Park Sheridan Character Analysis

Not just new—but big and awkward. With crazy hair, bright red on top of curly. And she was dressed like . . . like she wanted people to look at her. Or maybe like she didn't get what a mess she was. She had on a plaid shirt, a man's shirt, with half a dozen weird necklaces hanging around her neck and scarves wrapped around her wrists. She reminded Park of a scarecrow or one of the trouble dolls his mom kept on her dresser. Like something that wouldn't survive in the wild.

But Park didn’t have any luck—or status—to spare on that dumb redhead. He had just enough to keep himself out of trouble. And he knew it was crappy, but he was kind of grateful that people like that girl existed. Because people like Steve and Mikey and Tina existed, too, and they needed to be fed. If it wasn’t that redhead, it was going to be somebody else. And if it wasn’t somebody else, it was going to be Park.

"So," [Park] said, before he knew what to say next. "You like the Smiths?" He was careful not to blow his morning breath on [Eleanor.]

She looked up, surprised. Maybe confused. He pointed at her book, where she'd written How Soon Is Now? in tall green letters.

"I don't know," she said. "I've never heard them."

"So you just want people to think you like the Smiths?" He couldn't help but sound disdainful.

Best of all, she had Park's songs in her head—and in her chest, somehow. There was something about the music on that tape. It felt different. Like, it set her lungs and her stomach on edge. There was something exciting about it, and something nervous. It made Eleanor feel like everything, like the world, wasn't what she'd thought it was.

Until this moment, she'd kept Park in a place in her head that she thought Richie couldn't get to. Completely separate from this house and everything that happened here. (It was a pretty awesome place. Like the only part of her head fit for praying.) But now Richie was in there, just pissing all over everything. Making everything she felt feel as rank and rotten as him.

"You don't care what anyone thinks about you," [Park] said.

"That's crazy," [Eleanor] said. "I care what everyone thinks about me."

"I can't tell," he said. "You just seem like yourself, no matter what's happening around you. My grandmother would say you're comfortable in your own skin."

[…]

"I’m stuck in my own skin," she said.

"Stop asking that," she said angrily. There was no stopping the tears now. "You always ask that. Why. Like there's an answer for everything. Not everybody has your life, you know, or your family. In your life, things happen for reasons. People make sense. But that's not my life.”

She would never belong in Park's living room. She never felt like she belonged anywhere, except for when she was lying on her bed, pretending to be somewhere else.

“Your mother's sorry. She's sorry that she hurt your feelings, and she wants you to invite your girlfriend over to dinner."

"So that she can make her feel bad and weird?"

"Well, she is kind of weird, isn't she?"

Park didn't have the energy to be angry. He sighed and let his head fall back on the chair.

His dad kept talking. "Isn't that why you like her?"

[Mindy’s] hand settled softly in her lap.

“In big family," she said, "everything . . . everybody spread so thin. Thin like paper, you know?" She made a tearing gesture. […] "Nobody gets enough," she said. "Nobody gets what they need. When you always hungry, you get hungry in your head." She tapped her forehead. "You know?"

Park wasn't sure what to say.

“You don’t know, she said, shaking her head. "I don't want you to know. . . I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he said.

"I'm sorry for how I welcomed your Eleanor."

[Eleanor] pulled away. "Are you kissing me because I look like someone else?"

"You don't look like someone else. Plus, that's crazy."

"Do you like me better like this?" she asked. "Because I'm never going to look like this again."

[…]

"You look like you,” [Park] said. "You with the volume turned up."

"What do you want me to do?" Eleanor asked. [Ben and Maisie] both stared at her, desperate and almost . . . almost hopeful.

[…]

She was pretty sure she was wired wrong somewhere, that her plugs were switched, because instead of softening toward them—instead of tenderness—she felt herself go cold and mean. "I can't take you with me," she said, "if that's what you're thinking."

[…]

"You don't care about us," Maisie said.

"I do care," Eleanor hissed. "I just can't . . . help you." […] "I can't even help myself."

"Why is your stepdad looking for you?"

"Because he knows, because I ran away."

"Why?"

"Because he knows.” Her voice caught. "Because it's him."

"I just can't believe that life would give us to each other," [Park] said, "and then take it back."

"I can," [Eleanor] said. "Life's a bastard."

He held her tighter, and pushed his face into her neck.

"But it's up to us…" he said softly. "It's up to us not to lose this."

Park spent most nights lying on his bed because it was the only place she'd never been.

He lay on his bed and never turned on the stereo.

And they weren't going to break up. Or get bored. Or drift apart. (They weren't going to become another stupid high school romance.) They were just going to stop.

Eleanor hadn't written him a letter.

It was a postcard. GREETINGS FROM THE LAND OF 10,000 LAKES it said on the front. Park turned it over and recognized her scratchy handwriting. It filled his head with song lyrics.

He sat up. He smiled. Something heavy and winged took off from his chest.

Eleanor hadn't written him a letter, it was a postcard.

Just three words long.

Not just new—but big and awkward. With crazy hair, bright red on top of curly. And she was dressed like . . . like she wanted people to look at her. Or maybe like she didn't get what a mess she was. She had on a plaid shirt, a man's shirt, with half a dozen weird necklaces hanging around her neck and scarves wrapped around her wrists. She reminded Park of a scarecrow or one of the trouble dolls his mom kept on her dresser. Like something that wouldn't survive in the wild.

But Park didn’t have any luck—or status—to spare on that dumb redhead. He had just enough to keep himself out of trouble. And he knew it was crappy, but he was kind of grateful that people like that girl existed. Because people like Steve and Mikey and Tina existed, too, and they needed to be fed. If it wasn’t that redhead, it was going to be somebody else. And if it wasn’t somebody else, it was going to be Park.

"So," [Park] said, before he knew what to say next. "You like the Smiths?" He was careful not to blow his morning breath on [Eleanor.]

She looked up, surprised. Maybe confused. He pointed at her book, where she'd written How Soon Is Now? in tall green letters.

"I don't know," she said. "I've never heard them."

"So you just want people to think you like the Smiths?" He couldn't help but sound disdainful.

Best of all, she had Park's songs in her head—and in her chest, somehow. There was something about the music on that tape. It felt different. Like, it set her lungs and her stomach on edge. There was something exciting about it, and something nervous. It made Eleanor feel like everything, like the world, wasn't what she'd thought it was.

Until this moment, she'd kept Park in a place in her head that she thought Richie couldn't get to. Completely separate from this house and everything that happened here. (It was a pretty awesome place. Like the only part of her head fit for praying.) But now Richie was in there, just pissing all over everything. Making everything she felt feel as rank and rotten as him.

"You don't care what anyone thinks about you," [Park] said.

"That's crazy," [Eleanor] said. "I care what everyone thinks about me."

"I can't tell," he said. "You just seem like yourself, no matter what's happening around you. My grandmother would say you're comfortable in your own skin."

[…]

"I’m stuck in my own skin," she said.

"Stop asking that," she said angrily. There was no stopping the tears now. "You always ask that. Why. Like there's an answer for everything. Not everybody has your life, you know, or your family. In your life, things happen for reasons. People make sense. But that's not my life.”

She would never belong in Park's living room. She never felt like she belonged anywhere, except for when she was lying on her bed, pretending to be somewhere else.

“Your mother's sorry. She's sorry that she hurt your feelings, and she wants you to invite your girlfriend over to dinner."

"So that she can make her feel bad and weird?"

"Well, she is kind of weird, isn't she?"

Park didn't have the energy to be angry. He sighed and let his head fall back on the chair.

His dad kept talking. "Isn't that why you like her?"

[Mindy’s] hand settled softly in her lap.

“In big family," she said, "everything . . . everybody spread so thin. Thin like paper, you know?" She made a tearing gesture. […] "Nobody gets enough," she said. "Nobody gets what they need. When you always hungry, you get hungry in your head." She tapped her forehead. "You know?"

Park wasn't sure what to say.

“You don’t know, she said, shaking her head. "I don't want you to know. . . I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he said.

"I'm sorry for how I welcomed your Eleanor."

[Eleanor] pulled away. "Are you kissing me because I look like someone else?"

"You don't look like someone else. Plus, that's crazy."

"Do you like me better like this?" she asked. "Because I'm never going to look like this again."

[…]

"You look like you,” [Park] said. "You with the volume turned up."

"What do you want me to do?" Eleanor asked. [Ben and Maisie] both stared at her, desperate and almost . . . almost hopeful.

[…]

She was pretty sure she was wired wrong somewhere, that her plugs were switched, because instead of softening toward them—instead of tenderness—she felt herself go cold and mean. "I can't take you with me," she said, "if that's what you're thinking."

[…]

"You don't care about us," Maisie said.

"I do care," Eleanor hissed. "I just can't . . . help you." […] "I can't even help myself."

"Why is your stepdad looking for you?"

"Because he knows, because I ran away."

"Why?"

"Because he knows.” Her voice caught. "Because it's him."

"I just can't believe that life would give us to each other," [Park] said, "and then take it back."

"I can," [Eleanor] said. "Life's a bastard."

He held her tighter, and pushed his face into her neck.

"But it's up to us…" he said softly. "It's up to us not to lose this."

Park spent most nights lying on his bed because it was the only place she'd never been.

He lay on his bed and never turned on the stereo.

And they weren't going to break up. Or get bored. Or drift apart. (They weren't going to become another stupid high school romance.) They were just going to stop.

Eleanor hadn't written him a letter.

It was a postcard. GREETINGS FROM THE LAND OF 10,000 LAKES it said on the front. Park turned it over and recognized her scratchy handwriting. It filled his head with song lyrics.

He sat up. He smiled. Something heavy and winged took off from his chest.

Eleanor hadn't written him a letter, it was a postcard.

Just three words long.