The Distance from A to Z (21 page)

I stare at my clasped hands on my lap, my nails bitten to the quick. I'm going to be such a hit in sophisticated France with my twelve-year-old habits.

“I hate crying but it was kind of worth it,” I mumble. I don't need to look up to tell that his smile got wider.

“I don't really want to do anything now except pull you onto my lap and kiss you, but I have a feeling we aren't there yet.”

As much as I'm dying to say
screw it, we're there
, I nod.

“I know you're so tired of baseball,” he says, the last word slightly quieter than the rest, as though it's a disease. “I know that your family is crazy about it and that it's ruled your life. I can imagine it must be unbearable to have so much of your family's life obsessed with something that you don't care about. Something they clearly make you believe is more important than you.”

It's amazing how much it hurts to hear the words said out loud, even though I've known them to be true for years.

“But I want to tell you what I love about it.” He wipes his palms on his shorts, and for the first time I notice that he too has bitten his nails. “I started playing when I was four. My parents signed me up because I was uncoordinated and was totally uninterested in most other sports. It was my grandfather who took me to all my practices, who watched
me play in the rain, who was always there. That's the only reason I kept coming back. Maybe if he'd brought me to my basketball games, I'd have stuck with that. Or maybe it was that he always bought me ice cream afterwards.”

He laughs, and I can't help myself; I love this picture of pint-sized Zeke with his grass-stained baseball uniform licking a dripping ice cream and sitting next to a much older version of himself.

“See, my grandfather had always wanted to play ball, but when he was a kid, there was never enough money, never enough time for something like that. Whenever he wasn't at school, he was working, helping his parents and grandparents run their struggling grocery store. And my dad had no interest in sports. So for my grandpa, it was me. And for me, it was him. Him and the ice cream.

“He's in a retirement home now; it's hard for him to travel so he almost never sees me play anymore. But all through high school, I'd bring game tapes over to his place and watch a few with him, let him give me pointers, because he has a really good sense about the game.

“I love the game because I'm good at it, because I help my team win, because I feel good about the guys I play with. And I love the game because there's something about the smell of the ballpark, the dirt, the bat, the mitt. These are the smells of my childhood. Of millions of childhoods. I love the sound
of the announcer's voice calling the game. When I'm tired, listening to it can put me to sleep. And when I'm anxious it calms me down. But most of all, I love it because in a million different ways it's the same game my grandfather was dying to play as a kid. The same game that gave him the thrill of his life when he got Hank Greenberg to autograph his hand, and he refused to wash that hand until his mother washed it for him in the middle of the night. I love playing it, and I love being good at it, but I'd be lying if I didn't say that part of me wants to be playing on television someday so that my grandfather can watch it and we can talk about it after.”

I love this story. I love it at my core because it is everything that is good about baseball, everything I felt for so long. It reminds me of that amazing moment when Jed taught me the code of the scorecard, the feeling of being inducted into a secret language of symbols and notations. I love the idea of a grandfather who wanted something so desperately, who sat in the rain for months out of every year to impart that love to his grandson.

“I remember being eight,” I say, not sure at all why I'm telling him this story. It's a story I don't think about anymore, one that I no longer turn around in my memories the way I used to. “We'd gone to see a Cougars game, just me and my brothers. The park was pretty empty, and we wound up in seats right above the opposing team's dugout. We cheered
for the Cougars and ate hot dogs and popcorn and so much soda that several times it wasn't clear I'd make it to the bathroom in time. And at a certain moment in the eighth inning, I realized that the other team's pitcher was throwing a perfect game.”

I laugh at the memory, my eight-year-old naïveté in believing that I was the sole person in the ballpark who realized it.

“I told my brothers and they got all excited, which I now realize was probably just an act. And then, I walked over to the dugout and leaned down. One of the guys turned to me, thinking I probably wanted an autographed ball or something.
Do you know your pitcher is throwing a perfect game?
I asked, and then walked back up to my brothers as they howled. Because sure enough, the next guy up to bat homered and ruined the perfect game.”

Zeke roars with laughter. “You actually deliberately ruined the guy's perfect game by saying it out loud? You guys are hard-core.”

I think about that memory again, the way Si and Jed were so proud that I'd done it, the T-shirt and pennant they bought me after the game. The pennant still hangs over my bed at home, signed by all the players on the Cougars. Si and Jed told each and every guy the story as they signed the pennant.

I wish those two stories together were enough. I wish I could go back to being that person, the person who loved the
game, who didn't see so much of my family disappear into it. I wish I could go back to seeing baseball as the fun game played out on a field with the smell of popcorn and hot dogs all around me. I can see why Zeke would love it.

I wish that . . .

Je souhaite que . . .

And because it's Zeke, and because we've spent so much of every day of the last seven weeks together, he reads all of this all over my face. I watch as his smile fades, as his lips press together, as his head shakes.

His hand comes to rest on mine, and I stare at it. I wonder what it looks like holding a baseball, whether he shifts it around in his palm, trying to find just the right grip. I wonder if he's the type of guy, like Si and Jed, who always carries one in his bag, always there to flip in the air and catch again, the routine soothing.

This hand is also the one that held my hand, fingers curled around mine, that drifted down my arm, resting on my camisole on Sunday morning.

Instead, I stare at the holes in my Chucks. A worn spot below the white rubber. Six punched holes on either side for the laces. The laces that are fraying. I probably should get new ones, but where does one even buy new laces? A shoe store?

“Abby?”

Twelve holes.
Douze trous.
Two shoes.
Deux chaussures.
Twenty-four holes.
Vingt-quatre trous.

So many holes.

How can I make this better?

He stands up, and my heart sinks. “The truth is,” I start, the words covered in cobwebs and thorns and sadness. “The truth is, I can deal with the baseball. I mean, it's not the worst thing in the world that you play baseball, right? That you're good at it. People have done worse things, right?” I try to chuckle but really there's no chance that anyone else would recognize the sound I make for laughter.

“And I can kind of understand why you didn't tell me. It doesn't make me feel less stupid about the whole thing. And it still makes me angry that all that time, you were keeping this huge thing from me. You were disappearing into Boston and into phone calls and for all I knew, you could have been a drug dealer.”

He raises his eyebrows, just a touch, and then they drop down.

“I may have an overactive imagination,” I admit. “But I'm sad that you didn't trust me. I get why at the beginning, but I'm sad that after . . .”

After we kissed. After we got together, we fell for each other, after all the conversations we shared, all the things we admitted, he didn't tell me this huge thing.

But I push away the anger, push away the embarrassment until really all I can feel is what's left. All I can feel is the enormous sadness.

I think about what this next year will look like. Zeke in San Diego, me in Chicago, the time difference, the geographic difference. I think of the amount of traveling he'll have to do, the people he'll meet. The way he'll be treated, if he does get drafted. I'll be in France when that happens. I'll be far away and the ties that bind us can't possibly stretch that far.

“The truth is,” I say slowly, my voice even despite the sadness that threatens to drown it. “The truth is that I could deal with the baseball and I could get over the lying. And maybe we could even get to a place where we're okay. Where we're almost back to normal.”

Back to lying in bed, the warmth of his body seeping into mine. Part of me wants to stop this whole speech and forget about the heartache that is waiting for us, live for right now.

“But what's the point? School ends next week. And then . . .”

I can't keep going. I don't have words for what happens after that. There's just miles and miles of distance then.

“You don't know what will happen then.”

I want him to fight for this. I want him to let me go. I want time to stop so there's lots of room, so that I can get back every moment that I didn't put my arms around him this summer, every moment that I didn't try. Every moment I
was too scared to try. I want those moments and hours and days back.

And yet.

“I don't know how to convince you,” he says, and tiny shards of my heart splinter off, because it means that there's nothing more to say.

EXCEPT, WE STILL NEED TO
make conversation. We still have last logs to fill out, last assignments to complete. No more sexy movies, but articles to pore over, presentations to design. Alice is gentle with me, and I stick close by, convincing myself that even though we live in the same city, I should spend as much time as possible with her as well. As everyone on campus appears to be buckling down for the last chances to make grades shine, to get those recommendations, I convince Alice to eat at Walker Brothers again, our last French toast before we leave Merritt.

“What if we both applied here for college?” I say slowly, the idea growing on me. “We could be roommates for a whole year. We could eat Sunday brunch here all the time. . . .”

“I do love their French toast,” she says, her mouth filled with the sugary, thick bread. She dips the slices of fruit that accompany the meal into the maple syrup, and then groans.
“I mean, even if this were a bad school, four years of weekly Sunday brunches here would be worth it.”

I snort. “And there's Chutes and Lattes.”

“It's true. I still haven't gone in. I probably owe you a sundae there.”

As agreeable as Alice is being, I know none of this is real. Suddenly even the gooey, sweet bread isn't appealing. I gulp down my latte, trying to stave off the tears. I'm becoming a leaky faucet. And I don't even have a clue how to say that in French.

“Even when we aren't here,” Alice starts. She puts her cutlery on the plate but gives the waitress a dirty look when she asks to take the empty plate. “It doesn't change our friendship. These past eight weeks have been incredible for many reasons, not the least of which is that I've made a best friend that I can't imagine not having in my life. I don't need Walker Brothers or Chutes and Lattes, or our dorm room, or even this campus to keep our friendship going. And sure, it won't be as much fun when I can't wake you up by staring at you, but there'll be new fun things that we'll do. Our friendship isn't because of Merritt or Huntington or anything else. It's because of us.”

“I don't want to go back home.” I stare at the cut strawberry on my plate, the way it fans out so beautifully. I love that someone took the time to make it, took the time to make it
beautiful. “I'm scared that it'll be like this never happened.”

Alice chuckles and then dips her index finger in the maple syrup and swirls it around until she slips it in her mouth. “We won't go back to what it was like before we came here. We can't. I read my poems in front of my classmates, in front of my hot-as-hell professor, in front of a bar full of people. And I made friends, and I went out even when it was hard, and I failed sometimes and I succeeded other times. And shit, Abby, you changed entirely. You proved yourself in French and learned so much. You fell in love and made out with one of the sexy guys on campus.”

“Alice!”

Her mouth curls up and she shrugs. “I don't want to date him, but I'd have to be dead not to admire his physique.”

His physique is effing gorgeous.

I miss Zeke. But not just because I miss his physique, though I can't deny that I miss that too.

“I hate this.” There are half a dozen white mugs scattered around the table and Zeke and I are in various stages of decorating them to look like the tea sets from Angelina. Our project for this class is a re-creation of the various tours we've taken through Paris. There's really no need to be creating painted mugs for it to be effective, but we've run out of things that we need to plan and now I'm just grasping at
straws. I'm surprised Zeke is putting up with it, but I'm not going to push it.

I don't want to stop talking with him. Even if it's stilted. Even if it's awkward. Even if we aren't together, even if we're fumbling along, even if I'm trying desperately to make these mugs look like something that wasn't created by a small child.

“They don't look that bad.” Zeke has been quiet through this art session, didn't say anything when it turned out that I brought the wrong type of markers. It's like the bright and vibrant version of Zeke I've been sparring with for the whole summer has been replaced by a version painted entirely out of muted watercolors. Though he'd probably say I was drawn out of thick black markers because I can't stop swearing.

“It's not the mugs.” I groan.

He places the one he just finished with on the table, careful not to smudge the letters. Because we know from my first two mugs that if you grab them too early, they're ruined.

“Are you worried about the presentation?” he asks, his eyes on me now. On me, but it's not the usual focus that I love. It's casual. It's guarded.

I don't care about the presentation.

“Yes,” I say instead, because I can't keep doing this. He wanted to try and I said it was too hard and he said he couldn't convince me and I can't now go back. I can't tell
him that I've changed my mind. It's only been two days. Of course this hurts like mad, and of course I want to tackle-hug him to the ground. That doesn't mean it's a good idea.

Nothing has changed. And so . . .

“Do you think Marianne won't like it?”

No, I think it's perfect.

“I don't know. Maybe? I think it might be too short. Maybe we should add one scene?”

I don't even know what I'm talking about. The presentation is only supposed to be fifteen minutes and we have plenty of material. But another scene will give us another bunch of hours to work together . . .

Zeke shuts his eyes, and my stomach drops. He's going to tell me to stop. He's going to say that he knows what I'm doing and I need to stop. That I'm not being fair. Which is true. So true.

“The only thing is, I'm supposed to meet my parents in Boston tonight.” Zeke's eyes are on me, but not really. Part of me wants to move two inches to the right so he won't be focused on my shoulder.

Boston. Of course. I try to find the anger but it's not there. All that's there is sadness that his trip to Boston is taking more hours away from my time with him.

I'm screwed. “Is something going on?”

He nods slowly. “We're meeting with a specialist and my
coach. She's looking at all my images and the data from my PT, and she's supposed to be able to tell them what my prognosis is.”

He glances at his watch, and then curls his mouth into the smallest smile. “I should probably get going, actually. But if you want to write an outline for another scene, I'll follow your lead. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

I want you to kiss me again.

I want this program to be another eight weeks, and maybe another eight after that. I want us to live in the same city, or for us to be at college together, anything for this not to end.

“Okay,” I whisper instead, and watch him walk out.

“I messed up.”

I'm pacing back and forth across my room at almost seven at night, and Alice long since stopped responding to my comments.

Because I keep saying the same thing over and over and over again.

I messed up.

It's more than
J'ai fait une erreur
. Because I didn't just make a mistake. I messed everything up.

“Abby, stop.”

“Alice!” How can she not understand this? I can't just apologize because—

“Abby.” Alice's voice is harsher than I remember it being. I swing around, my limbs still tense from all my pacing. “I appreciate that you want to fix this. I'm happy to figure out how to help you do it. But I'm trying to prepare to go onstage for a major poetry reading. And I know that last time I looked like I had it all together, but this is going to be bigger, and I'm working on some totally new material, and truly I adore you more than anyone but I need you to stop.”

I stop moving and stand there, totally still, because she's right. I hate this and it's not fair, but I don't need everyone else to suffer along with me.

“I didn't mean physically stop,” Alice chastises, slipping into a seated position. “I meant, stop worrying. You're a smart person; you'll figure it out.”

I'll figure it out.

“I have to create one last scene for this presentation.”

“Do the Eiffel Tower,” she suggests.

“Too cliché.”

“Make it a romantic dinner in front of the Eiffel Tower.” She laughs. “And there can be—”

“I wish it could be at a baseball field. That would be more appropriate.”

“Words I never imagined hearing you say. So do that. But stop pacing. And stop interrupting me.”

I swoop down to where she's still lying on her bed and
plant a wet smack on her forehead. “You're the best.”

“Leave, please,” she mutters, and she's twirling her pen in her hand, which means I'm about to lose her.

Except I think I know what I need to do. Though it could be a total disaster, which is bad since it needs to be done before the presentation.

Merde.

I text Zeke, carefully composing the message to seem both totally casual and maybe a little bit important.

           
Any chance we can meet at 7:30 a.m. so I can show you what I worked up?

That would give us about half an hour at the field, which is not enough time if this works well, and too much time if it's terrible.

There's only a split-second delay before I can tell he's texting me back.

           
Does it have to be so early?

I won't get through the presentation if we don't do this first. I'll be too nervous and I'll forget all my lines and . . .

           
No worries. I can do 7:30. Dorm entrance?

Colin steals the A to Z Tours sign from Zeke's room, and then helps me draw the rest of the ones I need. Alice is too nervous for her performance to be any help, but she listens to
my idea for a full ten minutes and then gives it the seal of approval.

At seven twenty, I'm pacing in front of the dorms, convinced this will be a disaster. I should cancel. I should tell Zeke not to—

Just then the door opens and it's Alice. “I brought you a cup of tea. I wanted to put it in the mug you made me but you're too jittery and I don't trust you to bring it to me whole in this state.” She hands me a warm travel mug, and a small package wrapped in paper towel. “Dark chocolate with sea salt on top. Feel free to eat the whole thing if you need to. Or share it.”

I carefully put down the mug with the chocolate on top. “I love you,” I whisper into her hair.

“Good. Because I'm going to need all that love to get me through Friday night's poetry reading.”

“Am I interrupting something?”

I open my eyes to see Zeke framed by the open door. I squeeze Alice briefly one last time before I let her go. “I'm ready.”

We make small talk as we walk down to Remington Field. I worry that the supplies I left on the field are gone. But this is Merritt, and it was only last night, so I'm in luck. I cross the field to the bench and drop my bag.

“What's the last scene you created?” Zeke asks, settling onto the ground.

“Um, I didn't really create one,” I say, my gaze firmly stuck inside my backpack as I pull out my signs. They aren't classy, they aren't gorgeous, but hopefully . . . “I wanted us to do a scene first.”

“But Marianne isn't here.”

“Ce n'est pas pour Marianne.”
It's not for Marianne.

I'm too nervous to look at him, so instead I focus on pulling out two baseball gloves and a ball I borrowed from a couple of guys on my floor and planting Zeke's signs.

“Je ne comprend pas,”
Zeke says, watching as I empty the supplies from my bag.

Trust me, even if you don't understand it.

“You're a baseball player, aren't you?” I ask him. The word
baseball
sounds so awkward when caught in the midst of all the French words.

He doesn't show any outward reaction.

Welcome to Wrigley Field, Home of the Chicago Cubs
reads one sign. There's a scoreboard sign with numbers indicating that the Cubs are beating the pants off the Cardinals, 18-0.

There's a paper that is supposed to look like a poster that one would wave at a baseball game, which reads
Zeke Martin is #1
. It's not terribly creative, but in my defense I didn't have all that much time.

There's a few more but suddenly they seem dumb. Zeke still isn't moving and clearly this is a terrible idea and it's going to ruin our presentation later.

I'm moments from bolting when Zeke stands up and takes three steps until he's right in front of me. It's just like that night in my room, only maybe it isn't at all. Maybe—

“Why are you doing this?” he whispers in French.

I swallow hard and wonder if I could grab my water bottle before trying to answer. Instead, I smack the baseball into the mitt a few times, the first time I've done it in four years.

God, it feels good.

“C'est Wrigley Field,”
I whisper back. I hold up the picture that was distorted by my bag, a color printout of Wrigley Field. I hold it up in front of us, just like Zeke had done for the A to Z Tours. “It may not look like it, but if you stare closely at this picture, you'll see the stadium that was built in 1914. It's been called Weegham Park, and then Cubs Park, until it became known as Wrigley Field in 1927. It's the oldest National League ballpark—”

“I know this, Abby. But I don't get what you're doing. The tours were for places in France, situations in French. This is—”

“This is about us.” The words are coming out fast and furious but I don't want him to walk away, and I don't want him to interrupt. It's too important. It's too important because
of all the times I misunderstood what was really happening between us. “The situations we planned over the past month and a half, they might have taken place in France, but they were about us. It was a world we created. A world where we played in French and a world where I fell in love with you. You, Zeke. All of you.”