Eleanor & Park

‘Not so hard …’ his mom said, looking up at her. His mom’s eyes lit up. ‘Hey, I have good idea,’ she said. ‘I do your hair. We have makeover night.’

Eleanor’s mouth dropped open. She was probably picturing herself with feathered hair and fake eyelashes.

‘Oh, no …’ she said. ‘I couldn’t …’

‘Yes,’ his mom said, ‘so much fun!’

‘Mom, no,’ Park said, ‘Eleanor doesn’t want a makeover … She doesn’t need a makeover,’ he added, as soon as he thought of it.

‘Not big makeover,’ his mom said. She was already reaching for Eleanor’s hair. ‘No cutting.

Nothing we can’t wash off.’

Park looked at Eleanor, pleading. Hopefully, she’d know that he was pleading because it would make his mom happy, not because he thought there was anything wrong with her.

‘No cutting?’ Eleanor said.

His mom was fingering a curl. ‘Better light in the garage,’ she said, ‘come on.’ Eleanor

Park’s mom put Eleanor in the shampoo chair and snapped her fingers at Park. To Eleanor’s horror – to her ongoing horror – Park came over and started filling the sink with water. He took a pink towel down from a big stack, and expertly Velcroed it around Eleanor’s neck, carefully lift-ing out her hair.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Do you want me to leave?’

‘No,’ she mouthed, grabbing his shirt. Yes, she thought. She was already starting to dissolve with embarrassment. She couldn’t feel the tips of her fingers.

But if Park left, there’d be no one to stop his mom if she decided to give Eleanor giant, claw-shaped bangs or a spiral perm. Or both.

Eleanor wouldn’t try to stop her, no matter what; she was a guest in this garage. She’d eaten this woman’s food and manhandled her son – she was in no position to argue.

Park’s mom pushed him aside and laid Eleanor’s head firmly back into the sink. ‘What kind of shampoo you use?’

‘I don’t know,’ Eleanor said.

‘How you not know?’ his mom asked, feeling her hair. ‘Feels too dry. Curly hair is dry, you know?’

Eleanor shook her head.

‘Hmmm …’ Park’s mom said. She tipped Eleanor’s head back into the water and told Park to go stick a hot-oill pack in the microwave.

It was really, really strange having Park’s mom wash her hair. She was practically standing in Eleanor’s lap; her angel necklace hung right over Eleanor’s mouth. Plus, the whole process tickled like crazy. Eleanor didn’t know whether Park was watching. She hoped not.

A few minutes later, her hair was hot-oiled and wrapped in a towel so tight it hurt her forehead. Park was sitting across from her, trying to smile, but looking almost as uncomfortable as she felt.

His mom was going through box after box of Avon samples. ‘I know it’s here somewhere,’ she said. ‘Ci

She wheeled her chair over to Eleanor.

‘Okay. Close eyes.’

Eleanor stared at her. She was holding up a little brown pencil.

‘Close eyes,’ she said again.

‘Why?’ Eleanor said.

‘Don’t worry. This wash off.’

‘But I don’t wear makeup.’

‘Why not?’

Maybe Eleanor should say that she wasn’t allowed to. That would sound nicer than ‘because makeup is a lie.’

‘I don’t know,’ Eleanor said, ‘it’s just not me.’

‘Yes, you,’ his mom said, looking at the pencil. ‘Very good color for you. Ci

‘Is that lipstick?’

‘No, eyeliner.’

Eleanor especially didn’t wear eyeliner.

‘What does it do?’

‘It’s makeup,’ his mom said, exasperated. ‘It makes you pretty.’

Eleanor felt like she had something in her eye. Like fire.

‘Mom …’ Park said.

‘Here,’ his mom said. ‘I’ll show you.’ She turned to Park, and before either of them realized what she was pla

‘Ci

‘Mom …’ Park said painfully, but he didn’t move.

His mom sat so that Eleanor could see, then deftly drew a line along Park’s eyelashes.

‘Open.’ He did. ‘Nice … close.’ She did the other eye, too. Then she added another line under his eye and licked her thumb to wipe away a smudge. ‘There, nice.’

‘See?’ she said, sitting back so that Eleanor could see. ‘Easy. Pretty.’

Park didn’t look pretty. He looked dangerous.

Like Ming the Merciless. Or a member of Duran Duran.

‘You look like Robert Smith,’ Eleanor said.

But … yeah, she thought, prettier.

He looked down. Eleanor couldn’t look away.

His mom swooped in between them. ‘Okay, now close eyes,’ she said to Eleanor. ‘Open. Nice

… Close again …’ It felt exactly like having someone draw on your eye with a pencil. Then it was over, and Park’s mom was rubbing something cold on Eleanor’s cheeks.

‘This very easy routine,’ his mom said.

‘Foundation, powder, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, lip liner, lipstick, blush. Eight steps, take you fifteen minutes tops.’

Park’s mom was very businesslike, like someone with a cooking show on PBS. Pretty soon she was unwrapping Eleanor’s hair and standing behind her.

Eleanor wanted to look at Park again, now that she could, but she didn’t want him looking back. Her face felt so heavy and sticky, she probably looked like one of the Designing Women.

Park scooted his chair closer to hers and started bouncing his fist on her knee. It took Eleanor a second to realize he was challenging her to a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors.

She played along. God. Any excuse to touch him. Any excuse not to look at him directly. He’d rubbed his eyes, so he didn’t look painted anymore – but he still looked like something Eleanor didn’t have words for.

‘That’s how Park keep little kids busy during haircuts,’ his mom said. ‘You must look scared, Eleanor. Don’t worry. I promise no cutting.’

Eleanor and Park both made scissors.

His mom rubbed half a can of mousse into her hair, then blew it dry with a diffuser (which Eleanor had never heard of before but was apparently very, very important).

According to Park’s mom, everything Eleanor was doing with her hair – washing it with whatever, brushing it, tying in beads and silk flowers – was dead wrong.

She should be diffusing and scrunching and, if possible, sleeping on a satin pillowcase.

‘I think you look really good with bangs,’ his mom said. ‘Maybe next time, we try bangs.’

There will never be a next time, Eleanor promised herself and God.

‘Okay, all done.’ Park’s mom was all smiles.

‘Look so pretty … Ready to see?’ She turned Eleanor around to the mirror. ‘Ta-daa!’

Eleanor looked at her own lap.

‘Have to look, Eleanor. Look, mirror, so pretty.’

Eleanor couldn’t. She could feel them both watching her. She wanted to disappear, to drop through a trap door. This whole thing was a bad idea. A terrible idea. She was going to cry, she was going to make a scene. Park’s mom was going to go back to hating her.

‘Hey, Mindy.’ Park’s dad opened the door and leaned into the garage. ‘Phone call. Oh, hey, look at you, Eleanor, you look like a Solid Gold dancer.’

‘See?’ his mom said, ‘I told you – pretty.

Don’t look in mirror until I come back. Looking in mirror best part.’

She hurried into the house, and Eleanor hid her face in her hands, trying not to mess anything up. She felt Park’s hands on her wrists.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I guess I knew you’d hate this, but I didn’t think you’d hate it this much.’

‘It’s just so embarrassing.’

‘Why?’

‘Because … you’re all looking at me.’

‘I’m always looking at you,’ he said.

‘I know, I wish you’d stop.’

‘She’s just trying to get to know you. This is her thing.’

‘Do I look like a Solid Gold dancer?’

‘No …’

‘Oh my God,’ she said, ‘I do.’

‘No, you look … just look.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Look now,’ he said, ‘before my mom gets back.’