He rolled his eyes and got a pen out of his backpack, then reached over and took one of her books.
‘No,’ she whispered, ‘don’t. I don’t want my mom to see it.’
He frowned at her book. ‘I’d think you’d be more worried about her seeing this.’
Eleanor looked down. Crap. Whoever wrote that gross thing on her geography book had written on her history book, too.
‘suck me off,’ it said, in ugly blue letters.
She grabbed Park’s pen and started scribbling it out.
‘Why would you write that?’ he asked. ‘Is that a song?’
‘I didn’t write it,’ she said. She could feel patches of red creep up her neck.
‘Then who did?’
She gave him the meanest look she was cap-able of. (It was hard to look at him with anything other than gooey eyes.)
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘Why would anyone write that?’
‘I don’t know.’ She pulled her books against her chest and wrapped her arms around them.
‘Hey,’ he said.
Eleanor ignored him and looked out the window. She couldn’t believe she’d let him see that on her book. It was one thing to let him see her crazy life a little bit at a time … So, yeah, I have a terrible stepdad, and I don’t have a phone, and sometimes when we’re out of dish soap I wash my hair with flea and tick shampoo …
It was another thing to remind him that she was that girl. She may as well invite him to gym class. She might as well give him an alphabetical list of all the names they called her.
A – Ass, Fat
B – Bitch, Red-Headed
He’d probably try to ask her why she was that girl.
‘Hey,’ he said.
She shook her head.
It wouldn’t do any good to tell him that she hadn’t been that girl at her old school. Yeah, she’d been made fun of before. There were always mean boys – and there were always, always mean girls – but she’d had friends at her old school. She’d had people to eat lunch with and pass notes to. People used to pick her to be on their team in gym class just because they thought she was nice and funny.
‘Eleanor …’ he said.
But there was no one like Park at her old school.
There was no one like Park anywhere.
‘What,’ she said to the window.
‘How’re you going to call me if you don’t have my number?’
‘Who said I was going to call you?’ She hugged her books.
He leaned against her, pressing his shoulder into hers.
‘Don’t be mad at me,’ he said, sighing. ‘It makes me crazy.’
‘I’m never mad at you,’ she said.
‘Right.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You must just be mad near me a lot.’
She pushed her shoulder against his and smiled despite herself.
‘I’m babysitting at my dad’s house Friday night,’ she said, ‘and he said I could use the phone.’
Park turned his face eagerly. It was painfully close to hers. She could kiss him – or head-butt him – before he’d ever have a chance to pull away. ‘Yeah?’ he asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘ Yeah,’ he said, smiling. ‘But you won’t let me write down my number?’
‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘I’ll memorize it.’
‘Let me write it down.’
‘I’ll memorize it to the tune of a song, so that I don’t forget.’
He started singing his number to the tune of
‘867-5309,’ which cracked her right up.
Park
Park tried to remember the first time he saw her.
Because he could remember, on that day, seeing what everybody else saw. He could remember thinking that she was asking for it …
That it was bad enough to have curly red hair.
That it was bad enough to have a face shaped like a box of chocolates.
No, he hadn’t thought exactly that. He’d thought …
That it was bad enough to have a million freckles and chubby baby cheeks.
God, she had adorable cheeks. Dimples on top of freckles, which shouldn’t even be allowed, and round as crabapples. It was kind of amazing that more people didn’t try to pinch her cheeks.
His grandma was definitely going to pinch her when they met.
But Park hadn’t thought that either, the first time he saw Eleanor on the bus. He remembered thinking that it was bad enough that she looked the way she did …
Did she have to dress like that? And act like that? Did she have to try so hard to be different?
He remembered feeling embarrassed for her.
And now …
Now, he felt the fight rising up in his throat whenever he thought of people making fun of her.
When he thought of someone writing that ugly thing on her book … it made him feel like Bill Bixby just before he turned into the Hulk.
It had been so hard, on the bus, to pretend that it didn’t bother him. He didn’t want to make anything worse for her – he’d put his hands in his pockets and pressed them into fists, and held them that way all morning long.
All morning long, he’d wanted to punch something. Or kick something. Park had gym class right after lunch, and he ran so hard during drills, he’d started to retch up his fish sandwich.
Mr Koenig, his gym teacher, made him leave class early and take a shower. ‘Hit the bricks, Sheridan. Now. This isn’t Chariots of Fuckin’ Fire.’