Eleanor & Park (11 page)

some books onto the shelf and

took down a few others.

As the buzz of touching her

faded, he was starting to realize

that Eleanor hadn’t actually done

anything to touch him back. She

hadn’t bent her fingers around his.

She hadn’t even looked at him.

She still hadn’t looked at him.

Jesus
.

He knocked gently on her

locker door.

‘Hey,’ he said.

She shut the door. ‘Hey,

what?’

‘Okay?’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘I’ll see you in English?’ he

asked.

She nodded and walked away.

Jesus
.

Eleanor

All through first and second and

third hour, Eleanor rubbed her

palm.

Nothing happened.

How could it be possible that

there were that many nerve

endings all in one place?

And were they always there, or

did they just flip on whenever

they felt like it? Because, if they

were always there, how did she

manage to turn doorknobs without

fainting?

Maybe this was why so many

people said it felt better to drive a

stick shift.

Park

Jesus
. Was it possible to rape

somebody’s hand?

Eleanor wouldn’t look at Park

during English and history. He

went to her locker after school,

but she wasn’t there.

When he got on the bus, she

was already sitting in their seat –

but sitting in his spot, against the

wall. He was too embarrassed to

say anything. He sat down next to

her and let his hands hang

between his knees …

Which meant she really had to

reach for his wrist, to pull his

hand into hers. She wrapped her

fingers around his and touched his

palm with her thumb.

Her fingers were trembling.

Park shifted in his seat and

turned his back to the aisle.

‘Okay?’ she whispered.

He nodded, taking a deep

breath. They both stared down at

their hands.

Jesus
.

CHAPTER 16

Eleanor

Saturdays were the worst.

On Sundays, Eleanor could

think all day about how close it

was to Monday. But Saturdays

were ten years long.

She’d already finished her

homework. Some creep had

written ‘do i make you wet?’ on

her geography book, so she spent

a really long time covering it up

with a black ink pen. She tried to

turn it into some kind of flower.

She watched cartoons with the

little kids until golf came on, then

played double solitaire with Maisie

until they were both bored stupid.

Later, she’d listen to music.

She’d saved the last two batteries

Park had given her so that she

could listen to her tape player

today when she missed him most.

She had five tapes from him now

– which meant, if her batteries

lasted, she had four hundred and

fifty minutes to spend with Park in

her head, holding his hand.

Maybe it was stupid, but that’s

what she did with him, even in her

fantasies – even where anything

was possible. As far as Eleanor

was concerned, that just showed

how wonderful it was to hold

Park’s hand.

(Besides they didn’t
just
hold

hands. Park touched her hands

like they were something rare and

precious, like her fingers were

intimately connected to the rest of

her body. Which, of course, they

were. It was hard to explain. He

made her feel like more than the

sum of her parts.)

The only bad thing about their

new bus routine was that it had

seriously cut back on their

conversations. She could hardly

look at Park when he was

touching her. And Park seemed to

have a hard time finishing his

sentences. (Which meant he liked

her.
Ha
.)

Yesterday, on the way home

from school, their bus had to take

a fifteen-minute detour because of

a busted sewer pipe. Steve had

started cussing about how he

needed to get to his new job at the

gas station. And Park had said,

‘Wow.’

‘What?’ Eleanor sat by the wall

now, because it made her feel

safer, less exposed. She could

almost pretend that they had the

bus to themselves.

‘I can actually burst sewers

with my mind,’ Park said.

‘That’s

a

very

limited

mutation,’ she said. ‘What do they

call you?’

‘They call me … um …’ And

then he’d started laughing and

pulled at one of her curls. (That

was a new, awesome development

– the hair touching. Sometimes

he’d come up behind her after

school, and tug at her ponytail or

tap the top of her bun.)

‘I … don’t know what they

call me,’ he said.

‘Maybe the Public Works,’ she

said, laying her hand on top of

his, finger to finger. Her fingertips

came to his last knuckle. It might

be the only part of her that was

smaller than him.

‘You’re like a little girl,’ he

said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your hands. They just look

…’ He took her hand in both of

his. ‘I don’t know … vulnerable.’

‘Pipemaster,’ she whispered.

‘What?’

‘That’s your superhero name.

No, wait – the Piper. Like, “Time

to pay the Piper!”’

He laughed and pulled at

another curl.

That was the most talking

they’d done in two weeks. She’d

started to write him a letter – she’d

started it a million times – but that

seemed like such a seventh-grade

thing to do. What could she write?

‘Dear Park, I like you. You

have really cute hair.’

He did have really cute hair.

Really, really. Short in the back,

but kind of long and fanned out in

the front. It was completely

straight and almost completely

black, which, on Park, seemed

like a lifestyle choice. He always

wore black, practically head to

toe. Black punk rock T-shirts over

black thermal long-sleeved shirts.

Black

sneakers.

Blue

jeans.

Almost all black, almost every

day. (He did have one white T-

shirt, but it said ‘Black Flag’ on

the front in big, black letters.)

Whenever Eleanor wore black,

her mom said that she looked like

she was going to a funeral – in a

coffin. Anyway, her mom used to

say stuff like that, back when she

occasionally noticed what Eleanor

was wearing. Eleanor had taken all

the safety pins from her mom’s

sewing kit and used them to pin

scraps of silk and velvet over the

holes in her jeans, and her mom

hadn’t even mentioned it.

Park looked good in black. It

made him look like he was drawn

in charcoal. Thick, arched, black

eyebrows. Short, black lashes.

High, shining cheeks.

‘Dear Park, I like you so

much. You have really beautiful

cheeks.’

The only thing she didn’t like

to think about, about Park, was

what he could possibly see in her.

Park

The pick-up kept dying.

Park’s dad wasn’t saying

anything, but Park knew he was

getting pissed.

‘Try again,’ his dad said. ‘Just

listen to the engine, then shift.’

That was an oversimplification

if Park had ever heard one. Listen

to the engine, depress the clutch,

shift, gas, release, steer, check

your mirrors, signal your turn,

look twice for motorcycles …

The crappy part was that he

was pretty sure he could do it if

his dad wasn’t sitting there,

fuming. Park could see himself

doing it in his head just fine.

It was like this at taekwando

sometimes, too. Park could never

master something new if his dad

was the one teaching it.

Clutch, shift, gas.

The pick-up died.

‘You’re thinking too much,’

his dad snapped.

Which is what his dad always

said. When Park was a kid, he’d

try to argue with him. ‘I can’t
help

but think,’ Park would say during

taekwando. ‘I can’t turn off my

brain.’

‘If

you

fight

like

that,

somebody’s going to turn it off

for you.’

Clutch, shift, grind.

‘Start it again … Now don’t

think, just shift … I said,
don’t

think
.’

The truck died again. Park put

his hands at ten and two and laid

his head on the steering wheel,

bracing himself. His dad was

radiating frustration.

‘Goddamn, Park, I don’t know

what to do with you. We’ve been

working on this for a year. I

taught your brother to drive in two

weeks.’

If his mom were here, she

would have called foul at this.

‘You don’t do that,’ she’d say.

‘Two boys.
Different
.’

And his dad would grit his

teeth.

‘I guess Josh doesn’t have any

trouble not thinking,’ Park said.

‘Call your brother stupid all

you want,’ his dad said. ‘He can

drive a manual transmission.’

‘But I’m only ever gonna get

to

drive

the

Impala,’

Park

muttered into the dash, ‘and it’s an

automatic.’

‘That isn’t the point,’ his dad

half shouted. If Park’s mom were

here, she would have said, ‘Hey,

mister, I don’t think so. You go

outside and yell at sky, you so

angry.’

What did it say about Park that

he wished his mom would follow

him around defending him?

That he was a pussy.

That’s what his dad thought.

It’s probably what he was thinking

now. He was probably being so

quiet because he was trying not to

say it out loud.

‘Try it again,’ his dad said.

‘No, I’m done.’

‘You’re done when I say

you’re done.’

‘No,’ Park said, ‘I’m done

now.’

‘Well, I’m not driving us

home. Try it again.’

Park started the truck. It died.

His dad slammed his giant hand

against the glove box. Park

opened the truck door and jumped

to the ground. His dad shouted his

name, but Park kept walking.

They were only a couple miles

from home.

If his dad drove by him on the

way home, Park didn’t notice.

When he got back to his

neighborhood, at dusk, Park

turned down Eleanor’s street

instead of his own. There were

two little reddish-blond kids

playing in her yard, even though it

was kind of cold.

He couldn’t see into the house.

Maybe if he stood here long

enough, she’d look out the

window. Park just wanted to see

her face. Her big brown eyes, her

full pink lips. Her mouth kind of

looked

like

the

Joker’s

–

depending on who was drawing

him – really wide and curvy. Not

psychotic, obviously … Park

should never tell her this. It

definitely didn’t sound like a

compliment.

Eleanor didn’t look out the

window. But the kids were staring

at him, so Park walked home.

Saturdays were the worst.

CHAPTER 17

Eleanor

Mondays were the best.

Today, when she got on the

bus, Park actually smiled at her.

Like, smiled at her the whole time

she was walking down the aisle.

Eleanor couldn’t bring herself

to smile directly back at him, not

in front of everybody. But she

couldn’t help but smile, so she

smiled at the floor and looked up

every few seconds to see whether

he was still looking at her.

He was.

Tina was looking at her, too,

but Eleanor ignored her.

Park stood up when she got to

their row, and as soon as she sat

down, he took her hand and

kissed it. It happened so fast, she