Authors: Rainbow Rowell
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