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?’