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 sneakers. 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, fuming. 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.