She didn’t want to think about the little kids right now. Or Christmas.
She tried to turn the station to MTV, but her dad frowned at her.
He was on the phone again.
‘Can I listen to records?’ she whispered.
He nodded.
She had an old mix tape in her pocket, and she was going to dub over it to make a tape for Park.
But there was a whole packet of empty Maxell tapes sitting on her dad’s stereo. Eleanor held a cassette up to her dad, and he nodded, flicking his cigarette into an ashtray shaped like a naked African woman.
Eleanor sat down in front of the crates full of record albums.
These used to be both of her parents’ records, not just his. Her mom must not have wanted any of them. Or maybe her dad just took them without asking.
Her mom had loved this Bonnie Raitt album. Eleanor wondered if her dad ever listened to it.
She felt seven years old, flipping through their records.
Before she was allowed to take the albums out of their sleeves, Eleanor used to lay them out on the floor and stare at the artwork.
When she was old enough, her dad taught her how to dust the records with a wood-handled velvet brush.
She could remember her mother
lighting
incense
and
putting on her favorite records – Judee Sill and Judy Collins and Crosby, Stills and Nash – while she cleaned the house.
She could remember her dad putting on records – Jimi Hendrix and Deep Purple and Jethro Tull – when his friends came over and stayed late into the night.
Eleanor could remember lying on her stomach on an old Persian rug, drinking grape juice out of a jelly jar, being extra quiet because her baby brother was asleep in the next room – and studying each record, one by one. Turning their names over and over in her mouth. Cream. Vanilla Fudge.
Canned Heat.
The records smelled exactly like they always had. Like her dad’s bedroom. Like Richie’s coat. Like pot, Eleanor realized.
Duh. She flipped through the records
more
matter-of-factly
now, on a mission. Looking for Rubber Soul and Revolver.
Sometimes it seemed as if she would never be able to give Park anything like what he’d given her.
It was like he dumped all this treasure on her every morning without even thinking about it, without any sense of what it was worth.
She couldn’t repay him. She couldn’t even appropriately thank him. How can you thank someone for The Cure? Or the X-Men?
Sometimes it felt like she’d always be in his debt.
And then she realized that Park didn’t know about the Beatles.
Park
Park went to the playground to play basketball after school. Just to kill time. But he couldn’t focus on the game – he kept looking up at the back of Eleanor’s house.
When he got home, he called out to his mom. ‘Mom! I’m home!’
‘Park,’ she called. ‘Out here!
In the garage.’
He grabbed a cherry Popsicle out of the freezer and headed out there.
He
could
smell
the
permanent-wave solution as soon as he opened the door.
Park’s dad had converted their garage into a salon when Josh started kindergarten and their mom went to beauty school. She even had a little sign hanging by the side door. ‘Mindy’s Hair & Nails.’
‘Min-Dae,’ it said on her driver’s license.
Everyone in the neighborhood who could afford a hair stylist came
to
Park’s
mom.
On
homecoming and prom weekends, she’d spend all day in the garage.
Both Park and Josh were recruited from time to time to hold hot curling irons.
Today, his mom had Tina sitting in her chair. Tina’s hair was wound tight in rollers, and Park’s mom was squeezing something onto them with a plastic bottle.
The smell burned his eyes.
‘Hey, Mom,’ he said. ‘Hey, Tina.’
‘Hey, honey,’ his mom said.
She pronounced it with two ‘n’s.
Tina smiled broadly at him.
‘Close eyes, Ti-na,’ his mom said.
‘Stay close.’
‘Hey, Mrs Sheridan,’ Tina said, holding a white washcloth over her eyes, ‘have you met Park’s girlfriend yet?’
His mom didn’t look up from Tina’s head. ‘Nooo,’ she said, clucking
her
tongue.
‘No
girlfriend. Not Park.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Tina said. ‘Tell her, Park – her name is Eleanor, and she’s new this year. We can’t keep them apart on the bus.’
Park stared at Tina. Shocked that she’d sell him out like this.
Startled by her rosy take on bus life. Surprised that she was even paying attention to him, and to Eleanor. His mom looked over at Park, but not for long; Tina’s hair was at a critical stage.
‘I don’t know about any girlfriend,’ his mom said.
‘I’ll bet you’ve seen her in the neighborhood,’
Tina
said,
assuring. ‘She has really pretty, red hair. Naturally curly.’
‘Is that right?’ his mom said.
‘No,’ Park said, anger and everything else curdling in his stomach.
‘You’re such a guy, Park,’
Tina said from behind the washcloth. ‘I’m sure it’s natural.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘she’s not my girlfriend.
I
don’t
have
a