Текст книги "Eleanor & Park"

Автор книги: Rainbow Rowell

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CHAPTER 16 Eleanor

Saturdays were the worst.

On Sundays, Eleanor could think all day about how close it was to Monday. But Saturdays were ten years long.

She’d already finished her homework. Some creep had written ‘do i make you wet?’ on her geography book, so she spent a really long time covering it up with a black ink pen. She tried to turn it into some kind of flower.

She watched cartoons with the little kids until golf came on, then played double solitaire with Maisie until they were both bored stupid.

Later, she’d listen to music. She’d saved the last two batteries Park had given her so that she could listen to her tape player today when she missed him most. She had five tapes from him now – which meant, if her batteries lasted, she had four hundred and fifty minutes to spend with Park in her head, holding his hand.

Maybe it was stupid, but that’s what she did with him, even in her fantasies – even where anything was possible. As far as Eleanor was concerned, that just showed how wonderful it was to hold Park’s hand.

(Besides they didn’t just hold hands. Park touched her hands like they were something rare and precious, like her fingers were intimately connected to the rest of her body. Which, of course, they were. It was hard to explain. He made her feel like more than the sum of her parts.)

The only bad thing about their new bus routine was that it had seriously cut back on their conversations. She could hardly look at Park when he was touching her. And Park seemed to have a hard time finishing his sentences. (Which meant he liked her. Ha.)

Yesterday, on the way home from school, their bus had to take a fifteen-minute detour because of a busted sewer pipe. Steve had started cussing about how he needed to get to his new job at the gas station. And Park had said, ‘Wow.’

‘What?’ Eleanor sat by the wall now, because it made her feel safer, less exposed. She could almost pretend that they had the bus to themselves.

‘I can actually burst sewers with my mind,’

Park said.

‘That’s a very limited mutation,’ she said.

‘What do they call you?’

‘They call me … um …’ And then he’d started laughing and pulled at one of her curls. (That was a new, awesome development – the hair touching. Sometimes he’d come up behind her after school, and tug at her ponytail or tap the top of her bun.)

‘I … don’t know what they call me,’ he said.

‘Maybe the Public Works,’ she said, laying her hand on top of his, finger to finger. Her fingertips came to his last knuckle. It might be the only part of her that was smaller than him.

‘You’re like a little girl,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your hands. They just look …’ He took her hand in both of his. ‘I don’t know … vulnerable.’

‘Pipemaster,’ she whispered.

‘What?’

‘That’s your superhero name. No, wait – the Piper. Like, “Time to pay the Piper!”’

He laughed and pulled at another curl.

That was the most talking they’d done in two weeks. She’d started to write him a letter – she’d started it a million times – but that seemed like such a seventh-grade thing to do. What could she write?

‘Dear Park, I like you. You have really cute hair.’

He did have really cute hair. Really, really.

Short in the back, but kind of long and fanned out in the front. It was completely straight and almost completely black, which, on Park, seemed like a lifestyle choice. He always wore black, practically head to toe. Black punk rock T-shirts over black thermal long-sleeved shirts. Black sneak-ers. Blue jeans. Almost all black, almost every day. (He did have one white T-shirt, but it said

‘Black Flag’ on the front in big, black letters.) Whenever Eleanor wore black, her mom said that she looked like she was going to a funeral –

in a coffin. Anyway, her mom used to say stuff like that, back when she occasionally noticed what Eleanor was wearing. Eleanor had taken all the safety pins from her mom’s sewing kit and used them to pin scraps of silk and velvet over the holes in her jeans, and her mom hadn’t even mentioned it.

Park looked good in black. It made him look like he was drawn in charcoal. Thick, arched, black eyebrows. Short, black lashes. High, shining cheeks.

‘Dear Park, I like you so much. You have really beautiful cheeks.’

The only thing she didn’t like to think about, about Park, was what he could possibly see in her.

Park

The pick-up kept dying.

Park’s dad wasn’t saying anything, but Park knew he was getting pissed.

‘Try again,’ his dad said. ‘Just listen to the engine, then shift.’

That was an oversimplification if Park had ever heard one. Listen to the engine, depress the clutch, shift, gas, release, steer, check your mirrors, signal your turn, look twice for motorcycles

…

The crappy part was that he was pretty sure he could do it if his dad wasn’t sitting there, fum-ing. Park could see himself doing it in his head just fine.

It was like this at taekwando sometimes, too.

Park could never master something new if his dad was the one teaching it.

Clutch, shift, gas.

The pick-up died.

‘You’re thinking too much,’ his dad snapped.

Which is what his dad always said. When Park was a kid, he’d try to argue with him. ‘I can’t help but think,’ Park would say during taekwando. ‘I can’t turn off my brain.’

‘If you fight like that, somebody’s going to turn it off for you.’

Clutch, shift, grind.

‘Start it again … Now don’t think, just shift

… I said, don’t think.’

The truck died again. Park put his hands at ten and two and laid his head on the steering wheel, bracing himself. His dad was radiating frustration.

‘Goddamn, Park, I don’t know what to do with you. We’ve been working on this for a year.

I taught your brother to drive in two weeks.’

If his mom were here, she would have called foul at this. ‘You don’t do that,’ she’d say. ‘Two boys. Different.’

And his dad would grit his teeth.

‘I guess Josh doesn’t have any trouble not thinking,’ Park said.

‘Call your brother stupid all you want,’ his dad said. ‘He can drive a manual transmission.’

‘But I’m only ever gonna get to drive the Impala,’ Park muttered into the dash, ‘and it’s an automatic.’

‘That isn’t the point,’ his dad half shouted. If Park’s mom were here, she would have said,

‘Hey, mister, I don’t think so. You go outside and yell at sky, you so angry.’

What did it say about Park that he wished his mom would follow him around defending him?

That he was a pussy.

That’s what his dad thought. It’s probably what he was thinking now. He was probably being so quiet because he was trying not to say it out loud.

'Try it again,’ his dad said.

‘No, I’m done.’

‘You’re done when I say you’re done.’

‘No,’ Park said, ‘I’m done now.’

‘Well, I’m not driving us home. Try it again.’

Park started the truck. It died. His dad slammed his giant hand against the glove box.

Park opened the truck door and jumped to the ground. His dad shouted his name, but Park kept walking. They were only a couple miles from home.

If his dad drove by him on the way home, Park didn’t notice. When he got back to his neighborhood, at dusk, Park turned down Eleanor’s street instead of his own. There were two little reddish-blond kids playing in her yard, even though it was kind of cold.

He couldn’t see into the house. Maybe if he stood here long enough, she’d look out the window. Park just wanted to see her face. Her big brown eyes, her full pink lips. Her mouth kind of looked like the Joker’s – depending on who was drawing him – really wide and curvy. Not psychotic, obviously … Park should never tell her this. It definitely didn’t sound like a compliment.

Eleanor didn’t look out the window. But the kids were staring at him, so Park walked home.

Saturdays were the worst.

CHAPTER 17 Eleanor

Mondays were the best.

Today, when she got on the bus, Park actually smiled at her. Like, smiled at her the whole time she was walking down the aisle.

Eleanor couldn’t bring herself to smile directly back at him, not in front of everybody. But she couldn’t help but smile, so she smiled at the floor and looked up every few seconds to see whether he was still looking at her.

He was.

Tina was looking at her, too, but Eleanor ignored her.

Park stood up when she got to their row, and as soon as she sat down, he took her hand and kissed it. It happened so fast, she didn’t have time to die of ecstasy or embarrassment.

She let her face fall for just a few seconds against his shoulder, against the sleeve of his black trench coat. He squeezed her hand tight.

‘I missed you,’ he whispered. She felt tears in her eyes and turned to the window.

They didn’t say anything more all the way to school. Park walked with Eleanor to her locker, and they both stood there quietly, leaning against the wall almost until the bell rang. The hall was practically empty.

Then Park reached up and wrapped one of her red curls around his honey finger.

‘Back to missing you,’ he said, letting it go.

She was late to homeroom and didn’t hear Mr Sarpy tell her that she had an office pass. He slammed it on her desk.

‘Eleanor, wake up! You’ve got a pass from your counselor.’ God, he was a jerk, she was glad she didn’t have him for a real class. As she walked to the office, she trailed her fingertips along the brick wall and hummed a song Park had given her.

She was so blissed out, she even smiled at Mrs Dunne when she got to her office.

‘Eleanor,’ she said, hugging her. Mrs Dunne was big on hugging. She’d hugged Eleanor the very first time they met. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m good.’

‘You look good,’ Mrs Dunne said.

Eleanor looked down at her sweater (a very fat man had probably bought it to wear golfing in 1968) and at her holey jeans. God, how bad did she usually look? ‘Thanks, I guess.’

‘I’ve been talking to your teachers,’ Mrs Dunne said. ‘Did you know you’re getting As in almost all your classes?’

Eleanor shrugged. She didn’t have cable or a phone, and she felt like she was living under-ground in her own house … There was plenty of time for homework.

‘Well, you are,’ Mrs Dunne said. ‘And I’m so proud of you.’

Eleanor was glad there was a desk between them now. Mrs Dunne looked like she had another hug coming on.

‘But that’s not why I called you down here.

The reason you’re here is because I got a tele-phone call for you this morning, before school started. A man called – he said that he was your dad – and that he was calling here because he didn’t have your home number …’

‘I don’t actually have a home number,’

Eleanor said.

‘Ah,’ Mrs Dunne said, ‘I see. Would your dad know that?’

‘Probably not,’ Eleanor said. She was surprised he even knew what school she went to.

‘Would you like to call him? You could use my office.’

Would she like to call him? Why would he want to call her? Maybe something horrible (something really horrible) had happened. Maybe her grandma had died. God.

‘Sure …’ Eleanor said.

‘You know,’ Mrs Dunne said, ‘you can come use my phone whenever you need to.’ She stood up and sat on the edge of her desk, resting her hand on Eleanor’s knee. Eleanor was this close to asking for a toothbrush, but she thought that would lead to a marathon of hugging and knee-rubbing.

‘Thanks,’ Eleanor said instead.

‘Okay,’ Mrs Dunne said, beaming. ‘I’ll be right back then. I’ll just go freshen up my lipstick.’

When Mrs Dunne left, Eleanor dialed her dad’s number, surprised that she still knew it by heart. He answered after the third ring.

‘Hey, Dad. It’s Eleanor.’

‘Hey, baby, how are you?’

She thought for a second about telling him the truth. ‘Fine,’ she said.

‘How’s everybody?’

‘Fine.’

‘You guys never call.’

There was no use telling him that they didn’t have a phone. Or pointing out that he never called them back when they did have a phone. Or even saying that maybe he should find a way to talk to them, him being the one with a phone and a car and a life of his own.

There was no use telling her dad anything.

Eleanor had known that for so long, she couldn’t even remember figuring it out.

‘Hey, I’ve got a cool offer for you,’ he said.

‘I thought maybe you could come over on Friday night.’ Her dad had a voice like someone on TV, somebody who would try to sell you record com-pilations. Disco hits of the ’70s or the latest Time-Life collection.

‘Donna wants me to go to some wedding,’ he said, ‘and I told her you would probably watch Matt. Thought you might like some babysitting money.’

‘Who’s Donna?’

‘You know, Donna – Donna my fiancée. You guys met her the last time you were here.’

That was almost a year ago. ‘Your neighbor?’

Eleanor asked.

‘Yeah, Donna. You can come over and spend the night. Watch Matt, eat pizza, talk on the phone … It will be the easiest ten bucks you ever made.’

And actually the first.

‘Okay,’ Eleanor said. ‘Are you picking us up? Do you know where we live now?’

‘I’ll pick you up at school – just you this time. I don’t want to give you a whole house full of kids to watch. What time do they let you out of there?’

‘Three.’

‘Cool. I’ll see you Friday at three.’

‘All right.’

‘Well, all right. I love you, baby, study hard.’

Mrs Dunne was waiting in the doorway, with her arms open.

Fine, Eleanor thought as she walked down the hall. Everything is fine. Everyone is fine. She kissed the back of her hand, just to see how it felt on her lips. Park

‘I’m not going to homecoming,’ Park said.

‘Of course you’re not going … To the dance,’ Call said. ‘I mean, it’s way too late to rent a tux anyways.’

They were early to English class. Call sat two seats behind him, so Park kept having to look back over his shoulder to see if Eleanor had walked in yet.

‘You’re renting a tux?’ Park asked.

‘Uh, yeah,’ Call said.

‘Nobody rents a tux for homecoming.’

‘So who’s going to look like the classiest guy there? Besides, what do you know – you’re not even going – to the dance, that is. The football game, however? Different story.’

‘I don’t even like football,’ Park said, looking back at the door.

‘Could you stop being the worst friend in the world for, like, five minutes?’

Park looked up at the clock. ‘Yes.’

‘Please,’ Call said, ‘do me this one favor.

There’s a whole group of cool people going, and if you go, Kim will sit with us. You’re a Kim magnet.’

‘Don’t you see what a problem that is?’

‘No. It’s like I’ve found the perfect bait for my Kim trap.’

‘Stop saying her name like that.’

‘Why? She’s not here yet, is she?’

Park glanced over his shoulder. ‘Can’t you just like a girl who likes you back?’

‘None of them like me back,’ Call said. ‘I may as well like the one I really want. Come on, please. Come to the game on Friday – for me.’

‘I don’t know …’ Park said.

‘Wow, what’s up with her. She looks like she just killed somebody for fun.’

Park whipped his head around. Eleanor. Smiling at him.

She had the kind of smile you see in tooth-paste commercials, where you can see practically all of somebody’s teeth. She should smile like that all the time, Park thought; it made her face cross over from weird to beautiful. He wanted to make her smile like that constantly.

Mr Stessman pretended to fall against the chalkboard when he walked in. ‘Good God, Eleanor, stop. You’re blinding me. Is that why you keep that smile locked away, because it’s too powerful for mortal man?’

She looked down self-consciously and flattened her smile into a smirk.

‘Psst,’ Call said. Kim was sitting down between them. Call locked his fingers together like he was begging. Park sighed and nodded his head. Eleanor

She waited for the phone call from her dad to go sour on her. (Conversations with her dad were like whiplash; they didn’t always hurt right away.)

But it didn’t. Nothing could bring Eleanor down. Nothing could drive Park’s words from her head.

He missed her …

Who knows what he missed. Her fatness. Her weirdness. The fact that she couldn’t talk to him like a regular person. Whatever. Whatever perversion caused him to like her was his problem.

But he did like her, she was sure of it.

At least for now.

For today.

He liked her. He missed her.

She was so distracted in gym class, she actually forgot not to try. They were playing basketball, and Eleanor caught the ball, colliding with one of Tina’s friends, a jumpy, wiry girl named Annette. ‘Are you trying to start something?’ Annette demanded, pushing forward – pushing the ball into Eleanor’s chest. ‘Are you? Come on, then, let’s go. Come on.’ Eleanor took a few steps back, out of bounds, and waited for Mrs Burt to blow the whistle.

Annette stayed mad for the rest of the game, but Eleanor didn’t let it get to her.

That feeling she used to have when she was sitting next to Park on the bus – that feeling that she was on base, that she was safe for the moment – she could summon it now. Like a force field. Like she was the Invisible Girl.

That would make Park Mr Fantastic.

CHAPTER 18 Eleanor

Her mom wasn’t going to let her babysit.

‘He has four children,’ her mother said. She was rolling out dough for tortillas. ‘Did he forget that?

Eleanor had stupidly told her mother about her dad’s phone call in front of her brothers and sister – they’d all gotten really excited. And then Eleanor had to tell them that they weren’t invited, that it was just babysitting, anyway, and that Dad wasn’t even going to be there.

Mouse had started to cry, and Maisie got mad and stormed out. Ben asked Eleanor if she’d call Dad back to see if he could come along to help.

‘Tell him I babysit all the time,’ Ben said.

‘Your father is a piece of work,’ her mother said. ‘Every time, he breaks your hearts. And every time, he expects me to pick up the pieces.’

Pick up, sweep aside – same difference in her mom’s world. Eleanor didn’t argue.

‘Please let me go,’ she said.

‘Why do you want to go?’ her mom asked.

‘Why do you even care about him? He’s never cared about you.’

God. Even if it were true, it still hurt to hear it that way.

‘I don’t care,’ Eleanor said. ‘I just need to get out of here. I haven’t been anywhere but school in two months. Plus, he said he’d pay me.’

‘If he has extra money sitting around, maybe he should pay his child support.’

‘Mom … it’s ten dollars. Please.’

Her mother sighed. ‘Fine. I’ll talk to Richie.’

‘No. Don’t talk to Richie. He’ll just say no.

And, anyway, he can’t tell me that I can’t see my father.’

‘Richie is the head of this household,’ her mom said. ‘Richie is the one who puts food on our table.’

What food? Eleanor wanted to ask. And, for that matter, what table? They ate on the couch or on the floor or sitting on the back steps holding paper plates. Besides, Richie would say no just for the pleasure of saying it. It would make him feel like the King of Spain. Which was probably why her mom wanted to give him the chance.

‘Mom.’ Eleanor put her face in her hand and leaned against the refrigerator. ‘ Please.’

‘Oh, fine,’ her mother said bitterly. ‘Fine. But if he gives you any money, you can split it with your brothers and sister. That’s the least you can do.’

They could have it all. All Eleanor wanted was the chance to talk to Park on the phone. To be able to talk to him without every inbred hells-pawn in the Flats listening.

The next morning on the bus, while Park ran his finger along the inside of her bracelet, Eleanor asked him for hisphone number.

He started laughing.

‘Why is that funny?’ she asked.

‘Because,’ he said quietly. They said everything quietly, even though everyone else on the bus roared, even though you’d have to shout into a megaphone to be heard over all the cursing and idiocy. ‘I feel like you’re hitting on me,’ he said.

‘Maybe I shouldn’t ask for your number,’ she said. ‘You’ve never asked for mine.’

He looked up at her through his bangs.

‘I figured you weren’t allowed to talk on the phone … after that time with your stepdad.’

‘I probably wouldn’t be, if I had a phone.’

She usually tried not to tell Park things like that.

Like, all the things she didn’t have. She waited for him to react, but he didn’t. He just ran his thumb along the veins in her wrist.

‘Then why do you want my number?’

God, she thought, never mind. ‘You don’t have to give it to me.’

He rolled his eyes and got a pen out of his backpack, then reached over and took one of her books.

‘No,’ she whispered, ‘don’t. I don’t want my mom to see it.’

He frowned at her book. ‘I’d think you’d be more worried about her seeing this.’

Eleanor looked down. Crap. Whoever wrote that gross thing on her geography book had written on her history book, too.

‘suck me off,’ it said, in ugly blue letters.

She grabbed Park’s pen and started scribbling it out.

‘Why would you write that?’ he asked. ‘Is that a song?’

‘I didn’t write it,’ she said. She could feel patches of red creep up her neck.

‘Then who did?’

She gave him the meanest look she was cap-able of. (It was hard to look at him with anything other than gooey eyes.)

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘Why would anyone write that?’

‘I don’t know.’ She pulled her books against her chest and wrapped her arms around them.

‘Hey,’ he said.

Eleanor ignored him and looked out the window. She couldn’t believe she’d let him see that on her book. It was one thing to let him see her crazy life a little bit at a time … So, yeah, I have a terrible stepdad, and I don’t have a phone, and sometimes when we’re out of dish soap I wash my hair with flea and tick shampoo …

It was another thing to remind him that she was that girl. She may as well invite him to gym class. She might as well give him an alphabetical list of all the names they called her.

A – Ass, Fat

B – Bitch, Red-Headed

He’d probably try to ask her why she was that girl.

‘Hey,’ he said.

She shook her head.

It wouldn’t do any good to tell him that she hadn’t been that girl at her old school. Yeah, she’d been made fun of before. There were always mean boys – and there were always, always mean girls – but she’d had friends at her old school. She’d had people to eat lunch with and pass notes to. People used to pick her to be on their team in gym class just because they thought she was nice and funny.

‘Eleanor …’ he said.

But there was no one like Park at her old school.

There was no one like Park anywhere.

‘What,’ she said to the window.

‘How’re you going to call me if you don’t have my number?’

‘Who said I was going to call you?’ She hugged her books.

He leaned against her, pressing his shoulder into hers.

‘Don’t be mad at me,’ he said, sighing. ‘It makes me crazy.’

‘I’m never mad at you,’ she said.

‘Right.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You must just be mad near me a lot.’

She pushed her shoulder against his and smiled despite herself.

‘I’m babysitting at my dad’s house Friday night,’ she said, ‘and he said I could use the phone.’

Park turned his face eagerly. It was painfully close to hers. She could kiss him – or head-butt him – before he’d ever have a chance to pull away. ‘Yeah?’ he asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘ Yeah,’ he said, smiling. ‘But you won’t let me write down my number?’

‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘I’ll memorize it.’

‘Let me write it down.’

‘I’ll memorize it to the tune of a song, so that I don’t forget.’

He started singing his number to the tune of

‘867-5309,’ which cracked her right up. Park

Park tried to remember the first time he saw her.

Because he could remember, on that day, seeing what everybody else saw. He could remember thinking that she was asking for it …

That it was bad enough to have curly red hair.

That it was bad enough to have a face shaped like a box of chocolates.

No, he hadn’t thought exactly that. He’d thought …

That it was bad enough to have a million freckles and chubby baby cheeks.

God, she had adorable cheeks. Dimples on top of freckles, which shouldn’t even be allowed, and round as crabapples. It was kind of amazing that more people didn’t try to pinch her cheeks.

His grandma was definitely going to pinch her when they met.

But Park hadn’t thought that either, the first time he saw Eleanor on the bus. He remembered thinking that it was bad enough that she looked the way she did …

Did she have to dress like that? And act like that? Did she have to try so hard to be different?

He remembered feeling embarrassed for her.

And now …

Now, he felt the fight rising up in his throat whenever he thought of people making fun of her.

When he thought of someone writing that ugly thing on her book … it made him feel like Bill Bixby just before he turned into the Hulk.

It had been so hard, on the bus, to pretend that it didn’t bother him. He didn’t want to make anything worse for her – he’d put his hands in his pockets and pressed them into fists, and held them that way all morning long.

All morning long, he’d wanted to punch something. Or kick something. Park had gym class right after lunch, and he ran so hard during drills, he’d started to retch up his fish sandwich.

Mr Koenig, his gym teacher, made him leave class early and take a shower. ‘Hit the bricks, Sheridan. Now. This isn’t Chariots of Fuckin’

Fire.’

Park wished it was only righteous anger that he felt. He wished that he could feel defensive and protective of Eleanor without feeling …

everything else.

Without feeling like they were making fun of him, too.

There were moments – not just today, moments every day since they’d met – when Eleanor made him self-conscious, when he saw people talking and he was sure they were talking about them. Raucous moments on the bus when he was sure that everyone was laughing at them.

And in those moments, Park thought about pulling back from her.

Not breaking up with her. That phrase didn’t even seem to apply here. Just … easing away.

Recovering the six inches between them.

He’d roll the thought over in his head until the next time he saw her.

In class, at her desk. On the bus, waiting for him. Reading alone in the cafeteria.

Whenever he saw Eleanor, he couldn’t think about pulling away. He couldn’t think about anything at all.

Except touching her.

Except doing whatever he could or had to, to make her happy.

‘What do you mean you’re not coming tonight?’

Call said.

They were in study hall, and Call was eating a Snack Pack butterscotch pudding. Park tried to keep his voice down. ‘Something came up.’

‘Something?’ Call said, slamming his spoon into his pudding. ‘Like you being completely lame – is that what came up? Because that comes up a lot lately.’

‘No. Something. Like, a girl something.’

Call leaned in. ‘You’ve got a girl something?’

Park felt himself blush. ‘Sort of. Yeah. I can’t really talk about it.’

‘But we had a plan,’ Call said.

‘You had a plan,’ Park said, ‘and it was terrible.’

‘Worst friend in the world,’ Call said. Eleanor

She was so nervous, she couldn’t even touch her lunch. She gave DeNice her creamed turkey and Beebi her fruit cocktail.

Park made her practice his phone number all the way home.

And then he wrote it on her book anyway. He hid it in song titles.

‘Forever Young.’

‘That’s a four,’ he said. ‘Will you remember?’

‘I won’t have to,’ she said, ‘I already know your number by heart.’

‘And this is just a five,’ he said, ‘because I can’t think of any five songs, and this one’ –

‘Summer of ’69’ – ‘With this one, remember the six, but forget the nine.’

‘I hate that song.’

‘God, I know … Hey, I can’t think of any two songs.’

“‘Two of Us,”’ she said.

‘Two of us?’

‘It’s a Beatles song.’

‘Oh … that’s why I don’t know it.’ He wrote it down.

‘I know your number by heart,’ she said.

‘I’m just afraid you’re going to forget it,’ he said quietly. He pushed her hair out of her eyes with his pen.

‘I’m not going to forget it,’ she said. Ever.

She’d probably scream out Park’s number on her deathbed. Or have it tattooed over her heart when he finally got sick of her. ‘I’m good with numbers.’

‘If you don’t call me Friday night,’ he said,

‘because you can’t remember my number …’

‘How about this, I’ll give you my dad’s number, and if I haven’t called you by nine, you can call me.’

‘That’s

an

excellent

idea,’

he

said,

‘seriously.’

‘But you can’t call it any other time.’

‘I feel like …’ He started laughing and looked away.

‘What?’ she asked. She elbowed him.

‘I feel like we have a date,’ he said. ‘Is that stupid?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘Even though we’re together every day …’

‘We’re never really together,’ she said.

‘It’s like we have fifty chaperones.’

‘Hostile chaperones,’ Eleanor whispered.

‘Yeah,’ Park said.

He put his pen in his pocket, then took her hand and held it to his chest for a minute.

It was the nicest thing she could imagine. It made her want to have his babies and give him both of her kidneys.

‘A date,’ he said.

‘Practically.’