The Distance from A to Z Read online

  Baseball has turned me into a crazy person.

  Thankfully, I don’t think Zeke hears the hiss because he doesn’t look at me like I’m deranged. Only like he’s concerned.

  “She’s good,” Drew says, using his grasp on my hand to help me to my feet. “Come, have a seat over here.” His voice is warmer now, and his left hand is resting at the small of my back. “The nice thing about these seats is that the sun isn’t in your eyes, but you can still see the lake.”

  “I—” The wadded-up napkins are still in my hand, the scent of coffee heavy in the air.

  “Let me.” He smiles, picking them up with just the tips of his fingers.

  “I can—” I try but his smile widens, although he’s not actually looking at me at all. He’s staring at Zeke. Zeke, whose happy-go-lucky face looks anything but happy-go-lucky. His brow is furrowed and his nose crinkles, glaring at Drew.

  “Take it down a notch,” I mutter, taking a seat next to Drew’s empty chair. The desk only seats two but Zeke is standing in front of me. He opens his mouth, and then closes it when Drew comes back, wiping his hands on his slacks. It’s like a bizarre match between opposites with Zeke in his track pants and a Cardinals (may they rot in hell) shirt, and Drew in his pale blue button-down and chinos.

  “Whatever,” I think I hear him mutter as he chooses a desk at the other end of the classroom, in the front row, under the window. Exactly where I’d been headed before the Great Coffee Debacle.

  A tall girl with thick red hair and the tiniest pair of shorts I’ve ever seen slips into the vacant seat beside him. She lives down the hall from me, in the room that was blasting techno dance crap until the late hours. At one in the morning, just as I was going out into the hallway to ask her to turn it down, I saw Priya in front of her room. And thank god for RAs, because then there was quiet. Priya is officially my favorite person after Alice.

  But evidently Zeke isn’t as annoyed with the redhead as I am. He grins, pushing his thick glasses up his nose. There’s a quick hug, and then she pulls him into a European kiss, one on each cheek. Her smile is wide, her chin coming down almost to her shoulder as she plays shy. I’m sorry, but nobody whose behind is sticking that far out from their shorts, whose tank top is that low-cut, is shy. But Zeke, nice guy that he is, seems to be lapping it up. His hand grazes the top of her shoulder, down her upper back. Her skin.

  “Abby!”

  I’m startled from the daggers I’m shooting at Zeke by Drew’s hand on my arm.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  “Ex-boyfriend?” Drew asks.

  “God, no.” I frown. “Guy I met yesterday.”

  “Well, then I’m glad I met you today, so I get the privilege of sitting with you. What year are you?”

  But I don’t get a chance to answer because our professor walks in, plopping a leather satchel on her desk and clapping her hands.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d be willing to bet Jed’s signed Sammy Sosa baseball cards that Audrey Tautou, French actress and star of my favorite movie, Amélie, is my French professor. Suddenly I don’t care about Zeke’s hand and the redhead’s coy laughter, or even the slightly uncomfortable feeling of Drew’s hand still on my arm, his faint, stale breath I can’t help but notice because he’s sitting about a foot closer to me than I’m comfortable with. In her black-and-white crisp sundress, red sandals, and bright matching nails, my French professor might be my dream grown-up. Move aside, Alice Tremberly, Madame Joliet is my new spirit animal.

  “Voilà, bonjour à tous! Welcome, everyone. Je suis vraiment heureuse que vous êtes ici. On va passer deux mois ensemble.”

  Her voice is cheerful, like she’s inserting a smile between the letters one at a time as she scans the room. And though she does appear to be genuine in her excitement for us to spend the next two months together, it can’t possibly be more than I am.

  “Did anyone have a hard time understanding what I said just now? Was I too quick for anyone?” Her English is only slightly accented.

  Redhead raises her hand, giggling slightly. Madame Joliet strolls over to her, a piece of paper in her hand. “Your name, dear?”

  “I’m Stephie Shaw. I’m not technically registered for this class but I was supposed to be in Spanish, and I thought it might be more fun to take French. Since I’ve never taken it before?” She glances over at Zeke beside her, and he grins back.

  I want to hurl.

  “Well, Stephie.” Madame Joliet smiles, the name sounding ten times more elegant when she pronounces it. “I’m sure the French department would love to have you as a student. This class, however, is an intermediate-level class, which means you need a solid knowledge of French in order to participate. Why don’t you go over to the Modern Languages office on the ground floor and inquire as to whether there are still places in Beginning French?”

  Stephie’s smile falters, and she looks over at Zeke as though there’s a chance he might be able to intercede. Oh no, Madame, perhaps she thinks he’ll say in his all-powerful Greek god way, while Stephie speaks no French at all, she can absolutely handle this intermediate French class. I will tutor her. I will spend every day and every night speaking with her in French, in bed and out.

  I’m so caught up in my daydream that I miss Stephie’s exit, and only catch up when the wooden classroom door bangs shut.

  “Bien. What I’d like to ask you to do,” Madame Joliet begins in a slightly more rapid-paced French, “is write a few sentences about yourself that you’d like me to know. Where you’re from, what you’re studying during the year, why you wanted to be in this class. Where you learned French. It’s not a test. I’m not grading you. I just want to know a bit more about you. D’accord?”

  We all nod. I grab a sheet from my notebook, my stomach turning. What if my French isn’t good enough? What if I get bumped down to Beginning French with Stephie?

  The anxiety that races through me as I carefully write my name at the top of the page makes it such that I don’t even notice that Madame Joliet has come to stand in front of my desk. With Zeke.

  “Can we speak outside pour un moment?” she asks, her words flowing between the two languages. I glance over at Drew but Madame Joliet is only looking at me.

  I nod. “Should I—” Merde. Should I be speaking in French? “Devrais-je prendre . . .” and then I just point at my bag, and she shakes her head.

  “It’ll be just a minute.”

  She swings open the door, and I meet Zeke’s eyes, which are just as confused as mine. Could this be about the coffee? But then why Zeke and not Drew?

  Madame Joliet bites the edge of her lip but stays silent until the door is closed behind her. It’s only then that I realize that she has two stapled packets, one with the wallet-sized picture of me in the corner, and one with a wallet-sized picture of Zeke.

  Our applications to Huntington.

  “I’m going to do this in English to make sure that we all understand everything, okay? Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that you two are the only high school students in this class. Frankly, in the past few years, we’ve never had any students from your high school program request the class, and we’re really pleased that you both did. However, much of the class grade will depend on work done in pairs outside of class time. I’m usually pretty liberal about allowing people to choose their partners, but I’d like to request that you work together. I’m simply uncomfortable pairing either of you with a college student given that many live off campus. I’m certain there’d never be a problem but I don’t want to take any chances. Is that all right with you both?”

  I nod quickly, noticing Zeke’s head bobbing in time. “Formidable. So there are two other matters to discuss. One is that as this is a college class, the material we’ll be using is . . .” She looks down the hall and then back at the two of us, shrugging. “Let’s just say that it’s appropriate for adults. Are you both over seventeen?”

  Mon dieu.

  We both nod, and she breathes out quickly. “It’s no
t like you’ll be watching anything terribly inappropriate, but if you were under seventeen I’d have to write to your parents and have them okay the movies on the list, as some of them are rated NC-17. It’s all silliness since young people in France watch these movies without a problem, but there’s a different standard for European kids and American ones.”

  There’s one more thing coming down the pike, and given that I’ve already agreed to spend many hours studying and working with Zeke every day, which will apparently include watching X-rated films, I’m loath to find out the next bombshell.

  And from the tired look in Madame Joliet’s eyes, it seems like she feels the same way. “Enfin, part of the class is a two-day trip to Montreal toward the end of the term. I’ve already received permission from your program for both of you to attend, and I know that the university has signed consent forms from your parents. I just want to make sure you are both still comfortable with the trip, given that it will primarily be with college students. Should you decide not to attend the trip, there will be no penalty to your grade; I’ll merely create another assignment for you.”

  We nod again.

  “Bien. D’accord. Let’s go back inside. If either of you have any problems, please feel free to speak with me. I truly am delighted that you are both interested in improving your French.” Her smile is easier this time, her white teeth striking against the dark red lipstick. Apparently even with all the biting of her lip, there’s not a smudge of lipstick on her teeth. She’s truly Amélie.

  “Abby, why don’t you go have a seat in the open chair next to Zeke, as you’ll be working together? Parfait.”

  She swings open the door and ushers us back into class. I stare at my bag as I slip my notebook inside, and grab my pens from the desk. I’m sure Drew is confused, but frankly? So am I.

  “I’m thrilled you’ll all be spending the next couple of months with me; that you’ve agreed to spend your summer strengthening your French. I know that it’s hard to spend two months studying and speaking only in French, which is why I’ve designed this class to be unlike the regular-term class. For starters, no need to call me Madame or Professeur. You’re welcome to call me Marianne.”

  A quick scan of the room reveals that there are ten other students in the class besides me and Zeke. Four women, six men. Only two of which—both women—look like they actually want to be here. I smooth out the notebook page in front of me. I’ve been waiting for two years to be able to do this program; I can’t imagine forcing yourself to do it.

  “Here’s how it will work,” Marianne says, coming to sit on the front of her desk. Her legs swing back and forth, a blur of her red sandals. I want those sandals. Would it be awkward to ask her where she gets her shoes? I’d never ask my high school teacher, but is it different here? I’ve certainly never had a teacher ask us to call her by her first name.

  “We have three hours every morning for class. We’ll do an hour together here, which will mostly focus on written French, and then an hour where you’ll be working in pairs during class time. I’ll be giving you pieces of text to discuss, sometimes clips of movies or songs. You can do that portion of the class wherever you’d like, but I’d like to know where so I can visit your group. So keep it in the general vicinity of this building.”

  The whole class starts to look around, as though it’s already time to stake our claim on where we’re headed.

  “And then we’ll meet back here for an additional hour together. Finally, you’ll be responsible for speaking eighty hours of French over these next two months, in addition to class time. While you will also have written assignments to complete individually, you can’t learn French out of a book; it has to be lived. I want you talking during these sessions. You’ll have movies to watch and books to read. But mostly I want you having various experiences that involve talking to one another in French. Do it over dinner; do it wherever you want. But I want a log of your conversations, a list of some of the words you’re using together. And don’t think this is an excuse to slack off. I’ve been teaching this class for a few years now; I know exactly how to make sure you’re having the conversations you promise you’re having.

  “Parfait! You’ll be able to change partners once a week during the six weeks of the program, but you’ll be working on a final project during the last two weeks so I’ll ask you to choose a partner you’ll stay with during that. So, select your partners for week one, and let’s get started.”

  Marianne locks her ankles together and smiles. “Maintenant,” she says when nobody moves.

  Now.

  Drew is the first to move, and he makes a beeline for me. “So, any chance you want to try out being partners for the week?”

  “We’re together,” Zeke says gruffly. I can’t help but scowl. I was going to tell him; I didn’t need Zeke to jump in.

  “Je suis désolée.” I’m sorry, I mouth.

  “Peut-être la semaine prochaine?” Drew doesn’t even glance at Zeke.

  Sorry, buddy, not next week or the week after. Not even the week after that. But before I have a chance to find the words in French, Zeke cuts in.

  “We’re together for all eight weeks,” Zeke says, scooting his chair closer to me. He puts his hand on my shoulder, the hand that had been on Stephie’s back. I try to shrug it off but Zeke doesn’t move.

  “Enough,” I whisper loudly to him when Drew has turned to the person at the next table, a woman with a shoulder-length bob.

  Eighty hours? I’m going to need to spend an additional eighty hours with this guy?

  Merde.

  FOUR

  “SORRY YOUR GIRLFRIEND DIDN’T MAKE it in to the class,” I snicker to Zeke as we exit the room. My brain is hurting from all the words I’ve copied down and the additional assignments Marianne has given us, including a written critique of a newspaper article. Three hours of French that pushes my ability level, and I have a royal headache.

  A headache that is further exacerbated by Zeke’s calm and collected manner, the ease with which he flips his backpack over one shoulder, his open smile.

  That and the fact I missed my full dose of morning coffee due to my extreme spill earlier.

  Basically it’s a miracle I’m still standing and stringing words together like a normal person. Albeit a normal bitchy person.

  Zeke’s lip curls a little and the look he’s giving me says he can see right through me and my bitchiness has nothing to do with French verb tenses and assignments and the lack of coffee. That it has everything to do with a redhead whose back he was grazing with his fingertips.

  “I met her last night at dinner. She’s hardly girlfriend material. Yet.”

  “Good luck with that,” I snap.

  The edge in my voice seems to only widen his smile and that irks me more. I want unflappable, happy-go-lucky Zeke to stop toying with me by . . . being nice. All he’s doing is being nice and friendly.

  What I really need is to get some exercise, work off this tension. Because between the extended car ride with my brothers and then this morning’s epic fail with my coffee, I’m turning into someone I’m not.

  Or at least I don’t want to be.

  It’s only when we get to the hallway that I notice Zeke’s limp.

  “What’s wrong with your leg?”

  It wasn’t meant as a mean comment but given its close proximity to the rest of my unpleasantness, I can certainly understand why it causes Zeke’s smile to drop, his eyes to roll up. “What’s your problem with me?” he says, taking a step away.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, burying the words beneath the sound of his bright red Chucks smacking against the linoleum flooring. “I’m not good without coffee in the morning.”

  He stops, breathing in and out, and something tells me it isn’t just the agitation with my bitchiness. He opens his mouth and closes it again, shaking his head. “My leg is fine,” he says, the meaning behind it loud and clear. Drop it.

  And he’s right. It’s none of my business. And if I’m goi
ng to succeed in this class, I can’t be fighting with my partner. Time to make amends.

  “If you wouldn’t mind helping me get some more caffeine into my body, we can plan out how we’ll get this crazy amount of work accomplished. I’ll even buy the coffee treats.” It’s an olive branch and at first I think he’s not going to take it. His eyes are wary and his shoulders are more stooped than before.

  Unflappable Zeke has been flapped.

  Bravo, Abby, bravo.

  “Please?” I add, and he nods. I’m sure the campus coffee shop will have enough sugary treats to make a dent in his misery.

  Turns out that dent requires three bagels, an extra-large iced sugary coffee confection, and a chocolate chunk cookie.

  And that’s before I put in my order.

  “So what did you think of class?” he asks, a thin line of chocolate on his top lip. A thin line I can’t stop staring at.

  Not because it’s Zeke’s lips. Not because they’re slightly chapped but otherwise perfect boy lips. But because of the chocolate. The chocolate.

  “Le chocolat,” I murmur.

  “What?”

  “Sorry. Just thinking.” I don’t look up, don’t check if he’s laughing at me. Because he should be. “I autotranslate in my head sometimes. Mostly when I’m bored.”

  His smile, that smile that I only just reearned, drops.

  Seriously? I slap my hand over my mouth and this time I do look up. Because there’s something about this boy that completely removes any of my common sense.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Dis-moi en français,” he says. Tell me in French. His eyes are laughing. Can you even say that in French? Tes yeux rient.

  “Excuse-moi,” I say, now my turn to roll my eyes. Searching for the right words in French, I say: “Apparently I have foot in mouth disease in front of you.”

  “Pied en bouche? Can you even use that expression in French? I’m not sure it translates like that.”

  And then I’m laughing, iced coffee threatening to come back up my nose. Maybe this won’t be so bad, Zeke and I working together. Maybe we can spend all our time translating English expressions into French. And then French expressions into English. And then, we’ll be done.