Eleanor & Park (33 page)

Eleanor asked. They both stared at

her, desperate and almost …

almost hopeful.

Everything anybody ever said

in this house was desperate.

Desperate was white noise, as

far as Eleanor was concerned – it

was the
hope
that pulled at her

heart with dirty little fingers.

She was pretty sure she was

wired wrong somewhere, that her

plugs were switched, because

instead of softening toward them

– instead of tenderness – she felt

herself go cold and mean. ‘I can’t

take you with me,’ she said, ‘if

that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Why not?’ Ben said. ‘We’ll

just hang out with the other kids.’

‘T h er e
are
no other kids,’

Eleanor said, ‘it’s not like that.’

‘You don’t care about us,’

Maisie said.

‘I do care,’ Eleanor hissed. ‘I

just can’t …
help
you.’

The door opened, and Mouse

wandered in. ‘Ben, Ben, Ben,

where’s my car, Ben? Where’s my

car? Ben?’ He jumped on Ben for

no reason. Sometimes you didn’t

know until after Mouse jumped on

you whether he was hugging you

or trying to kill you.

Ben tried to push Mouse off as

quietly as he could. Eleanor threw

a book at him. (A paperback.

God.) Mouse ran out of the room,

and Eleanor leaned out of her bed

to close the door. She could

practically

open

her

dresser

without getting out of bed.

‘I can’t help you,’ she said. It

felt like letting go of them in deep

water. ‘I can’t even help myself.’

Maisie’s face was hard.

‘Please don’t tell,’ Eleanor

said.

Maisie and Ben exchanged

looks again, then Maisie, still hard

and gray, turned to Eleanor.

‘Will you let us use your

stuff?’

‘What stuff?’ Eleanor asked.

‘Your comics,’ Ben said.

‘They’re not mine.’

‘Your makeup,’ Maisie said.

They’d probably catalogued

her whole freaking bed. Her

grapefruit box was packed with

contraband these days, all of it

from Park … They were already

into everything, she was sure.

‘You have to put it away when

you’re done,’ Eleanor said. ‘And

the comics aren’t mine, Ben,

they’re borrowed. You have to

keep them nice …

‘And if you get caught,’ she

turned to Maisie, ‘Mom will take it

all away. Especially the makeup.

None of us will have it then.’

They both nodded.

‘I would have let you use

some, anyway,’ she said to Maisie.

‘You just had to ask.’

‘Liar,’ Maisie said.

And she was right.

Park

Wednesdays were the worst.

No Eleanor. And his dad

ignored him all through dinner

and taekwando.

Park wondered if it was just

the eyeliner that had done it – or if

the eyeliner had been the pencil

that broke the camel’s back. Like

Park had spent sixteen years acting

weak and weird and girlie, and his

dad had borne it on his massive

shoulders. And then one day, Park

put on makeup, and that was it,

his dad just shrugged him off.

Your dad loves you, Eleanor

said. And she was right. But it

didn’t matter. That was table

stakes. His dad loved him in a

completely obligatory way, like

Park loved Josh.

His dad couldn’t stand the

sight of him.

Park kept wearing eyeliner to

school. And he kept washing it off

when he got home. And his dad

kept acting like he wasn’t there.

Eleanor

It was just a matter of time now. If

Maisie and Ben knew, their mom

would find out. Either the kids

would tell her, or she’d find some

clue Eleanor had overlooked, or

something

…

It

would

be

something
.

Eleanor didn’t have anywhere

to hide her secrets. In a box, on

her bed. At Park’s house, a block

away.

She was running out of time

with him.

CHAPTER 39

Eleanor

Thursday night after dinner,

Park’s grandma came over to have

her hair set, and his mom

disappeared into the garage. His

dad

was

messing

with

the

plumbing

under

the

sink,

replacing the garbage disposal.

Park was trying to tell Eleanor

about a tape he’d bought. Elvis

Costello. He couldn’t shut up

about it.

‘There are a couple songs you

might like, ballady stuff. But the

rest is really fast.’

‘Like punk?’ She wrinkled her

nose. She could stand a few Dead

Milkmen songs, but other than

that, she hated Park’s punk music.

‘I feel like they’re yelling at me,’

she’d say when he tried to put

punk on her mix tapes. ‘Stop

yelling at me, Glenn Danzig!’

‘That’s Henry Rollins.’

‘They all sound the same when

they’re yelling at me.’

Lately, Park was really into

New Wave music. Or post-punk

or something. He went through

bands like Eleanor went through

books.

‘No,’ he said, ‘Elvis Costello is

more musical. Gentler. I’ll dub

you a copy.’

‘Or you could just play it for

me. Now.’

Park tilted his head. ‘That

would involve going into my

room.’

‘Okay,’ she said, not quite

casually.

‘Okay?’ he asked. ‘Months of

no, and now, okay?’

‘Okay,’ Eleanor said. ‘You’re

always saying that your mom

doesn’t care …’

‘My mom doesn’t care.’

‘So?’

Park

stood

up

jerkily,

grinning, and pulled her up. He

stopped at the kitchen. ‘We’re

going to listen to music in my

room.’

‘Fine,’ his dad said from under

the sink. ‘Just don’t get anybody

pregnant.’

That

should

have

been

embarrassing, but Park’s dad had

a

way

of

cutting

past

embarrassing. Eleanor wished he

wasn’t ignoring them all the time.

Park’s mom probably let him

have girls in his room because you

could practically see into his room

from the living room, and you had

to walk by to get to the bathroom.

But, to Eleanor, it still felt

incredibly private.

She couldn’t get over the fact

that Park spent most of his time in

this room horizontal. (It was only

a ninety-degree difference, but

imagining him that way blew all

her fuses.) Also, he changed his

clothes in here.

There was no place to sit but

on his bed, which Eleanor

wouldn’t consider. So they sat

between his bed and his stereo,

where there was just enough room

to sit with their legs bent.

As soon as they sat down,

Park

started

fast-forwarding

through the Elvis Costello tape. He

had stacks and stacks of tapes, and

Eleanor pulled a few out to look at

them.

‘Ah …’ Park said, pained.

‘What?’

‘Those’re alphabetized.’

‘It’s

okay.

I

know

the

alphabet.’

‘Right.’

He

looked

embarrassed. ‘Sorry. Whenever

Cal comes over, he always messes

them up. Okay, this is the song I

wanted you to hear. Listen.’

‘Cal comes over?’

‘Yeah,

sometimes.’

Park

turned up the volume. ‘It’s been a

while.’

‘Because now I just come over

…’

‘Which is okay with me

because I like you a lot more.’

‘But don’t you miss your other

friends?’ she asked.

‘You’re not listening,’ he said.

‘Neither are you.’

He paused the tape, like he

didn’t want to waste this song as

background music. ‘Sorry,’ he

said. ‘We’re talking about whether

I miss Cal? I eat lunch with him

almost every day.’

‘And he doesn’t mind that you

spend the rest of your time with

me now? None of your friends

mind?’

Park ran his hand through his

hair. ‘I still see them all at school

… I don’t know, I don’t really

miss them, I’ve never really

missed anybody but you.’

‘But you don’t miss me now,’

she said. ‘We’re together all the

time.’

‘Are you kidding? I miss you

constantly.’

Even though Park washed his

face as soon as he got home, the

black around his eyes didn’t come

off completely. It made everything

he did lately seem more dramatic.

‘
That
’s crazy,’ she said.

Park started laughing. ‘I know

…’

She wanted to tell him about

Maisie and Ben and their days

being numbered, etc., but he

wouldn’t understand, and what

did she expect him to do?

Park pushed play.

‘What’s this song called?’ she

asked.

“‘Alison.”’

Park

Park played Elvis Costello for her

– and Joe Jackson, and Jonathan

Richman and the Modern Lovers.

She teased him because it was

all so pretty and melodic, and ‘in

the same phylum as Hall & Oates,’

and he threatened to evict her

from his room.

When his mom came to check

on them, they were sitting with a

hundred cassette tapes between

them, and as soon as she walked

away, Park leaned over and kissed

Eleanor. It seemed like the best

time not to get caught.

She was a little too far away,

so he put his hand on her back

and pulled her toward him. He

tried to do it like it was something

he did all the time, as if touching

her someplace new wasn’t like

discovering

the

Northwest

Passage.

Eleanor came closer. She put

her hands on the floor between

them and leaned into him, which

was so encouraging that he put his

other hand on her waist. And then

it was too much to be almost-but-

not-really

holding

her.

Park

rocked forward onto his knees

and pulled her tighter.

Half a dozen cassette tapes

cracked

under

their

weight.

Eleanor fell back, and Park fell

forward.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Oh, God

… look, what we did to
Meat is

Murder
.’

Park sat back and looked at

the tapes. He wanted to sweep

them out of the way. ‘It’s mostly

just the cases, I think,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry about it.’ He started

picking up the broken plastic.

‘The

Smiths

and

the

Smithereens …’ she said. ‘We

even broke them in alphabetical

order.’

He tried to smile at her, but she

wouldn’t look at him. ‘I should

go,’ she said. ‘I think it’s almost

eight, anyway.’

‘Oh. Okay, I’ll walk you.’

She stood up and Park

followed

her.

They

walked

outside and down the walk, and

when they got to his grandparents’

driveway, Eleanor didn’t stop.

Eleanor

Maisie smelled like an Avon lady,

and she was made up like the

whore of Babylon. They were

definitely going to get caught. Talk

about a house of effing cards. Jee.

Zus.

And Eleanor couldn’t even

think strategy, because all she

could think about was Park’s

hands on her waist and her back

and her stomach – which all must

feel like nothing he’d ever

encountered. Everyone in Park’s

family was skinny enough to be in

a Special K commercial. Even his

grandma.

Eleanor could only be in that

scene where the actress pinches an

inch, then looks at the camera like

the world is going to end.

Actually, she’d have to lose

weight to be in that scene. You

could pinch an inch – or two, or

three – all over Eleanor’s body.

You could probably pinch an inch

on her forehead.