"Eleanor & Park" Rainbow Rowell, Prologue–Chapter 13

She only came back when she felt like it, in dreams and lies and
broken-down deja vu.

Eleanor . . .Standing behind him until he turned his head. Lying next to him
just before he woke up. Making everyone else seem drabber and flatter and never good enough.

Park managed another smile and slunk back into his seat, putting his headphones back on and cranking up the volume.

Park heard Tina snicker; she lived for this stuff.

The girl just looked like exactly the sort of person this would happen to. Not just new—but big and awkward. With crazy hair, bright red on top of curly.

"Sit down," the driver bellowed from the front.

The bus lurched, and the girl rocked back to keep from falling.

Park, by the way, knew plenty about kung fu. Because his dad was obsessed with martial arts, not because his mom was Korean.

Mr. Stessman didn't stop her, so she read the whole poem in that cool, defiant voice.

The house was possibly even more depressing in daylight—dingy and bare— but at least Eleanor had the place, and her mom, to herself.

She was tall and stately, with broad shoulders and an elegant waist.

All her bones seemed more purposeful than other people's.

You'd look at Eleanor's mom and think she must be carved into the prow of a Viking ship somewhere or maybe painted on the side of a plane.

Her breasts started just below her chin, her hips were . . . a parody.

Even her mom's hair, long and wavy and auburn, was a more legitimate version of Eleanor's bright red curls.

Even her mom's hair, long and wavy and auburn, was a more legitimate version of Eleanor's bright red curls.

Eleanor put her hand to her head self-consciously.

There was her stationery, her colored pencils, and her Prismacolor markers (another Christmas present from her uncle).

You're going to memorize this poem, and five years from now, we're going to see each other at the Village Inn, and you'll say, 'Mr. Stessman, I still remember “The Road Not Taken"! Listen . . . Two roads diverged in a yellow wood . . .'

"You may choose it, Eleanor. It's poignant and it's truth. But how often will you get to roll that one out?"

So far, Park's strat­egy for maintaining his status as older brother despite their growing size differential was to pretend he could still kick Josh's ass.

"It can't be crass," Cal argued.

Park's dad had decided to be a fascist about Park's driver's license; he'd announced last night that Park had to learn to drive a stick first.

It was last week, in history, and she'd practically gouged out his eyes with hers.

Park braced himself every morning before she got on the bus, but you couldn't brace yourself enough for the sight of her.

It kind of reminded Park of the way artists draw Jean Grey sometimes when she's using her telepathy, with her eyes all blacked out and alien.

But he'd gone too long without saying anything since the first time he cursed at her, and now it was all just irrevocably weird.

That would be a giant understatement, anyway.

Eleanor ate dinner sitting cross-legged on her bed, extra careful not to spill anything on the books because every issue was in pristine condi­tion; there wasn't so much as a bent corner.

He couldn't help but sound disdainful.

"Two young lovers lay dead. Never was a story of more woe. Doesn't that get to you?"

Maisie was holding the baby, rocking him almost frantically.

Her books were in her bedroom, but Eleanor didn't want to open the door and let out any more acrid air— so she just left.

She clenched her teeth and glared.

They were playing volleyball today, and once Tina said, "Your serve, bitch," but that was it, and that was practically jocular, all things Tina-considered.

Instead she walked past the girls, with her chin as high as she could manage, and methodically peeled the pads off her locker.

"Those girls are trifling," DeNice said.

Any cliche you've ever heard used to describe Clint Eastwood, those were Eleanor's eyes.

As soon as she sat down, Eleanor slunk low in the seat, so the back-of-the-bus ruffians wouldn't be able to see from the top of her head how happy she felt.

"Are you being sarcastic? I can't tell."