Eleanor & Park (4 page)

At Eleanor’s old school, she’d

thought it had sucked that they

had to wear gym
shorts
. (Eleanor

hated her legs even more than she

hated the rest of her body.) But at

North they had to wear gym
suits
.

Polyester onesies. The bottom was

red, and the top was red-and-

white striped, and it all zipped up

the front.

‘Red isn’t your color, Bozo,’

Tina had said the first time

Eleanor suited up. The other girls

all laughed, even the black girls,

who hated Tina. Laughing at

Eleanor was Dr King’s mountain.

After Tina pushed past her,

Eleanor took her time getting on

the bus – but she still got to her

seat before that stupid Asian kid.

Which meant she’d have to get up

to let him have his spot by the

window.

Which

would

be

awkward. It was all awkward.

Every time the bus hit a pothole,

Eleanor practically fell in the guy’s

lap.

Maybe somebody else on the

bus would drop out or die or

something and she’d be able move

away from him.

At least he didn’t ever talk to

her. Or look at her.

At least she didn’t
think
he did;

Eleanor never looked at him.

Sometimes she looked at his

shoes. He had cool shoes. And

sometimes she looked to see what

he was reading …

Always comic books.

Eleanor

never

brought

anything to read on the bus. She

didn’t want Tina, or anybody else,

to catch her with her head down.

Park

It felt wrong to sit next to

somebody every day and not talk

to her. Even if she was weird.

(Jesus, was she weird. Today she

was dressed like a Christmas tree,

with all this stuff pinned to her

clothes, shapes cut out of fabric,

ribbon …) The ride home

couldn’t go fast enough. Park

couldn’t wait to get away from

her, away from everybody.

‘Dude, where’s your dobak?’

He was trying to eat dinner

alone in his room, but his little

brother wouldn’t let him. Josh

stood in the doorway, already

dressed

for

taekwando

and

inhaling a chicken leg.

‘Dad’s going to be here, like

now,’ Josh said through the

drumstick, ‘and he’s gonna shit if

you’re not ready.’

Their mom came up behind

Josh and thumped him on the

head. ‘Don’t cuss, dirty mouth.’

She had to reach up to do it. Josh

was his father’s son; he was

already at least seven inches taller

than their mom – and three inches

taller than Park.

Which sucked.

Park pushed Josh out the door

and slammed it. So far, Park’s

strategy for maintaining his status

as older brother despite their

growing size differential was to

pretend he could still kick Josh’s

ass.

H e
could
still beat him at

taekwando – but only because

Josh got impatient with any sport

where his size wasn’t an obvious

advantage.

The

high

school

football coach had already started

coming to Josh’s Peewee games.

Park changed into his dobak,

wondering if he was going to have

to start wearing Josh’s hand-me-

downs pretty soon. Maybe he

could take a Sharpie to all Josh’s

Husker football T-shirts and make

them say Husker Dü. Or maybe it

wouldn’t even be an issue – Park

might never get any taller than five

foot four. He might never grow

out of the clothes he had now.

He put on his Chuck Taylors

and took his dinner into the

kitchen, eating over the counter.

His mom was trying to get gravy

out of Josh’s white jacket with a

washcloth.

‘Mindy?’

That’s how Park’s dad came

home every night, like the dad in a

sit-com. (‘
Lucy?
’) And his mom

would call out from wherever she

was, ‘In here!’

Except she said it, ‘In hee-ya!’

Because she was apparently never

going to stop sounding like she

just got here yesterday from

Korea. Sometimes Park thought

she kept the accent on purpose,

because his dad liked it. But his

mom tried so hard to fit in in

every other way … If she could

sound like she grew up right

around the corner, she would.

His dad barreled into the

kitchen and scooped his mom into

his arms. They did this every

night, too. Full-on make-out

sessions, no matter who was

around. It was like watching Paul

Bunyan make out with one of

those
It’s a Small World
dolls.

Park grabbed his brother’s

sleeve. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ They

could wait in the Impala. Their

dad would be out in a minute, as

soon as he’d changed into his

giant dobak.

Eleanor

She still couldn’t get used to

eating dinner so early.

When did this all start? In the

old house, they’d all eaten

together, even Richie. Eleanor

wasn’t complaining about not

having to eat with Richie … But

now it was like their mom wanted

them all out of the way before he

came home.

She even made him a totally

different dinner. The kids would

get grilled cheese, and Richie

would get steak. Eleanor wasn’t

complaining about the grilled

cheese either – it was a nice break

from bean soup, and beans and

rice, and huevos y frijoles …

After dinner, Eleanor usually

disappeared into her room to read,

but the little kids always went

outside. What were they going to

do when it got cold – and when it

started getting dark early? Would

they all hide in the bedroom? It

was crazy.
Diary of Anne Frank

crazy.

Eleanor climbed up onto her

bunk bed and got out her

stationery box. That dumb gray cat

was sleeping in her bed again. She

pushed him off.

She opened the grapefruit box

and flipped through her stationery.

She kept meaning to write letters

to her friends from her old school.

She hadn’t gotten to say goodbye

to anybody when she left. Her

mom had shown up out of the

blue and pulled Eleanor out of

class, all ‘Get your things, you’re

coming home.’

Her mom had been so happy.

And Eleanor had been so

happy.

They went straight to North to

get

Eleanor

registered,

then

stopped at Burger King on the way

to the new house. Her mom kept

squeezing Eleanor’s hand …

Eleanor had pretended not to

notice the bruises on her mom’s

wrist.

The bedroom door opened,

and her little sister walked in,

carrying the cat.

‘Mom wants you to leave the

door open,’ Maisie said, ‘for the

breeze.’ Every window in the

house was open, but there didn’t

seem to be any breeze. With the

door open, Eleanor could just see

Richie sitting on the couch. She

scooted down the bed until she

couldn’t.

‘What are you doing?’ Maisie

asked.

‘Writing a letter.’

‘To who?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Can I come up?’

‘No.’ For the moment, all

Eleanor could think about was

keeping her box safe. She didn’t

want Maisie to see the colored

pencils and clean paper. Plus, part

of her still wanted to punish

Maisie for sitting in Richie’s lap.

That

never

would

have

happened before.

Before Richie kicked Eleanor

out, all the kids were allied against

him. Maybe Eleanor had hated

him the most, and the most openly

– but they were all on her side,

Ben and Maisie, even Mouse.

Mouse used to steal Richie’s

cigarettes and hide them. And

Mouse was the one they’d send to

knock on their mom’s door when

they heard bedsprings …

When it was worse than

bedsprings, when it was shouting

or crying, they’d huddle together,

all five of them, on Eleanor’s bed.

(They’d all had their own beds in

the old house.)

Maisie sat at Eleanor’s right

hand then. When Mouse cried,

when Ben’s face went blank and

dreamy, Maisie and Eleanor would

lock eyes.

‘I hate him,’ Eleanor would

say.

‘I hate him so much I wish he

was dead,’ Maisie would answer.

‘I hope he falls off a ladder at

work.’

‘I hope he gets hit by a truck.’

‘A garbage truck.’

‘Yeah,’ Maisie would say,

gritting her teeth, ‘and all the

garbage will fall on his dead

body.’

‘And then a bus will run him

over.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I hope I’m on it.’

Maisie put the cat back on

Eleanor’s bed. ‘It likes to sleep up

there,’ she said.

‘Do you call him Dad, too?’

Eleanor asked.

‘He is our dad now,’ Maisie

said.

Eleanor woke up in the middle of

the night. Richie had fallen asleep

in the living room with the TV on.

She didn’t breathe on the way to

the bathroom and was too scared

to flush the toilet. When she got

back to her room, she closed the

door. Fuck the breeze.

CHAPTER 7

Park

‘I’m going to ask Kim out,’ Cal

said.

‘Don’t ask Kim out,’ Park

said.

‘Why not?’ They were sitting

in the library, and they were

supposed to be looking for

poems. Cal had already picked out

something short about a girl

named Julia and the ‘liquefaction

of her clothes.’ (‘Crass,’ Park said.

‘It can’t be crass,’ Cal argued. ‘It’s

three-hundred

years

old.’)

‘Because she’s Kim,’ Park said.

‘You can’t ask her out. Look at

her.’

Kim was sitting at the next

table over with two other preppy

girls.

‘Look at her,’ Cal said, ‘she’s a

Betty.’

‘Jesus,’ Park said. ‘You sound

so stupid.’

‘What? That’s a thing. A Betty

is a thing.’

‘But you got it from
Thrasher

or something, right?’

‘That’s how people learn new

words, Park’ – Cal tapped a book

of poetry – ‘reading.’

‘You’re trying too hard.’

‘She’s a Betty,’ Cal said,

nodding at Kim and getting a Slim

Jim out of his backpack.

Park looked at Kim again. She

had bobbed blond hair and hard,

curled bangs, and she was the

only kid in school with a Swatch.

Kim was one of those people who

never wrinkled … She wouldn’t

make eye contact with Cal. She’d

be afraid he’d leave a stain.

‘This is my year,’ Cal said.

‘I’m getting a girlfriend.’

‘But probably not Kim.’

‘Why not Kim? You think I

need to aim lower?’

Park looked up at him. Cal

wasn’t a bad-looking guy. He had

kind of a tall Barney Rubble thing

going on … He already had pieces

of Slim Jim caught in his front

teeth.

‘Aim elsewhere,’ Park said.

‘Screw that,’ Cal said, ‘I’m

starting at the top. And I’m getting

you a girl, too.’

‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ Park

said.

‘Double-dating,’ Cal said.

‘No.’

‘In the Impala.’

‘Don’t get your hopes up.’

Park’s dad had decided to be a

fascist

about

Park’s

driver’s

license; he’d announced last night

that Park had to learn to drive a

stick first. Park opened another

book of poetry. It was all about

war. He closed it.

‘Now there’s a girl who might

want a piece of you,’ Cal said.

‘Looks like
somebody
’s got jungle

fever.’

‘That isn’t even the right kind

of racist,’ Park said, looking up.

Cal was nodding toward the far