Eleanor & Park

by Rainbow Rowell

And wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt. Eleanor hated the Sex Pistols.

The next morning, when Eleanor got on the bus, there was a stack of comics on her seat.

You wouldn’t even know that she touched the comics except for the smell. Every book Park lent her came back smelling like perfume.

“You like the Smiths?”

thanks to Richie’s influence, she went around mentally calling everyone she met a “motherfucker.” (Irony.)

I am the sun … And the air …

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

don’t like you,” he said. “I need you.”

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

You’re my favorite person of all time.”

“Yeah, don’t make a big deal, okay? Just … be cool.” “Okay,” she said. “I’m cool.”

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.

“No,” she said, “it’s…” She couldn’t think of anything funny to say. “Yeah, it’s for you.”

“in the same phylum as Hall and Oates,” and he threatened to evict her from his room.

“I love you,” he said. She looked up at him, her eyes shiny and black, then looked away. “I know,”

“You know?” he repeated. She smiled, so he kissed her. “You’re not the Han Solo in this relationship, you know.” “I’m totally the Han Solo,”

“You can be Han Solo,” he said, kissing her throat. “And I’ll be Boba Fett. I’ll cross the sky for you.”

He even parallel parked the Impala, which was like parallel parking a Star Destroyer.

“Because the theme is ‘I Want to Know What Love Is.’” “That’s not such a bad song,” he said. “Are you drunk? It’s Foreigner.

“sure. We can go next year. That will give my mouse and bird friends plenty of time to make me a dress.