Okay, so I finished reading Eleanor and Park for the third time yesterday. There has never been a story that I love more. It's just everything, and so of course I had to make this story. Hope you like! Reviews are appreciated.
Warning: this contains some cursing, nothing too crazy. :P
(Not sure if this is a oneshot or a two-parter).
-Homey
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Also, copyright HomeschoolGirl 2014. Please don't post anywhere else or use as your own.
Park
The words settled in his ears for the next three days. While he ate his cereal, standing over the kitchen sink as not to drip. I'm Han Solo. Or when he was pulling on a t-shirt in his bedroom after Taekwondo, frowning at the smudge of eyeliner he'd left on his dobak. I'm Han Solo. He'd been waiting for the phone to ring since getting her postcard, biding his time. He knew she'd freak if he made the first move.
I'm Han Solo.
"You so happy," his Mom said over the breakfast table the next morning. She was sitting primly on her chair with one leg tucked up underneath her, so delicate. "I not seen you so happy since you Eleanor left."
Even her name couldn't pull him back to that dark place, not like before. He felt the blooming in his chest, imagined the blood flowing back into his heart. He almost told his Mom about the postcard.
"I guess I decided that there's nothing left to be sad about," He offered around a mouthful of toast.
She pushed the carton orange juice across the table at him. "Good to hear. Now drink. Grandma says there's vitamin-something in them, they good for you."
"Vitamin C," Josh said from his end of the table. "Pass the orange juice."
"Josh! You already had glass. Save some for you brother."
Eleanor
Why she'd written that, she didn't know.
She'd not been in a particularly sentimental or nostalgic mood, either. She'd just sat down at her desk that overlooked the street, imagined Park pulling up to the curb—would he look different, still wear the eyeliner—and she was just ready. She couldn't believe there was no longer any hope.
Her hand found the pencil, and she prepared to write a long, lengthy confessional. She wouldn't even poke fun at either of them; it would be an all-out mushfest. The kind of thing she shuddered at.
Her head had a mind of its own. While she meant to grab the notebook paper, she grabbed the postcard instead. The one he'd sent, blank aside from her Uncle's address scribbled on the line. In pencil. She erased it furiously, and picked off the stamp with a red fingernail. She'd allowed them to grow long. Her friend had painted them for her, a glorious scarlet that unintentionally matched her hair. They'd laughed about it afterward.
I'm Han Solo, she wrote, because of course there was nothing else to say but that.
Those words held everything she felt about him, everything she still felt.
They burst to the surface along with a smile.
Park
Cat was in his room, closing the door. She started toward him with an eyebrow raised. The piercing in her lip glinted as she lurched forward and tackled him to the ground, pressing her lips to the place just below his eye.
"My mom doesn't like my door to be shut when girls are in here," He said, but it was wheezy.
"How old are you again, Park?" Her hand teased the back of his head.
"Seventeen."
"Right. Seventeen. I think you can decide whether or not you want your door open for your damn self, don't you?"
"Uh-huh."
She kissed him hard. The lip ring dug into his skin, and he tried not to flinch.
"I really…I want the door open," He fumbled, sitting up. Cat rolled off him, away, groaning in protest.
"God, Puck. You are such a pussy."
The words froze in her throat. He could hear them come to a stop, so she laughed, to show she was kidding. He rocked back on his heels. He opened the door and motioned her out.
"What? Are you kidding?"
"No. I'm not kidding."
She stood up, pulling her wrinkled shirt down. It was Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. He hated Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. He knew Eleanor would, too.
"Fine," She exhaled, pushing her tongue into the corner of her cheek. "I'm sorry."
He stood up, pulling the door back further. She let out a huff and stormed past, down the stairs. He heard his mother call out as she passed—"Hey, Cat, where you going to?" but she ignored her. Just another reason that she was all wrong for Park. Cat was too cool for his mom.
Eleanor wasn't.
"Where Cat go?" His mom asked as Park started down the stairs, looking anxious.
"I don't know." He sank onto the couch.
"You must know. You upset her?"
"No. She's just being herself." He waited a beat, and then clarified, "A bitch."
He wanted for his Mom to correct him—dirty mouth, go to room! But instead a relieved sort of smile settled across face and she nodded. "Yes, she a bitch."
Park drew himself up in surprise. His Dad laughed exuberantly from the next room.
"Oh, shut up," His mom said, coloring. "She is."
Park's cheeks lifted even higher than they had upon reading Eleanor's postcard. It felt so good to be purged of Cat, he couldn't even find the words.
Eleanor
It felt wrong to call. No, not after all this time.
She almost chickened out, standing at the threshold of her Uncle's kitchen. He was flipping eggs over the stove while Aunt Sherri cooked bacon. They always had breakfast for Eleanor, and she always ate. She was still the same stubborn size, despite (poorly) running track and eating three times the amount she ever had at the old house. It was okay, though. More and more she was starting to accept herself.
There were girls at school who were mean, but they were the minority, which was new. Almost everyone welcomed Eleanor with open arms. She never said a word about her old life. They didn't know. She was just the cool girl who liked comics and lived with her Uncle.
Not the girl who was afraid. Not the girl who was insecure. Not even the girl who was funny. Only one person really found her funny, ever.
And she didn't belong to him, either.
Park
Everytime the phone rang, he waited for it to come to him. It didn't. A week passed, and then two. He wondered if he should look up Eleanor's Uncle. Maybe she did want him to reach out
But that was ridiculous, he told himself. He knew Eleanor. She wouldn't have sent the postcard if she didn't mean it. He just—he had to be patient.
He hated being patient.
At night, Park would study the postcard in the dark. He imagined her writing it, those hands that were so small, the most defenseless thing about her. Those hands that he loved with all of his soul and mind. The start to everything. The hands that cradled the scarf, that he wrapped around his, that he drew his finger down. Electric hands.
Maybe she wasn't ever going to call him.
Eleanor
"You want to go back to Omaha?" Uncle Geoff asked, in plain disbelief.
Eleanor nodded. Aunt Sherri looked concerned. She pushed over the bacon.
"I do," she said, tearing off a crispy bit at the end.
"Why?"
"There's…somebody," she hedged, trying to keep mum about it. She'd never told anyone in her new life about Park, not even them. When they asked who drove her, she said a friend from school. Tina.
She didn't know why.
"Are you talking about Tina?" Uncle Geoff asked, suddenly remembering. "Because Tina's allowed to come here."
Eleanor shook her head. "No. It's something else."
"Well…" He splayed his hands across the countertop. "Richie. He's still there."
"I won't go near him. He can't—he can't hurt me anymore."
"He can, Eleanor," Aunt Sherri said, grabbing her hand. There was such love in her eyes, it took Eleanor's breath away. She never imagined an adult could love her. Her mother had long since only been looking at her with sadness, and they hadn't talked in ages. Not since CPS came and took the kids, all four of them—Ben, Maisie, Mouse, little Richie. Uncle Geoff told Eleanor they split them up, like kitkat bars or peanut m&ms that ended up two together. That was Eleanor's own analogy, anyway.
They went in two groups—Ben and Maisie, Mouse and Little Richie. Nice couples took them, promising to keep them safe until Sabrina got her life back together.
She called Eleanor once, screaming in her ear. "They took the kids away from me! They took everything. I have nothing, Eleanor, I didn't mean to hurt you. Please tell them it's all right. Tell them you were exaggerating."
Eleanor hung up. Her mother was long past being in her right mind.
"He can't hurt me. Not really. He won't want to," She continued with confidence. Her chin raised the smallest bit. "I need to do this. And then I'll come back, I promise."
"How long?" Geoff asked, massaging his forehead.
"A week. Two at most," Eleanor said, thinking quickly. If Park didn't hate her, if he let her stay—certainly that would be time enough to work things out. To mend broken fences. Or break them some more.
Geoff and Sherri looked at each other. Finally, he nodded.
"All right, Eleanor. Fourteen days. Including travel. But you get into trouble, you call me."
"Of course." She stood up, pushing her plate away. "I need to go get ready."
"When do you plan to leave?"
She stared at the clock. Her eyes slid shut and she saw his green eyes.
"Five minutes."
Park
When it rang, he was laying on the couch. He tried not to think about the couch, more than anything. If he did, his cheeks would go red, and his parents would ask if he was okay. His Dad in a kind of exasperated manner.
He stood up to get it when he mom yelled from the kitchen that he should. He brushed his hair back and shuffled to the door, turning the handle.
The first thing he saw was the flaming red hair.