Eleanor & Park (13 page)

Please.’

Her mother sighed. ‘Fine. I’ll

talk to Richie.’

‘No. Don’t talk to Richie. He’ll

just say no. And, anyway, he can’t

tell me that I can’t see my father.’

‘Richie is the head of this

household,’ her mom said. ‘Richie

is the one who puts food on our

table.’

What food? Eleanor wanted to

ask. And, for that matter, what

table? They ate on the couch or on

the floor or sitting on the back

steps

holding

paper

plates.

Besides, Richie would say no just

for the pleasure of saying it. It

would make him feel like the King

of Spain. Which was probably

why her mom wanted to give him

the chance.

‘Mom.’ Eleanor put her face in

her hand and leaned against the

refrigerator. ‘
Please
.’

‘ O h ,
fine
,’ her mother said

bitterly. ‘Fine. But if he gives you

any money, you can split it with

your brothers and sister. That’s

the least you can do.’

They could have it all. All

Eleanor wanted was the chance to

talk to Park on the phone. To be

able to talk to him without every

inbred hellspawn in the Flats

listening.

The next morning on the bus,

while Park ran his finger along the

inside of her bracelet, Eleanor

asked him for his phone number.

He started laughing.

‘Why is that funny?’ she

asked.

‘Because,’ he said quietly.

They said everything quietly, even

though everyone else on the bus

roared, even though you’d have to

shout into a megaphone to be

heard over all the cursing and

idiocy. ‘I feel like you’re hitting

on me,’ he said.

‘Maybe I shouldn’t ask for

your number,’ she said. ‘You’ve

never asked for mine.’

He looked up at her through

his bangs.

‘I figured you weren’t allowed

to talk on the phone … after that

time with your stepdad.’

‘I probably wouldn’t be, if I

had a phone.’ She usually tried

not to tell Park things like that.

Like, all the things she didn’t

have. She waited for him to react,

but he didn’t. He just ran his

thumb along the veins in her

wrist.

‘Then why do you want my

number?’

God, she thought, never mind.

‘You don’t have to give it to me.’

He rolled his eyes and got a

pen out of his backpack, then

reached over and took one of her

books.

‘No,’ she whispered, ‘don’t. I

don’t want my mom to see it.’

He frowned at her book. ‘I’d

think you’d be more worried

about her seeing
this
.’

Eleanor looked down. Crap.

Whoever wrote that gross thing on

her geography book had written

on her history book, too.

‘suck me off,’ it said, in ugly

blue letters.

She grabbed Park’s pen and

started scribbling it out.

‘Why would you write that?’

he asked. ‘Is that a song?’

‘I didn’t write it,’ she said. She

could feel patches of red creep up

her neck.

‘Then who did?’

She gave him the meanest look

she was capable of. (It was hard to

look at him with anything other

than gooey eyes.) ‘I don’t know,’

she said.

‘Why

would
anyone
write

that?’

‘I don’t
know
.’ She pulled her

books against her chest and

wrapped her arms around them.

‘Hey,’ he said.

Eleanor ignored him and

looked out the window. She

couldn’t believe she’d let him see

that on her book. It was one thing

to let him see her crazy life a little

bit at a time …
So, yeah, I have a

terrible stepdad, and I don’t have

a phone, and sometimes when

we’re out of dish soap I wash my

hair with flea and tick shampoo

…

It was another thing to remind

him that she was
that
girl. She

may as well invite him to gym

class. She might as well give him

an alphabetical list of all the

names they called her.

A – Ass, Fat

B – Bitch, Red-Headed

He’d probably try to ask her

why
she was that girl.

‘Hey,’ he said.

She shook her head.

It wouldn’t do any good to tell

him that she hadn’t been
that
girl

at her old school. Yeah, she’d

been made fun of before. There

were always mean boys – and

there were always, always mean

girls – but she’d had friends at her

old school. She’d had people to

eat lunch with and pass notes to.

People used to pick her to be on

their team in gym class just

because they thought she was nice

and funny.

‘Eleanor …’ he said.

But there was no one like Park

at her old school.

There was no one like Park

anywhere.

‘What,’ she said to the

window.

‘How’re you going to call me

if you don’t have my number?’

‘Who said I was going to call

you?’ She hugged her books.

He leaned against her, pressing

his shoulder into hers.

‘Don’t be mad at me,’ he said,

sighing. ‘It makes me crazy.’

‘I’m never mad at you,’ she

said.

‘Right.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You must just be mad
near

me a lot.’

She pushed her shoulder

against his and smiled despite

herself.

‘I’m babysitting at my dad’s

house Friday night,’ she said, ‘and

he said I could use the phone.’

Park turned his face eagerly. It

was painfully close to hers. She

could kiss him – or head-butt him

– before he’d ever have a chance

to pull away. ‘Yeah?’ he asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘
Yeah
,’ he said, smiling. ‘But

you won’t let me write down my

number?’

‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘I’ll

memorize it.’

‘Let me write it down.’

‘I’ll memorize it to the tune of

a song, so that I don’t forget.’

He started singing his number

to the tune of ‘867-5309,’ which

cracked her right up.

Park

Park tried to remember the first

time he saw her.

Because he could remember,

on

that

day,

seeing

what

everybody else saw. He could

remember thinking that she was

asking for it …

That it was bad enough to

have curly red hair. That it was

bad enough to have a face shaped

like a box of chocolates.

No, he hadn’t thought exactly

that. He’d thought …

That it was bad enough to

have a million freckles and

chubby baby cheeks.

God, she had adorable cheeks.

Dimples on top of freckles, which

shouldn’t even be allowed, and

round as crabapples. It was kind

of amazing that more people

didn’t try to pinch her cheeks. His

grandma was definitely going to

pinch her when they met.

But Park hadn’t thought that

either, the first time he saw

Eleanor

on

the

bus.

He

remembered thinking that it was

bad enough that she looked the

way she did …

Did she have to dress like that?

And act like that? Did she have to

try so hard to be different?

He

remembered

feeling

embarrassed for her.

And now …

Now, he felt the fight rising up

in his throat whenever he thought

of people making fun of her.

When he thought of someone

writing that ugly thing on her

book … it made him feel like Bill

Bixby just before he turned into

the Hulk.

It had been so hard, on the

bus, to pretend that it didn’t

bother him. He didn’t want to

make anything worse for her –

he’d put his hands in his pockets

and pressed them into fists, and

held them that way all morning

long.

All morning long, he’d wanted

to punch something. Or kick

something. Park had gym class

right after lunch, and he ran so

hard during drills, he’d started to

retch up his fish sandwich.

Mr Koenig, his gym teacher,

made him leave class early and

take a shower. ‘Hit the bricks,

Sheridan.

Now.

This

isn’t

Chariots of
Fuckin’
Fire
.’

Park

wished

it

was
only

righteous anger that he felt. He

wished

that

he

could

feel

defensive

and

protective

of

Eleanor

without

feeling

…

everything else.

Without feeling like they were

making fun of him, too.

There were moments – not just

today, moments every day since

they’d met – when Eleanor made

him self-conscious, when he saw

people talking and he was sure

they were talking about them.

Raucous moments on the bus

when he was sure that everyone

was laughing at them.

And in those moments, Park

thought about pulling back from

her.

Not breaking up with her. That

phrase didn’t even seem to apply

here. Just … easing away.

Recovering the six inches between

them.

He’d roll the thought over in

his head until the next time he saw

her.

In class, at her desk. On the

bus, waiting for him. Reading

alone in the cafeteria.

Whenever he saw Eleanor, he

couldn’t think about pulling away.

He couldn’t think about anything

at all.

Except touching her.

Except doing whatever he

could or had to, to make her

happy.

‘What do you mean you’re not

coming tonight?’ Cal said.

They were in study hall, and

Cal was eating a Snack Pack

butterscotch pudding. Park tried to

keep his voice down. ‘Something

came up.’

‘Something?’

Cal

said,

slamming his spoon into his

pudding.

‘Like

you

being

completely lame – is that what

came up? Because that comes up a

lot lately.’

‘No .
Something
. Like, a girl

something.’

Cal leaned in. ‘You’ve got a

girl something?’

Park felt himself blush. ‘Sort

of. Yeah. I can’t really talk about

it.’

‘But we had a plan,’ Cal said.

‘You had a plan,’ Park said,

‘and it was terrible.’

‘Worst friend in the world,’

Cal said.

Eleanor

She was so nervous, she couldn’t

even touch her lunch. She gave

DeNice her creamed turkey and

Beebi her fruit cocktail.

Park made her practice his

phone number all the way home.

And then he wrote it on her

book anyway. He hid it in song

titles.

‘Forever Young.’

‘That’s a four,’ he said. ‘Will

you remember?’

‘I won’t have to,’ she said, ‘I

already know your number by

heart.’

‘And this is just a five,’ he

said, ‘because I can’t think of any

five songs, and this one’ –

‘Summer of ’69’ – ‘With this one,

remember the six, but forget the

nine.’

‘I hate that song.’

‘God, I know … Hey, I can’t

think of any two songs.’

“‘Two of Us,”’ she said.

‘Two of us?’

‘It’s a Beatles song.’

‘Oh … that’s why I don’t

know it.’ He wrote it down.

‘I know your number by

heart,’ she said.

‘I’m just afraid you’re going to

forget it,’ he said quietly. He

pushed her hair out of her eyes

with his pen.

‘I’m not going to forget it,’ she

said. Ever. She’d probably scream

out Park’s number on her

deathbed. Or have it tattooed over

her heart when he finally got sick

of her. ‘I’m good with numbers.’

‘If you don’t call me Friday

night,’ he said, ‘because you can’t

remember my number …’

‘How about this, I’ll give you