She glanced up at him. "Now," she said.

Park pulled on her sleeve, and she not-even-half smiled.

# Park #

"Okay?" he asked.

She pulled away when the bus stopped. She never let him hold her hand once they were off the bus. She wouldn't touch him in the hallways. "People will look at us," she always said.

Park laid his face in her hair and closed his eyes.

"Almost," she said.

"Okay?" he asked.

So today he stood by her locker and only thought about touching her. He wanted to tell her his news -- but she seemed so far away, he wasn't sure she'd hear him.

Eleanor seemed off that morning. She didn't say anything while they waited for the bus. When they got on, she dropped onto their seat and leaned against the wall.

He couldn't believe that still mattered to her. Girls who don't want to be looked at don't tie curtain tassels in their hair. They don't wear men's golf shoes with the spikes still attached.

He didn't believe her. He pulled on her sleeve again.

She fell against him and hid her face in his shoulder.

Where would she go this time?

# Eleanor #

Back to the Hickmans'?

"Hey, remember that time when my mom asked if I could stay with you guys for a few days, and then she didn't come back for a year? I really appreciate the fact that you didn't turn me into Child Protective Services. That was very Christian of you. Do you still have that foldout couch?"

Before Richie moved in, Eleanor only knew that word from books and bathroom walls. Fucking woman. Fucking kids. Fuck you, you little bitch -- who the fuck touched my stereo?

Eleanor hadn't seen it coming the last time. When Richie kicked her out.

She couldn't have seen it coming because she never thought it could happen. She never thought he'd try -- and she never, ever thought her mom would go along with it. (Richie must have recognized before Eleanor did that her mother's allegiances had shifted.)

Fuck.

It was embarrassing to think about the day that it happened -- embarrassing, on top of everything else -- because it really was Eleanor's fault. She really was asking for it.

She was in her room, typing song lyrics on an old manual typewriter that her mom had brought home from the Goodwill. It needed new ribbon (Eleanor had a box full of cartridges that didn't fit), but it still worked. She loved everything about that typewriter, the way the keys felt, the sticky, crunchy noise they made. She even liked the way it smelled, like metal and shoe polish.

She was bored that day, the day it happened.

It was too hot to do anything but lie around or read or watch TV. Richie was in the living room. He hadn't gotten out of bed until 2:00 or 3:00, and everybody could tell he was in a bad mood. Her mom was walking around the house in nervous circles, offering Richie lemonade and sandwiches and aspirin. Eleanor hated it when her mom acted like that. Relentlessly submissive. It was humiliating to be in the same room.

So Eleanor was upstairs typing song lyrics. "Scarborough Fair."

She heard Richie complaining. "What the fuck is that noise?" And, "Fuck, Sabrina, can't you shut her up?"

Her mom tiptoed up the stairs and ducked her head into Eleanor's room. "Richie isn't feeling well," she said. "Can you put that away?" She looked pale and nervous. Eleanor hated that look.

Nothing happened. No one stirred. The house was hot and stiff and as quiet as a library in hell. Eleanor closed her eyes and jerked her chin into the air.

A

She waited for her mother to get back downstairs. Then, without really thinking about why, Eleanor deliberately pressed a key.

Her fingertips trembled over the keyboard.

RE

YOU GOING TO SCRABOROUGH FAIR PARSLEY SAAGE ROSEMAYRY AND THYME

Crch-crch-lap-tap.

Crunch-lap.

Richie came up the stairs so fast, in Eleanor's head he was flying. In Eleanor's head, he burst open the door by hurling a ball of fire at it.

He'd never come this close to her before. Her fear of him crushed her back. She didn't want him to see it in her eyes, so she pressed her face into her hands in her pillow.

He was on her before she could brace herself, tearing the typewriter from her hands and throwing it into the wall so hard it broke through the plaster and hung for a moment in the lath.

Eleanor was too shocked to make out what he was shouting at her. FAT and FUCK and BITCH.

FAT and FUCK and BITCH and BEGGING FOR IT, JUST FUCKING BEGGING FOR IT.

Richie was roaring. Her mother pulled Eleanor to the top of the stairs, then pushed her down. He was right behind them.

"Fuck you."

Her mother was pulling on her then, trying to pull her out of bed. Eleanor tried to come with her, but she was too scared to stand up. She wanted to flatten herself to the floor and crawl away. She wanted to pretend that the room was full of smoke.

"I hate you," Eleanor whispered into the pillow. She could hear things slamming. She could hear her mother in the doorway, talking softly, like she was trying to put a baby back to sleep.

"I hate you."

WHAT DID SHE JUST SAY?

FUCK ALL OF YOU.

"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you."

STUPID BITCHES.

Eleanor fell against the banister and practically ran to the front door on all fours. She got outside and kept running to the end of the sidewalk. Ben was sitting on the porch, playing with his Hot Wheels. He stopped and watched Eleanor run by.

"I hate you," Eleanor said louder. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."

FUCK THIS.

FAT and FUCK and BITCH. And I WARNED YOU, SABRINA.

In Eleanor's head, the house shook.

Eleanor wondered if she should keep running, but where would she go? Even when she was a little girl, she never fantasized about running away. She could never imagine herself past the edge of the yard. Where would she go? Who would take her?

It was just her mom. She took Eleanor's arm and started walking quickly toward the neighbor's house.

When the front door opened again, Eleanor took a few steps into the street.

If Eleanor would have known then what was about to happen, she would have run back to tell Ben goodbye. She would have looked for Maisie and Mouse and kissed them each hard on the cheek. Maybe she would have asked to go back inside to see the baby.

If he wanted that now -- if he wanted her to beg for forgiveness, for mercy, if that was the price she had to pay to stay -- she'd do it.

She hoped he couldn't see that.

And if Richie had been inside waiting for her, maybe she would have dropped to her knees and begged him to let her stay. Maybe she would have said anything he wanted her to.

She hoped none of them could see what was left of her.

"Park…" she said, looking nervously down the street to her house.

She nodded her head against him.

"Uh-uh." He shook his head.

She ignored Mr Stessman in English class.

"I'm just really tired," she said.

"I know," he said, "but I wanted to tell you… I'm not grounded anymore."

She nodded.

"Okay?" he asked.

"You're not?"

"Yeah…"

"It means you can come over again," he said.

# Park #

"Oh," she said.

On the way home, she wasn't irritable; she wasn't anything at all.

"I mean, if you want to." This wasn't going like he thought it would. Even when Eleanor was looking at him, she wasn't looking at him.

"Eleanor? Is everything okay?"

She looked back at her house.

"That's great," she said.

"Do you still…" He hung onto the backpack straps across his chest. "I mean, do you still want to? Do you still miss me?"

"Oh," she said.

In history, she stared out the window.

When she got off the bus at her stop, Park still hadn't told her. So he jumped up and followed her, even though he knew she wouldn't want him to.

She nodded. She looked like she was going to cry. Park hoped she wouldn't cry at his house again… If she ever came back. It felt like she was slipping away.