound crunched the air as they walked home. They cautiously approached a crowd that had gathered around the noise. Only a few people were wearing black. No one was holding flowers or crying. But they had the look of a funeral about them nonetheless. Beyond them, on the side of a building, a mural advertised a circus sideshow with large paintings of a snake charmer wearing a python like a necklace; a “human blockhead,” shown with a nail in his nose; a Rubber Man with his legs hooked behind his neck; a geek with a bowling ball hanging from his tongue; and a bearded lady who called herself “The Dog Lady of Coney Island.”
    No wonder her mother had ditched her carny past.
    Jane tore her gaze away as the sound started again and watched a huge clawed machine chew up a small red car. She stopped and stared, silent, like the others.
    Metal crushed metal.
    Wood splintered and split.
    Small Go Kart cars in bright red, yellow, blue, surrendered to crushing one after the other. Just beyond them, a huge shark-mouthed machine bit up black chunks of track that tore in curvy sheets like giant melting vinyl records.
    Someone in the crowd started booing, and then more people joined in and the boos became increasingly loud and angry. A man picked a bottle out of an overflowing trash can and threw it at the claw. It hit the side of the yellow cab and shattered, spraying caramel-colored flecks into the air. Tattoo Boy appeared and stepped over to him and said, “Easy, man,” and the controller stuck his head out a small window and shouted, “Asshole!”
    “What’s happening?” Jane asked, and Marcus answered, “Don’t know, don’t care,” and started to walk away.

CHAPTER four
    J ANE’S FATHER HAD THE LOOK of a mad professor about him, all windblown and out of breath, when he came home with pizza that night. Jane was starting to think that living on Coney put you in a permanent state of windblown-ness. Her own hair, typically painfully straight, had actually never looked better now that it had a little salty body.
    “So!” he said. “How was it?”
    Marcus didn’t bother to stifle his snort. “It was a total freak show.”
    “Jane?” their father said, and her mind was suddenly a blur of tattoos and earlobe holes. She said, “I guess it was a little . . . strange.”
    “Strange?” Marcus laughed.
    “Strange how?” Their father put the pizza box down, pulled paper plates out of a yellow cabinet, and tossed them onto the table. He took a slice and bit off a piece, creating a long, thin trail of cheese.
    “Dad,” Marcus said seriously, “they could remake Is It Human? with the kids at this school.”
    “You mean actual freaks ?”
    Marcus nodded. “A small but highly freakish group of them, yes.”
    “Really?” He took another bite and pushed the box toward Jane. “Pizza?”
    She pushed the box back. “No thanks.” She found the tone of the conversation unappetizing.
    Marcus said, “Apparently, the sideshow that came here a few years ago brought this little group of carny families with them, and you add that to some geek