Authors: Rainbow Rowell
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.