Eleanor & Park (6 page)

understatement anyway. She was

the only person in class who’d

read her poem like it wasn’t an

assignment. She recited it like it

was a living thing. Like something

she was letting out. You couldn’t

look away from her as long as she

was talking. (Even more than

Park’s usual not being able to look

away from her.) When she was

done, a lot of people clapped and

Mr Stessman hugged her. Which

was totally against the Code of

Conduct.

‘Hey. Nice job. In English.’

That’s what Park was going to

say.

Or maybe, ‘I’m in your

English class. That poem you read

was cool.’

Or, ‘You’re in Mr Stessman’s

class, right? Yeah, I thought so.’

Park picked up his comics

after taekwando Wednesday night,

but he waited until Thursday

morning to read them.

Eleanor

That stupid Asian kid totally knew

that she was reading his comics.

He even looked up at Eleanor

sometimes before he turned the

page, like he was
that polite
.

He definitely wasn’t one of

them, the bus demons. He didn’t

talk to anyone on the bus.

(Especially not her.) But he was in

with them somehow because,

when Eleanor was sitting next to

him, they all left her alone. Even

Tina. It made Eleanor wish she

could sit next to him all day long.

This morning, when she got

on the bus, it kind of felt like he

was waiting for her. He was

holding a comic called
Watchmen
,

and it looked so ugly that Eleanor

decided

not

to

bother

eavesdropping. Or eavesreading.

Whatever.

(She liked it best when he read

X-Men
, even though she didn’t get

everything that was going on

th e r e ;
X-Men
was worse than

General Hospital
. It took Eleanor

a couple weeks to figure out that

Scott Summers and Cyclops were

the same guy, and she still wasn’t

sure what was up with Phoenix.)

But

Eleanor

didn’t

have

anything else to do, so her eyes

wandered over to the ugly comic

… And then she was reading. And

then they were at school. Which

was totally weird because they

weren’t even halfway through

with it.

And which totally sucked

because it meant he would read

the rest of the comic during

school, and have something lame

like
ROM
out on the way home.

Except he didn’t.

When Eleanor got on the bus

that afternoon, the Asian kid

opened up
Watchmen
right where

they’d left off.

They were still reading it when

they got to Eleanor’s stop – there

was so much going on, they both

stared at every frame for, like,

entire minutes – and when she got

up to leave, he handed it to her.

Eleanor was so surprised, she

tried to hand it back, but he’d

already turned away. She shoved

the comic between her books like

it was something secret, then got

off the bus.

She read it three more times

that night, lying on the top bunk,

petting the scrubby old cat. Then

she put it in her grapefruit box

overnight, so that nothing would

happen to it.

Park

What if she didn’t give it back?

What if he didn’t get to finish

the

first

issue

of
Watchmen

because he’d lent it to a girl who

hadn’t asked for it and probably

didn’t even know who Alan

Moore was.

If she didn’t give it back, they

were even. That would cancel out

the whole ‘Jesus-fuck-sit-down’

scenario.

Jesus … No, it wouldn’t.

What if she
did
give it back?

What was he supposed to say

then? Thanks?

Eleanor

When she got to their seat, he was

looking out the window. She

handed him the comic, and he

took it.

CHAPTER 10

Eleanor

Th e
next
morning, when Eleanor

got on the bus, there was a stack

of comics on her seat.

She picked them up and sat

down. He was already reading.

Eleanor

put

the

comics

between her books and stared at

the window. For some reason, she

didn’t want to read in front of

him. It would be like letting him

watch her eat. It would be like …

admitting something.

But she thought about the

comics all day, and as soon she

got home, she climbed onto her

bed and got them out. They were

all the same title –
Swamp Thing
.

Eleanor ate dinner sitting

cross-legged on her bed, extra

careful not to spill anything on the

books because every issue was in

pristine condition; there wasn’t so

much as a bent corner. (Stupid,

perfect Asian kid.)

That night, after her brothers

and sister fell asleep, Eleanor

turned the light back on so she

could read. They were the loudest

sleepers ever. Ben talked in his

sleep, and Maisie and the baby

both snored. Mouse wet the bed –

which didn’t make noise, but still

disturbed the general peace. The

light didn’t seem to bother them

though.

Eleanor was only distantly

conscious of Richie watching TV

in the next room, and she

practically fell off the bed when

he jerked the bedroom door open.

He looked like he expected to

catch some middle-of-the-night

hijinks, but when he saw that it

was only Eleanor and that she was

just reading, he grunted and told

her to turn out the light so the little

kids could sleep.

After he shut the door, Eleanor

got up and turned off the light.

(She could just about get out of

bed

without

stepping

on

somebody now, which was lucky

for them because she was the first

one up every morning.)

She might have gotten away

with leaving the light on, but it

wasn’t worth the risk. She didn’t

want to have to look at Richie

again.

He looked exactly like a rat.

Like the human-being version of a

rat. Like the villain in a Don Bluth

movie. Who knew what her mom

saw in him; Eleanor’s dad was

messed-up-looking, too.

Every
once
in a while – when

Richie managed to take a bath, put

on decent clothes and stay sober

all on the same day – Eleanor

could
sort
of see why her mom

might have thought he was

handsome. Thank the Lord that

didn’t happen very often. When it

did, Eleanor felt like going to the

bathroom and sticking a finger

down her throat.

Anyway. Whatever. She could

still read. There was enough light

coming in from the window.

Park

She read stuff as fast as he could

give it to her. And when she

handed it back to him the next

morning, she always acted as if

she were handing him something

fragile. Something precious. You

wouldn’t even know that she

touched the comics except for the

smell.

Every book Park lent her came

back smelling like perfume. Not

like the perfume his mom wore.

(Imari.) And not like the new girl;

she smelled like vanilla.

But she made his comics smell

like roses. A whole field of them.

She’d read all of his Alan

Moore in less than three weeks.

Now he was giving her
X-Men

comics five at a time, and he could

tell that she liked them because

she wrote the characters’ names

on her books, in between band

names and song lyrics.

They still didn’t talk on the

bus, but it had become a less

confrontational silence. Almost

friendly. (But not quite.)

Park would
have
to talk to her

today – to tell her that he didn’t

have anything to give her. He’d

overslept, then forgotten to grab

the stack of comics he’d set out

for her the night before. He hadn’t

even had time to eat breakfast or

brush his teeth, which made him

self-conscious, knowing he was

going to be sitting so close to her.

But when she got on the bus

and

handed

him

yesterday’s

comics, all Park did was shrug.

She looked away. They both

looked down.

She was wearing that ugly

necktie again. Today it was tied

around her wrist. Her arms and

wrists

were

scattered

with

freckles, layers of them in

different shades of gold and pink,

even on the back of her hands.

Little-boy hands, his mom would

call them, with short-short nails

and ragged cuticles.

She stared down at the books

in her lap. Maybe she thought he

was mad at her. He stared at her

books, too – covered in ink and

Art Nouveau doodles.

‘So,’ he said, before he knew

what to say next, ‘you like the

Smiths?’ He was careful not to

blow his morning breath on her.

She looked up, surprised.

Maybe confused. He pointed at

her book, where she’d written

‘How Soon Is Now?’ in tall green

letters.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ve

never heard them.’

‘So you just want people to

think
you like the Smiths?’ He

couldn’t

help

but

sound

disdainful.

‘Yeah,’ she said, looking

around the bus. ‘I’m trying to

impress the locals.’

He didn’t know if she could

help but sound like a smartass, but

she sure wasn’t trying. The air

soured between them. Park shifted

against the wall. She looked

across the aisle to stare out the

window.

When he got to English, he

tried to catch her eye, but she

looked away. He felt like she was

trying so hard to ignore him that

she wouldn’t even participate in

class.

Mr Stessman kept trying to

draw her out – she was his new

favorite target whenever things got

sleepy in class. Today they were

supposed to be discussing
Romeo

and Juliet
, but nobody wanted to

talk.

‘You don’t seem troubled by

their deaths, Miss Douglas.’

‘I’m sorry?’ she said. She

narrowed her eyes at him.

‘It doesn’t strike you as sad?’

Mr Stessman asked. ‘Two young

lovers lay dead.
Never was a story

of more woe
. Doesn’t that get to

you?’

‘I guess not,’ she said.

‘Are you so cold? So cool?’

He was standing over her desk,

pretending to plead with her.

‘No …’ she said. ‘I just don’t

think it’s a tragedy.’

‘It’s
the
tragedy,’ Mr Stessman

said.

She rolled her eyes. She was

wearing two or three necklaces,

old fake pearls, like Park’s

grandmother wore to church, and

she twisted them while she talked.

‘But he’s so obviously making

fun of them,’ she said.

‘Who is?’

‘Shakespeare.’

‘Do tell …’

She rolled her eyes again. She

knew Mr Stessman’s game by

now.

‘Romeo and Juliet are just two

rich kids who’ve always gotten

every little thing they wanted. And

now, they
think
they want each

other.’

‘They’re in love …’ Mr

Stessman said, clutching his heart.

‘They don’t even know each

other,’ she said.

‘It was love at first sight.’

‘It was “Oh my God, he’s so

cute” at first sight. If Shakespeare

wanted you to believe they were

in love, he wouldn’t tell you in

almost the very first scene that

Romeo was hung up on Rosaline