Her mother stood in the bedroom the next morning while Eleanor got ready. ‘Here,’ she whispered, taking the hairbrush and drawing Eleanor’s hair into a ponytail without brushing out the curl.
‘Eleanor …’ she said.
‘I know why you’re in here,’ Eleanor said, pulling away. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Just listen.’
‘No. I know. He won’t come back, okay? I didn’t invite him, but I’ll tell him, and he won’t come back.’
‘Okay, well … good,’ her mom said, folding her arms, still whispering. ‘It’s just that you’re so young.’
‘No,’ Eleanor said, ‘that’s not what it is. But it doesn’t even matter. He won’t come back, okay? It isn’t even like that anyway.’
Her mom left the room. Richie was still in the house. Eleanor ran out the front door when she heard him turn on the bathroom sink.
It’s not even like that, she thought as she walked to the bus stop. And thinking it made her want to cry, because she knew it was true.
And wanting to cry just made her angry.
Because if she was going to cry about something, it was going to be the fact that her life was complete shit – not because some cool, cute guy didn’t like her like that.
Especially when just being Park’s friend was pretty much the best thing that had ever happened to her.
She must have looked ticked off when she got on the bus because Park didn’t say hi when she sat down.
Eleanor looked into the aisle.
After a few seconds, he reached over and pulled at the old silk scarf she’d tied around her wrist.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘For what?’ She even sounded angry. God, she was a jerk.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I feel like maybe I got you in trouble last night
…’
He pulled on the scarf again, so she looked at him. She tried not to look
mad – but she’d rather look mad than look like she’d spent all night thinking about how beautiful his lips are.
‘Was that your dad?’ he asked.
She jerked her head back. ‘No. No, that was my … mother’s husband.
He’s not really my anything. My problem, I guess.’ ‘Did you get in trouble?’
‘Sort of.’ She really didn’t want to talk to Park about Richie. She’d just about scraped all the Richie off the Park place in her head.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t your fault. Anyway, thanks for bringing
Watchmen. I’m glad I got to read it.’ ‘It was cool, huh?’
‘Oh, yeah. Kind of brutal. I mean that part with the Comedian …’ ‘Yeah … sorry.’
‘No, I didn’t mean that. I mean … I think I need to reread it.’ ‘I read it again twice last night. You can take it tonight.’ ‘Yeah? Thanks.’
He was still holding the end of her scarf, rubbing the silk idly between his thumb and fingers. She watched his hand.
If he were to look up at her now, he’d know exactly how stupid she was. She could feel her face go soft and gummy. If Park were to look up at her now, he’d know everything.
He didn’t look up. He wound the scarf around his fingers until her hand was hanging in the space between them.
Then he slid the silk and his fingers into her open palm. And Eleanor disintegrated.
Park
Holding Eleanor’s hand was like holding a butterfly. Or a heartbeat. Like holding something complete, and completely alive.
As soon as he touched her, he wondered how he’d gone this long without doing it. He rubbed his thumb through her palm and up her fingers, and was aware of her every breath.
Park had held hands with girls before. Girls at Skateland. A girl at the ninth-grade dance last year. (They’d kissed while they waited for her dad to pick them up.) He’d even held Tina’s hand, back when they ‘went’ together in the sixth grade.
And always, before, it had been fine. Not much different from holding Josh’s hand when they were little kids crossing the street. Or holding his grandma’s hand when she took him to church. Maybe a little sweatier, a little more awkward.
When he’d kissed that girl last year, with his mouth dry and his eyes mostly open, Park had wondered if maybe there was something wrong with him.
He’d even wondered – seriously, while he was kissing her, he’d wondered this – whether he might be gay. Except he didn’t feel like kissing any guys either. And if he thought about She-Hulk or Storm (instead of this girl, Dawn) the kissing got a lot better.
Maybe I’m not attracted to real girls, he’d thought at the time. Maybe I’m some sort of perverted cartoon-sexual.
Or maybe, he thought now, he just didn’t recognize all those other girls. The way a computer drive will spit out a disk if it doesn’t recognize the formatting.
When he touched Eleanor’s hand, he recognized her. He knew.
Eleanor
Disintegrated.
Like something had gone wrong beaming her onto the Starship Enterprise.
If you’ve ever wondered what that feels like, it’s a lot like melting – but more violent.
Even in a million different pieces, Eleanor could still feel Park holding her hand. Could still feel his thumb exploring her palm. She sat completely still because she didn’t have any other option. She tried to remember what kind of animals paralyzed their prey before they ate them …
Maybe Park had paralyzed her with his ninja magic, his Vulcan handhold, and now he was going to eat her.
That would be awesome.
Park
They broke apart when the bus stopped. A flood of reality rushed through Park, and he looked around nervously to see if anyone had been watching them. Then he looked nervously at Eleanor to see if she’d noticed him looking.
She was still staring at the floor, even as she picked up her books and stood in the aisle.
If someone had been watching, what would they have seen? Park couldn’t imagine what his face had looked like when he touched Eleanor. Like somebody taking the first drink in a Diet Pepsi commercial. Over-the- top bliss.
He stood behind her in the aisle. She was just about his height. Her hair was pulled up, and her neck was flushed and splotchy. He resisted the urge to lay his cheek against it.
He walked with her all the way to her locker, and leaned against the wall as she opened it. She didn’t say anything, just shifted some books onto the shelf and took down a few others.
As the buzz of touching her faded, he was starting to realize that Eleanor hadn’t actually done anything to touch him back. She hadn’t bent her fingers around his. She hadn’t even looked at him. She still hadn’t looked at him. Jesus.
He knocked gently on her locker door. ‘Hey,’ he said.
She shut the door. ‘Hey, what?’ ‘Okay?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘I’ll see you in English?’ he asked. She nodded and walked away.
Jesus.
Eleanor
All through first and second and third hour, Eleanor rubbed her palm.
Nothing happened.
How could it be possible that there were that many nerve endings all in one place?
And were they always there, or did they just flip on whenever they felt like it? Because, if they were always there, how did she manage to turn doorknobs without fainting?
Maybe this was why so many people said it felt better to drive a stick shift.
Park
Jesus. Was it possible to rape somebody’s hand?
Eleanor wouldn’t look at Park during English and history. He went to her locker after school, but she wasn’t there.
When he got on the bus, she was already sitting in their seat – but sitting in his spot, against the wall. He was too embarrassed to say anything. He sat down next to her and let his hands hang between his knees …
Which meant she really had to reach for his wrist, to pull his hand into hers. She wrapped her fingers around his and touched his palm with her thumb.
Her fingers were trembling.
Park shifted in his seat and turned his back to the aisle. ‘Okay?’ she whispered.
He nodded, taking a deep breath. They both stared down at their hands.
Jesus.
