Eleanor & Park Read Free Page B

Danish wedding
    plates … The little red ‘Uff da!’
    horse that always used to hang
    above the sink.
    Maybe it was packed away
    somewhere. Maybe her mom was
    hoping the cave-troll house was
    just temporary.
    Eleanor was still hoping that
    Richie was just temporary.
    At the bottom of the black
    trash bag was a box. Her heart
    jumped a little when she saw it.
    Her uncle in Minnesota used to
    send her family a Fruit of the
    Month Club membership every
    Christmas, and Eleanor and her
    brothers and sister would always
    fight over the boxes that the fruit
    came in. It was stupid, but they
    were good boxes – solid, with
    nice lids. This one was a
    grapefruit box, soft from wear at
    the edges.
    Eleanor opened it carefully.
    Nothing inside had been touched.
    There was her stationery, her
    colored
    pencils
    and
    her
    Prismacolor
    markers
    (another
    Christmas
    present
    from
    her
    uncle). There was a stack of
    promotional cards from the mall
    that still smelled like expensive
    perfumes. And there was her
    Walkman.
    Untouched.
    Un-
    batteried, too, but nevertheless,
    there. And where there was a
    Walkman,
    there
    was
    the
    possibility of music.
    Eleanor let her head fall over
    the box. It smelled like Chanel No.
    5 and pencil shavings. She sighed.
    There wasn’t anything to do
    with her recovered belongings
    once she’d sorted through them –
    there wasn’t even room in the
    dresser for Eleanor’s clothes. So
    she set aside the box and the
    books,
    and
    carefully
    put
    everything else back in the
    garbage bag. Then she pushed the
    bag back as far as she could on
    the highest shelf in the closet,
    behind
    the
    towels
    and
    a
    humidifier.
    She climbed onto her bunk
    and found a scraggly old cat
    napping there. ‘Shoo,’ Eleanor
    said, shoving him. The cat leaped
    to the floor and out the bedroom
    door.
    CHAPTER 5
    Park
    Mr Stessman was making them all
    memorize a poem, whatever poem
    they wanted. Well, whatever poem
    they picked.
    ‘You’re
    going
    to
    forget
    everything else I teach you,’ Mr
    Stessman
    said,
    petting
    his
    mustache. ‘Everything. Maybe
    you’ll remember that Beowulf
    fought a monster. Maybe you’ll
    remember that “To be or not to
    be” is Hamlet , not Macbeth …
    ‘But everything else? Forget
    about it.’
    He was slowly walking up and
    down each aisle. Mr Stessman
    loved this kind of stuff – theater
    in the round. He stopped next to
    Park’s desk and leaned in casually
    with his hand on the back of
    Park’s
    chair.
    Park
    stopped
    drawing and sat up straight. He
    couldn’t draw anyway.
    ‘So, you’re going to memorize
    a poem,’ Mr Stessman continued,
    pausing a moment to smile down
    at Park like Gene Wilder in the
    chocolate factory.
    ‘Brains love poetry. It’s sticky
    stuff. 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 …’”’
    He moved on to the next desk.
    Park relaxed.
    ‘Nobody gets to pick “The
    Road Not Taken,” by the way, I’m
    sick to death of it. And no Shel
    Silverstein. He’s grand, but you’ve
    graduated. We’re all adults here.
    Choose an adult poem …
    ‘Choose
    a romantic poem,
    that’s my advice. You’ll get the
    most use out of it.’
    He walked by the new girl’s
    desk, but she didn’t turn away
    from the window.
    ‘Of course, it’s up to you. You
    may choose “A Dream Deferred”
    – Eleanor?’ She turned blankly.
    Mr Stessman leaned in. ‘You may
    choose it, Eleanor. It’s poignant
    and it’s truth. But how often will
    you get to roll that one out?
    ‘No. Choose a poem that
    speaks to you. Choose a poem that
    will help you speak to someone
    else.’
    Park planned to choose a
    poem that rhymed, so it would be
    easier to memorize. He liked Mr
    Stessman, he really did – but he
    wished he’d dial it back a few
    notches. Whenever he