Free Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell Page B

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