The Distance from A to Z (12 page)

“I just came by to say hi,” he says uncertainly. “I didn't mean to interrupt your movie.”

“Join us,” Colin says, pointing to the space near my knees. “Tell Abby to stop hogging the whole bed and there'll be lots of room for all of us.”

Zeke's knuckles are white, and I finally drop my gaze, unable to keep watching. “I'm actually heading out with some of the folks on the floor. I just wanted to make sure Alice was okay.” His voice is thin, cracked, and splintered, and I glance up in time to see the door swing shut behind him.

“Am I missing something?” Colin asks, and Alice glances over at me.

“You should go after him.” She's no longer smiling and my stomach flips again because I know she's right. But maybe this is best.

“Can you turn the movie back on?” I whisper, and Colin rubs my back, and I have no idea what happens at the end of the movie. Only that I'm sure it's not Harrison Ford's fault that I want to cry.

I'VE NEVER BEEN QUITE SO
interested in the differences between the nutritional value of orange juice and grapefruit juice as I am this morning. Orange juice: 110 calories. Grapefruit? Only ninety. Twenty-two grams of sugar in orange juice as opposed to seventeen in grapefruit. Orange juice, in French,
jus d'orange
. Basic, uninspired. Grapefruit juice, on the other hand, is the always entertaining
jus de pamplemousse
. What kind of a word is
pamplemousse
?

And why Zeke won't move out of the front entrance of the corner grocery store so I can grab my effing juice, whether it be
orange
or
pamplemousse
, is beyond me. Why won't he stop laughing and high-fiving with some big guy with an almost-shaved head, the two of them in T-shirts and shorts, clearly on the way in from a run? And why does he have his arm slung around my next-door neighbor Chloe's shoulders?

That's the real question. That's the question that has me
hiding in the dairy aisle, thinking about just guzzling down both juices, begging a stock boy (do they even have stock boys anymore, never mind on the Fourth of July long weekend?) to help me find a back exit. Chloe's pale blond hair is in a very high ponytail and while she's clearly light on her feet, right now she seems to be finding every excuse to lean against Zeke's side.

Which is none of my business.

I don't know how to say
none of my business
in French.

I don't know, and I don't have my dictionary, and I wish even Colin-who-is-not-interested-in-women were here so I could almost maintain my dignity. Because right now Chloe is making silly faces at Zeke and if I ever make it out of this grocery store, I'll need a lot of sugary coffee. A lot. Especially since Zeke has caught my eye and is waving me over.

The only good thing is that that makes Chloe look even less happy than I am.

Alice's eyes widen when I walk into our room with two big bags of groceries.

“I thought you were just craving orange juice?”

I don't quite know how to say that the only way I could explain that I didn't want to walk back to the dorms with Zeke, Chloe, and Bald Guy was that I was shopping for a bunch of things. But then Zeke waited. So Chloe waited. And
Bald Guy—aka Chris—waited.

And now I have two big bags of groceries, including crackers, fruits, bagels, and chocolate. And breads. And cheese. For some reason, lots of cheese.

The good news? I had people to help me carry my bags.

The bad news? I forgot about the juice.

“I have a big test Tuesday morning in French so I thought I'd gather some snacks for a study party,” I say, unloading my assortment of foods.

“How many people are you studying with?” Alice opens the box of water crackers and squeals when she sees the cheese. “I love Laughing Cow!”

La vache qui rit.
My first French phrase and that was only because it was on the cheese box.

Smirking, I throw a roll over to her. “I also have bread with raspberry jam and brie. And olives. And grapes.”

“Picnic?” Alice asks, shoving her notebook in her backpack.

“So long as I can actually study, sure.”

By noon, we're in the middle of the quad, a couple of blankets covering the grass, and Colin, Alan (Alice's cute waiter friend), and two girls from our hall are camped out with us. Everyone has brought food, and thank god, Colin brought orange juice.

On the other end of the quad I see a few guys tossing a
football back and forth, and girls pretending to be cheerleaders.

It's the swishing blond ponytail that has me peering closely to figure out that it's Chloe out there. Chloe in a tight tank and white bobby socks. Which means the redhead is Stephie. And the guy that both girls are tackling? Blond curls and a baseball cap, a worn pale blue shirt, and long shorts. Zeke. He lifts them one at a time with his left arm, and I wonder how much his right side is hurting.

But it's not my business. It's not my business because it's clearly not bothering him enough to stop, and he's got lots of girls to fawn all over him if that's what he needs.

And plus, it's summer in New Hampshire and the air is clear, the sky blue. It takes a lot of focus to not just lie out in my shady little corner and drift off. Especially since I'm lying beside a seated Colin, who is sketching. Falling asleep to the scratching of his pencil across the thick pages of his notebook would be easy. And delicious. Far better than staring at a game of football across the quad. But instead, I turn my back to Colin and begin creating sentences and conversations in my head for tomorrow's test.

The restaurant.
Le restaurant
. Easy.

“
Bonjour. Je voudrais un café au lait avec
—” I murmur.

Merde
. How do I say
toast
? I flip open my Larousse, searching the yellowed pages. Of course. Toast is
pain grillé
.

I practice my basic vocabulary, scanning the picnic blanket for ideas. Bread,
pain
. Raspberries,
framboises
. Cheese,
fromage
. Juice,
jus
. Baguette,
baguette
.

I'm not in the mood for this.

“What are you working on?”

I shut my dictionary and roll to face Colin. “We have a test Tuesday where we have to have a restaurant conversation. So I need to make sure I'm on top of all my foods.”

“How does that work?”

He's dropped his notebook between his open legs and splays his hands out behind him. His fingers have smudges of charcoal on them, and there's paint on the thumb closest to me.

I wonder what he looks like when he's painting, if the gaze that is so intently on me is focused on the canvas.

“We get a situation on a card and we have to act it out in partners. Our teacher plays the waiter and circulates through the mock cafe.”

“Interesting.” He smiles, and I try to fall into it but I fail. “I wish I spoke French. I'd be happy to help you study.”

“Mind if I join you?” Zeke is standing on Colin's other side, and he looks uncomfortable, out of place. There's no lazy smile now, none of what I saw at the grocery store this morning. None of the lightness from across the park.

Except the pale blue shirt I could only see from a distance
has a picture of Darth Vader with
World's Best Dad
written underneath. He didn't buy it on our shopping expedition, so I wonder if he bought it after our trip or had it before.

Stupid Zeke with his stupid cute T-shirts.

“Where are Chloe and Stephie?” I ask, and I hate that those words came out, hate the way it hollows my stomach, hate the look that passes across his face.

He shrugs, his shoulders so tight they barely move at all. “I think they had to go study for their microeconomics midterm.”

There's something about the fact that I'd believed they were taking Introduction to Basket Weaving that has me feeling like a terrible person. A terrible, judgy person who believes that women who have unblemished skin and short skirts are somehow less capable.

Or a person who is terribly jealous.

“Join us,” Colin says. Colin, who apparently is the only one who hasn't lost all common sense. He scoots down the blanket we're sharing, leaving a spot for Zeke near my head. Zeke stares at me uncertainly, and I nod.

“Of course,” I say.

Zeke bites the corner of his lip, hard. He glances around the blanket, like he suddenly realizes this is a terrible idea and he'd like to be anywhere but here. Which is pretty much exactly how I feel.

“Can we eat now?” Alice calls out. “I'm hungry, and I'm tired of waiting.”

I scramble up so quickly I give myself a head rush. Zeke grabs my arm as I sway slightly. “You okay?”

I nod quickly. The grip of his fingers on my arm reminds me of Friday night. But then it was both hands holding me. The butterflies explode in my stomach, and I hate that it's his body I want, his grip.

I know why Chloe kept leaning into Zeke.

Chloe. Right.

Stupid Zeke.

“I should help Alice with the food,” I mumble, pulling my arm from his grasp. He's wearing his Chucks, not the running shoes he had on this morning. I love his Chucks.

“Let me help.” His words are soft and gentle, like they're meant just for me.

But what about Chloe? What about—

“We can use it as an opportunity to practice our French for the test.” His words are rapid now, tripping over one another, squeezing out the available spaces where I could interrupt.
“Est-ce que tu veux manger du pain avec du fromage?”
he asks, his voice halting.

I glance up to meet his eyes, and there's a pleading there I don't recognize.

Like this is important beyond the dumb dialogue and our
test tomorrow.

“Oui, merci.”
I nod. We can do this. We can make today about practicing for class; we can get back on track. Because this feeling when we're together? It makes my body feel alive and even if it's nothing, even if that kiss is the only kiss we'll have, I want to be near him, I want this awkwardness replaced with the easiness we used to have.

MY EXCUSE FOR KEEPING MY
phone off at the library the next day is that it's the rule.
Turn off your phone
, the sign says. Only apparently, I'm the only one who can read that sign.

So instead of hours spent actually reading
The Little Prince
in the original French or the dozen pages of French poetry I should be preparing for this week's discussions, I'm listening to someone talk in detail about his hookup last night.

If I'm being honest, though, I'll admit that his tone of voice might be exacerbated by my general irritation with all things Huntington.

And all things hookup.

And specifically the difference between spending an hour laughing in French with Zeke and studying French by myself, in the library. Sure, it's all in French, but then again, a drizzle and a category-three hurricane are both weather events. Like
A
and
Z
are both letters, though the distance
between them is the whole alphabet.

Maybe I should start avoiding Zeke outside of class time. Starting tonight.

Or rather tomorrow, since apparently Zeke, Colin, and Alice are all hanging out in our room.

“Hey, Colin.” I smile. “Alice.” I pause, because I shouldn't be looking at the floor when I say his name, but the world's not perfect and we do what we can. “Zeke.”

I could be graceful. I could pretend nothing happened. But apparently I lack all social grace and common sense. Instead I glare at Alice.

“Your phone was off.” Alice shrugs, her fountain pen still scratching away at her notebook. “Apparently you told Colin you guys were going to meet up tonight? And apparently Zeke thought you had plans to study—”

“We didn't have plans.” I pivot to face Zeke, who's biting his bottom lip.

“I might have misremembered,” he mumbles.

She's still scribbling in her notebook, and I want to stop her and tell her how impressive I'm finding it that she's able to be in this tiny room with two boys and still write poetry. Because two weeks ago I can't imagine that she would have. Never mind talk and write at the same time.

But there are more immediate problems. Namely the two
boys on my bed.

Sur mon lit. Zut.

Thankfully, both seem uninterested in talking. They are mostly staring.

“I'm sorry, both of you. I need to get some sleep.” I turn to Colin. “Can we make plans for another night?”

He nods and slips off the bed. Based on the sounds of bodies moving, I assume that Zeke is following.

“Will you be okay for tomorrow?” Zeke asks as he slips past me, following Colin.

Will I be okay? Does he mean because I'm so tired? Or because I'm reacting poorly to a kiss that shouldn't have happened?

I'm so exhausted I may just tumble into bed wearing this soft blue tank top, even without taking off my uncomfortable bra. Especially since I can't be certain that Zeke won't wait it out in the hallway for me to go to the bathroom and force me to have a humiliating conversation.

“I'll be fine,” I say, and he's so close that I can feel the air move as he passes me.

Zeke and I struggle through our dialogue in class. The whole class has turned into a restaurant, partners together by table. Except Zeke and I have lost the ability to make eye contact with each other, which means we're constantly
interrupting and talking over each other's words. When I actually remember words. I forget what
bread
is in French. I rely heavily on words that I think are the same in both languages.

I'm going to flunk out of my first French class because I kissed my study partner four days ago, and this is such a stereotypical college problem that I'd be excited if I wasn't so appalled.

I need this. I need to get it together. I need to work on pretending I'm a twelve-year-old girl talking to her father (as per the situation card we received) about wanting to go to a concert. And I need to order my pretend food and answer Marianne's questions about my allergies (according to the card, nuts and dairy).

I pull up the image on my wall of the Paris School, the vines that cover the stone walls. I can do this.

“Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle,”
I say to Marianne. Excuse me, miss.
“Je suis allergique au . . .”
shoot. Peanuts. Peanuts.

How the eff do I say
peanuts
in French?

“Ma fille est allergique aux cacahuètes,”
Zeke interrupts.
“Abby, n'aie pas peur de lui dire. C'est important.”

He saved me. He told Marianne that I'm too afraid to tell people about my allergies.

Catching his eyes, I notice his little smile and then the nod. The nod like at the park. The nod that says
I know you're
flustered but you can do it
.

I don't know how to deal with all this. So I do all I can do.

“Mais papa, c'est tellement embarrassant,”
I say, trying to sound annoyed and petulant about the embarrassment of telling people about my allergies.

And then we're in rapid-fire French mode, because Zeke tells tween me that if I want to go to the concert, I need to prove to him that I'm adult enough to be honest about my limitations. And then I attack him for forgetting about my dairy allergy, and I try to go into great detail about the different effects of my peanut and dairy allergies, and he reminds me of the time I ate too much vanilla ice cream, and I was sick all over the floor of his brand-new car.

Pretty soon we're laughing so hard that we don't notice that Marianne has dismissed the class, because I'm insisting that I can eat my (plastic) chocolate cake even though it's filled with butter and cream (
beurre et crème
) and he's accusing me of polluting the room with my farting.

When Marianne (in her server role) tells us it's time to go because the restaurant is closing, Zeke replies that the service was terrible and that we expect a refund on our meal.

“Are you guys doing all right with the class?” Marianne asks us in French when we've finally stopped laughing enough to grab our bags and make our way to the hallway.

Zeke glances over at me, and I smile back. “We're good,” I
say.

“You're both trying hard, I can tell. And I'm enjoying reading your conversation logs. I'm glad it's working out. Hopefully it will mean that more high school students will consider taking these intensive language courses. Maybe we can get you guys to write something up at the end of the program, and we'll use it in our recruitment brochures?”

I nod quickly and Zeke's head bobs alongside mine. “Can I ask you a question, actually? Speaking of writing things up?” I look at Zeke and he hitches his backpack higher on his left side.

“I'll get going,” he says, but he moves slowly, as though willing me to stop him.

“It'll just be a second.” And then I turn back to Marianne. “I don't know if you know the Paris School, but they have a special half-year program for graduating seniors. I was wondering if you'd consider writing me a recommendation to go in January. I have my general school recommendations but they need to know that I'm fluent.”

Marianne pinches her lips together. “Send me the information about the program and let's talk about this again toward the end of this class. I'm impressed with your French so far, but if they require total fluency, that's something we'll have to wait a bit to confirm. I don't doubt you can do it, but you're not quite there yet.”

I didn't know how to say
peanuts
. And Zeke had to save me. Suddenly our rapid-fire French feels more like wishful thinking.

“Bien sûr. Merci, Marianne,”
I say, trying to keep my voice even. I'll work as hard as I need to. This will be my priority, not the feelings developing between me and Zeke. This is why I'm here. Not to flirt. Not to kiss. To become fluent. To get out of Chicago. To get to France. The combination of Hogwarts and
The Secret Garden
and Narnia, the place where everything will fit.

The place where I'll fit.

And so when I see Zeke on the front steps of the building, his fingers scrolling messages on his phone, I don't stop to talk to him. Right now, my priority is the library. Not talking to Zeke.

I work all afternoon at the library, decoding the poems I didn't get to yesterday, reading
Le Petit Prince
. I want to text Colin about maybe seeing a movie together, check on Alice, wonder about Zeke, but right now French is my priority.

By five, I'm starving and almost prepared to eat my Petit Larousse dictionary. But despite how fuzzy I feel from lack of caffeine and a mounting headache, even I know that eating a dictionary published in 1971 is probably a bad idea.

I grab a tuna sandwich (
sandwich au thon
), an apple (
une
pomme
), a chocolate cookie (
biscuit au chocolat
), and a Coke (thankfully Coke is a Coke in any language) from the cafeteria, and then head to the dorms. Except I'm so hungry that I grip my apple with the crook of my elbow as I try to simultaneously scarf down the sandwich and shove cookie pieces in my mouth.

Which is why it all winds up on the grass when Zeke says hi. Which, in his defense, he says because I'm about to walk into him. Apparently I'm no good at walking and eating at the same time.

But I'm so hungry I want to grab the food off the grass, and apparently that's clear to Zeke because he quickly scoops up the food himself.

“I'm sorry,” he says, dropping my combination breakfast, lunch, and dinner in the garbage. Little does he know that I'm not above eating out of there either. Or gnawing on my own arm. “Let me take you to get more food.”

“Je dois . . .”
I'm so tired and hungry I can't even think of the word in French. I have to . . . “Study,” I finally say in English.

“Come, we'll do our conversation log. I'll even take notes for us.” He puts his left arm around me and directs me (
il me
dirige
) toward (
vers
) the café (
le café
) that sits on the edge of campus. (I'm too tired to remember how to say that.)

Especially since Zeke's arm is around me and it's apparently messing with my brain's ability to fire synapses
properly.

And I will give up all sweets for a year so long as he doesn't bring up Friday night's kiss.

Thankfully Zeke doesn't speak until we get to Sweetie Pies/Fake Angelina with its chipped formica tables. He orders us two burgers (which I nod my approval to), French fries (which makes me roll my eyes), and milkshakes (which unleashes my broadest smile).

“Quelle sort de milkshake est-ce que tu veux?”

“Milkshake?” I tease. “I'm quite sure that's not the word. And chocolate.”

“Regarde dans ton dictionnaire. Tu dis milkshake on Français.”

And when I check my dictionary, I find that he's right. But probably only because French people would never actually drink a milkshake, so there's no need for a proper French word for it.

Our conversation actually flows as we wait for our food. I find that it takes the entire chocolate milkshake before my headache disappears, and I'm still able to finish my burger and fries. And steal a few of Zeke's as well.

We trade stories about bad school blunders, about being embarrassed by our friends, about themed birthday parties (princesses, ponies, and unicorns for me; trains, football, and baseball for Zeke). And that prompts a discussion about gender politics and nature versus nurture. And when the
waitstaff finally kicks us out for real (with much less of a smile than Marianne used when acting the part) we shift to conversations about siblings embarrassing us. I laugh until my sides hurt hearing Zeke talk about his sister's attempt to style his hair with tiny braids, using beads and mini elastic bands. How it took hours of pulling to remove her hard work. How he didn't get the lollipop she'd promised him in exchange for hours of sitting still while she “worked.”

“I think you should demand a whole bag of lollipops to cover the missed payment, plus interest.” I giggle, once again enjoying the sound of the word
sucette
as it comes out of my mouth. It tastes sweet and sticky.

“How did your brothers embarrass you?” Zeke asks, his hand coming to rest in the small of my back as he slips me in front of him through a narrow path. I know all the words he's using (
tes frères
, your brothers;
embarrassent
, embarrass) and yet the warmth of his hand on my back, the heat that radiates past my T-shirt, makes speech more challenging. In any language.

And apparently walking, because I trip on an uneven piece of stone in the walkway and were it not for Zeke's hand grabbing my arm, I would have gone flying.

“Ça va?”
Zeke asks, holding me tight.

Part of me wants to nod and break away, to keep walking
and chuckle at my clumsiness. To return to what things were like five minutes ago.

Another part of me wants to stay in this position for the next few minutes, enjoying the feeling of his body against mine, his grasp tight.

But yet another part, the largest part, the part that truthfully dwarfs all the other parts, wants to spin around and pull his head toward mine. Start something totally new, something entirely different from everything that's happened so far. Something that will unstick the residual awkwardness that clings to us.

Instead, his hand slides across my back and grasps my hand as he whispers into my ear: “How about I hold on to you in case you go flying again?”

I nod because I'm not sure what language to use, what language Zeke is even speaking except I love the sound of it.

We make it through the path without any more spills, but thankfully Zeke keeps our fingers entwined. “So how did your brothers embarrass you?” he asks again, but this time it sounds different. Maybe it's our fingers; maybe it's the way his thumb is sweeping across the inside of my wrist. Either way, it feels like it's just us here. Just us in all of New Hampshire.