Thursday night after dinner, Park’s grandma came over to have her hair set, and his mom disappeared into the garage. His dad was messing with the plumbing under the sink, replacing the garbage disposal. Park was trying to tell Eleanor about a tape he’d bought. Elvis Costello. He couldn’t shut up about it.
‘There are a couple songs you might like, ballady stuff. But the rest is really fast.’
‘Like punk?’ She wrinkled her nose. She could stand a few Dead Milkmen songs, but other than that, she hated Park’s punk music. ‘I feel like they’re yelling at me,’ she’d say when he tried to put punk on her mix tapes. ‘Stop yelling at me, Glenn Danzig!’
‘That’s Henry Rollins.’
‘They all sound the same when they’re yelling at me.’
Lately, Park was really into New Wave music. Or post-punk or something. He went through bands like Eleanor went through books.
‘No,’ he said, ‘Elvis Costello is more musical. Gentler. I’ll dub you a copy.’
‘Or you could just play it for me. Now.’
Park tilted his head. ‘That would involve going into my room.’ ‘Okay,’ she said, not quite casually.
‘Okay?’ he asked. ‘Months of no, and now, okay?’
‘Okay,’ Eleanor said. ‘You’re always saying that your mom doesn’t care
…’
‘My mom doesn’t care.’ ‘So?’
Park stood up jerkily, grinning, and pulled her up. He stopped at the
kitchen. ‘We’re going to listen to music in my room.’
‘Fine,’ his dad said from under the sink. ‘Just don’t get anybody pregnant.’
That should have been embarrassing, but Park’s dad had a way of cutting past embarrassing. Eleanor wished he wasn’t ignoring them all the time.
Park’s mom probably let him have girls in his room because you could practically see into his room from the living room, and you had to walk by to get to the bathroom.
But, to Eleanor, it still felt incredibly private.
She couldn’t get over the fact that Park spent most of his time in this room horizontal. (It was only a ninety-degree difference, but imagining him that way blew all her fuses.) Also, he changed his clothes in here.
There was no place to sit but on his bed, which Eleanor wouldn’t consider. So they sat between his bed and his stereo, where there was just enough room to sit with their legs bent.
As soon as they sat down, Park started fast-forwarding through the Elvis Costello tape. He had stacks and stacks of tapes, and Eleanor pulled a few out to look at them.
‘Ah …’ Park said, pained. ‘What?’
‘Those’re alphabetized.’
‘It’s okay. I know the alphabet.’
‘Right.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry. Whenever Cal comes over, he always messes them up. Okay, this is the song I wanted you to hear. Listen.’
‘Cal comes over?’
‘Yeah, sometimes.’ Park turned up the volume. ‘It’s been a while.’ ‘Because now I just come over …’
‘Which is okay with me because I like you a lot more.’ ‘But don’t you miss your other friends?’ she asked. ‘You’re not listening,’ he said.
‘Neither are you.’
He paused the tape, like he didn’t want to waste this song as background music. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘We’re talking about whether I miss Cal? I eat lunch with him almost every day.’
‘And he doesn’t mind that you spend the rest of your time with me now? None of your friends mind?’
Park ran his hand through his hair. ‘I still see them all at school … I don’t know, I don’t really miss them, I’ve never really missed anybody but you.’
‘But you don’t miss me now,’ she said. ‘We’re together all the time.’ ‘Are you kidding? I miss you constantly.’
Even though Park washed his face as soon as he got home, the black around his eyes didn’t come off completely. It made everything he did lately seem more dramatic.
‘That’s crazy,’ she said.
Park started laughing. ‘I know …’
She wanted to tell him about Maisie and Ben and their days being numbered, etc., but he wouldn’t understand, and what did she expect him to do?
Park pushed play.
‘What’s this song called?’ she asked. “‘Alison.”’
Park
Park played Elvis Costello for her – and Joe Jackson, and Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers.
She teased him because it was all so pretty and melodic, and ‘in the same phylum as Hall & Oates,’ and he threatened to evict her from his room.
When his mom came to check on them, they were sitting with a hundred cassette tapes between them, and as soon as she walked away, Park leaned over and kissed Eleanor. It seemed like the best time not to get caught.
She was a little too far away, so he put his hand on her back and pulled her toward him. He tried to do it like it was something he did all the time, as if touching her someplace new wasn’t like discovering the Northwest Passage.
Eleanor came closer. She put her hands on the floor between them and leaned into him, which was so encouraging that he put his other hand on her waist. And then it was too much to be almost-but-not-really holding her. Park rocked forward onto his knees and pulled her tighter.
Half a dozen cassette tapes cracked under their weight. Eleanor fell back, and Park fell forward.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Oh, God … look, what we did to Meat is Murder.’
Park sat back and looked at the tapes. He wanted to sweep them out of the way. ‘It’s mostly just the cases, I think,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He started picking up the broken plastic.
‘The Smiths and the Smithereens …’ she said. ‘We even broke them in alphabetical order.’
He tried to smile at her, but she wouldn’t look at him. ‘I should go,’ she said. ‘I think it’s almost eight, anyway.’
‘Oh. Okay, I’ll walk you.’
She stood up and Park followed her. They walked outside and down the walk, and when they got to his grandparents’ driveway, Eleanor didn’t stop.
Eleanor
Maisie smelled like an Avon lady, and she was made up like the whore of Babylon. They were definitely going to get caught. Talk about a house of effing cards. Jee. Zus.
And Eleanor couldn’t even think strategy, because all she could think about was Park’s hands on her waist and her back and her stomach – which all must feel like nothing he’d ever encountered. Everyone in Park’s family was skinny enough to be in a Special K commercial. Even his grandma.
Eleanor could only be in that scene where the actress pinches an inch, then looks at the camera like the world is going to end.
Actually, she’d have to lose weight to be in that scene. You could pinch an inch – or two, or three – all over Eleanor’s body. You could probably pinch an inch on her forehead.
Holding hands was fine. Her hands weren’t a complete embarrassment. And kissing seemed safe because fat lips are okay – and because Park usually closed his eyes.
But there was no safe place on Eleanor’s torso. There was no place from her neck to her knees where she had any discernible infrastructure.
As soon as Park touched her waist, she’d sucked in her stomach and pitched forward. Which led to all the collateral damage … which made her feel like Godzilla. (But even Godzilla wasn’t fat. He was just ginormous.)
The maddening part was, Eleanor wanted Park to touch her again. She wanted him to touch her constantly. Even if it led to Park deciding that she was way too much like a walrus to remain his girlfriend … That’s how good
it felt. She was like one of those dogs who’ve tasted human blood and can’t stop biting. A walrus who’s tasted human blood.
