Eleanor & Park

by Rainbow Rowell

That’s a voice that arrives on a chariot drawn by dragons.”

All her bones seemed more purposeful than other people’s. Like they weren’t just there to hold her up; they were there to make a point.

There was no room in that house to be a teenager.

If this had happened two summers ago, Eleanor would have run and banged on the door herself. She would have yelled at Richie to stop. She would have called 911 at the very, very, very least. But now that seemed like something a child would do, or a fool. Now, all she could think about was what they were going to do if the baby actually started to cry. Thank God he didn’t. Even he seemed to realize that trying to make this stop would only ever make it worse.

“I just want to break that song into pieces,” she said, “and love them all to death.”

“What have we got?… Ophelia was bonkers, right? And Juliet was what, a sixth-grader?”

She climbed into bed and clenched her eyes and jaw and fists—held everything clenched until she could breathe without screaming.

Holding Eleanor’s hand was like holding a butterfly. Or a heartbeat. Like holding something complete, and completely alive.

Park touched her hands like they were something rare and precious, like her fingers were intimately connected to the rest of her body. Which, of course, they were. It was hard to explain. He made her feel like more than the sum of her parts.)

Park looked good in black. It made him look like he was drawn in charcoal.

That feeling she used to have when she was sitting next to Park on the bus—that feeling that she was on base, that she was safe for the moment—she could summon it now. Like a force field.

“Your father is a piece of work,” her mother said. “Every time, he breaks your hearts. And every time, he expects me to pick up the pieces.” Pick up, sweep aside—same difference in her mom’s world. Eleanor didn’t argue.

She could kiss him—or head-butt him—before he’d ever have a chance to pull away.

“I wish you’d go away,” he whispered, “so that we could finally talk.”

You’d think that every single person who called was his best friend in the whole world.

“I wish I were drinking milk, and I wish you were here, so that you could watch it shoot out my nose in response to that.”

He didn’t even have to whisper. On the phone, in the dark, he just had to move his lips and breathe.

“I’m afraid I’ll tell you the truth.”

“I don’t think I even breathe when we’re not together,” she whispered.

His voice sounded raw and pure. Like something just hatched.

He kept making her feel like it was safe to smile.

“And you look like a protagonist.” She was talking as fast as she could think. “You look like the person who wins in the end. You’re so pretty, and so good. You have magic eyes,” she whispered. “And you make me feel like a cannibal.”

She never felt like she belonged anywhere, except for when she was lying on her bed, pretending to be somewhere else.

Park had the sort of face you painted because you didn’t want history to forget it.

Beautiful. Breathtaking. Like the person in a Greek myth who makes one of the gods stop caring about being a god.

It was like she was keeping them all alive behind his back.

“Eleanor wouldn’t think he’s fine,” DeNice teased. “She’s only interested in stone-cold killers.”

All five of them had learned to cry without making any noise.

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

“I’m just really tired,” she said.

She wanted to lose herself in him. To tie his arms around her like a tourniquet.

Yesterday happens.”

And when Eleanor smiled, something broke inside him. Something always did.

Eleanor was right: She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn’t supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.

Eleanor made him feel like something was happening. Even when they were just sitting on the couch.

But he kept finding new pockets of shallow inside himself. He kept finding new ways to betray her.

She bent her neck back and kissed him like she never had before. Like she wasn’t scared of doing it wrong.

“Yes,” she said, crossing her arms. “Barriers. Caution tape. I’m doing you a favor.” “Don’t,” he said. “I can handle it.”

“Why doesn’t she leave?” She shook her head. “I don’t think she can.… I don’t think there’s enough of her left.”

What if Park realized that all the things he thought were so mysterious and intriguing about her were actually just … bleak?

Thanks to Richie, they were all experts in the blank-face department. They should find some family poker tournament.…

“Nothing before you counts,” he said. “And I can’t even imagine an after.”

He wished that they could go through life like this. That he could physically put himself between Eleanor and the world.

(Everywhere he’d touched her felt untouchable. Everywhere he’d touched her felt safe.)

The world rebuilt itself into a better place around him.)

Park was breathing so hard, he couldn’t get any air.

She was just trying to get through the night.

He needed to remember it when he woke up scared in the middle of the night.

It felt better than anything had ever hurt.

“It’s up to us not to lose this.”