Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell Page B

could remember lying
    on her stomach on an old Persian
    rug, drinking grape juice out of a
    jelly jar, being extra quiet because
    her baby brother was asleep in the
    next room – and studying each
    record, one by one. Turning their
    names over and over in her
    mouth. Cream. Vanilla Fudge.
    Canned Heat.
    The records smelled exactly
    like they always had. Like her
    dad’s bedroom. Like Richie’s
    coat. Like pot, Eleanor realized.
    Duh. She flipped through the
    records
    more
    matter-of-factly
    now, on a mission. Looking for
    Rubber Soul and Revolver .
    Sometimes it seemed as if she
    would never be able to give Park
    anything like what he’d given her.
    It was like he dumped all this
    treasure on her every morning
    without even thinking about it,
    without any sense of what it was
    worth.
    She couldn’t repay him. She
    couldn’t even appropriately thank
    him. How can you thank someone
    for The Cure? Or the X-Men?
    Sometimes it felt like she’d always
    be in his debt.
    And then she realized that Park
    didn’t know about the Beatles.
    Park
    Park went to the playground to
    play basketball after school. Just
    to kill time. But he couldn’t focus
    on the game – he kept looking up
    at the back of Eleanor’s house.
    When he got home, he called
    out to his mom. ‘Mom! I’m
    home!’
    ‘Park,’ she called. ‘Out here!
    In the garage.’
    He grabbed a cherry Popsicle
    out of the freezer and headed out
    there.
    He
    could
    smell
    the
    permanent-wave solution as soon
    as he opened the door.
    Park’s dad had converted their
    garage into a salon when Josh
    started kindergarten and their
    mom went to beauty school. She
    even had a little sign hanging by
    the side door. ‘Mindy’s Hair &
    Nails.’
    ‘Min-Dae,’ it said on her
    driver’s license.
    Everyone in the neighborhood
    who could afford a hair stylist
    came
    to
    Park’s
    mom.
    On
    homecoming and prom weekends,
    she’d spend all day in the garage.
    Both Park and Josh were recruited
    from time to time to hold hot
    curling irons.
    Today, his mom had Tina
    sitting in her chair. Tina’s hair was
    wound tight in rollers, and Park’s
    mom was squeezing something
    onto them with a plastic bottle.
    The smell burned his eyes.
    ‘Hey, Mom,’ he said. ‘Hey,
    Tina.’
    ‘Hey, honey,’ his mom said.
    She pronounced it with two ‘n’s.
    Tina smiled broadly at him.
    ‘Close eyes, Ti-na,’ his mom said.
    ‘Stay close.’
    ‘Hey, Mrs Sheridan,’ Tina
    said, holding a white washcloth
    over her eyes, ‘have you met
    Park’s girlfriend yet?’
    His mom didn’t look up from
    Tina’s head. ‘Nooo,’ she said,
    clucking
    her
    tongue.
    ‘No
    girlfriend. Not Park.’
    ‘Uh-huh,’ Tina said. ‘Tell her,
    Park – her name is Eleanor, and
    she’s new this year. We can’t keep
    them apart on the bus.’
    Park stared at Tina. Shocked
    that she’d sell him out like this.
    Startled by her rosy take on bus
    life. Surprised that she was even
    paying attention to him, and to
    Eleanor. His mom looked over at
    Park, but not for long; Tina’s hair
    was at a critical stage.
    ‘I don’t know about any
    girlfriend,’ his mom said.
    ‘I’ll bet you’ve seen her in the
    neighborhood,’
    Tina
    said,
    assuring. ‘She has really pretty,
    red hair. Naturally curly.’
    ‘Is that right?’ his mom said.
    ‘No,’ Park said, anger and
    everything else curdling in his
    stomach.
    ‘You’re such a guy, Park,’
    Tina said from behind the
    washcloth. ‘I’m sure it’s natural.’
    ‘No,’ he said, ‘she’s not my
    girlfriend.
    I
    don’t
    have
    a
    girlfriend,’ he said to his mom.
    ‘Okay, okay,’ she said. ‘Too
    much girl talk for you. Too much
    girl talk, Ti-na. You go check on
    dinner now,’ she said to Park.
    He backed out of the garage,
    still wanting to argue, feeling more
    denial twitching in his throat. He
    slammed the door, then went into
    the kitchen and slammed as much
    as he could in there. The oven.
    The cabinets. The trash.
    ‘What the hell is wrong