The Distance from A to Z (4 page)

“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
.

“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 going 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.

“So, we're responsible for watching six movies, logging in eighty hours of conversation in at least ten different settings, and decoding a dozen songs. And then the final project,” Zeke reads from the papers in front of him.

“Eighty hours is a lot.”

“Ten hours a week for eight weeks. Shouldn't be too bad.”

Ten hours. In addition to the three hours a day, five days a week in class. That's a lot of Zeke time. I mean, French time.

His phone dings and his eyes drop down to it. His thumbs tap out a message, and then he shakes his head, tossing the phone back in his bag. Where it continues to ding, and Zeke continues to ignore it.

“Should we start tomorrow? Or we can do later today. I just have to be somewhere for a few hours this afternoon.” Zeke's mouth moves into a smile but it isn't real. It's tight around the edges, like he's working hard to make it seem easy.

“Someplace fun?” I ask. I don't know why I'm digging.

“Non.”
His voice says
butt out
. It says
none of your business
.

“Après le dîner?”
he asks, grabbing his bag with the dinging phone.

I notice he shakes out his leg under the table and it's on the tip of my tongue to ask about it again, but then I decide against it. He'd tell me if he wanted to.

“My roommate and I were going to try the cafeteria around seven. So I'll meet you outside at a quarter to eight?”
Huit
heures moins le quart
. Eight o'clock minus a quarter. I love French.

“Bien.”
And then he leaves, his limp more pronounced.

When I get back to my room, I find Alice back on her bed, scribbling furiously in her notebook. I don't even bother trying to decode her garbled response to my entry. My body still feels achy from sitting in class for so long, my muscles buzzing from the sugar and caffeine. I exchange my cute first-day-of-class skirt and top for leggings and a tank, and then stretch to warm up. I'll take a short run—
je vais courir
—and that will ease the agitation in my body.
L'agitation
? I quickly flip through my dictionary. Yup.

“Sorry,” Alice murmurs, closing her black Moleskine. Her voice is craggy, like it's still an effort to dislodge the words.

“No worries, I know how it is.”
Ne t'inquiète pas.

Urgh. My autotranslate is going psycho.
Mon auto
—Shut it.
Tais-toi
.

I'm losing my mind.

“You okay?” she asks, slipping the notebook back into her brown leather messenger bag.

“Yup.” I smile. “Just need to get my mind off class. What are you up to?”

Alice shimmies across the bed, and it's only then that I realize she's in pajamas.

“Didn't you go to class?”

She scrunches her nose and her shoulders rise and drop. “I might have gotten back into pajamas after class?”

Seriously, it's like looking in the mirror.

“Come on, let's get outside. I was going to go for a run since it seems like a gorgeous day.”

“I don't run,” she says without moving. As though this might be the line in the sand.

“Well, do you walk?”

We're just finishing up a leisurely stroll around the campus when my phone rings. Well, not so much rings as sings. Actually, sings is too kind for what it does. It screeches and bellows and squeals through a very annoying version of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

“What the—” Alice's face is horrified, and her gaze darts around, as though she's trying to find the drunk guys who are butchering the song.

Lucky for me, I know they are far from here right now. “I can't effing believe you changed my ringtone again,” I growl into the phone.

“Abby! How's life in New Hampshire cow town?” My brothers are laughing hysterically and in the background there's the sound of a batter being called up. Must not be the Cubs, because otherwise they wouldn't interrupt a game.

“Number sixty-four, Kelsey Ryan,” I hear over the loudspeaker.

The Nationals. They must have stopped for a game. God, how I hate the fact that I know this stuff. It only proves that it is possible to learn by osmosis. I should just play French recordings during every waking hour and then maybe—

“—up four nothing and Santos isn't up yet,” Si updates me.

“Shut up,” I hear Jed yell. “You're going to jinx it.”

“You can't jinx a team that doesn't miss an opportunity to miss an opportunity,” I mutter, though I'm quite sure now they're bickering with each other, and Si doesn't even remember he's on the phone with me.

“Si!” I shout as loud as I can, startling passersby. “I'm hanging up! Hope the Cubs continue hitting well! Hope Santos homers!”

“Shit, Abby! What the hell? You know better than to jinx them like that!” Now I can hear them both yelling at me through the phone, and I do what any good younger sister would do. I hang up.

“Your brothers?” Alice guesses as I make a face at the phone and slide it in my bag.

“Yup. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb. Each one more addicted to baseball than the other.”

“And yet you're grinning like an idiot.” Alice laughs, and I turn my sour face on her.

It's true. Talking to my brothers usually doesn't put me in a good mood. Maybe it's the distance. Or maybe because they are so completely, unabashedly themselves.

“They're good guys.”

“How old?”

“I think twenty-five and twenty-eight? I have a hard time remembering, especially since they act like they're fourteen.”

There's a comfortable silence while I find us a cart selling iced coffees.

“It's sweet. The way you are with them,” Alice adds.

I shrug. “Just before my mom got pregnant with me, she and my dad bought a small sports paraphernalia store. So a lot of their time gets sucked in to trying to make it successful. Si and Jed were really the ones who took care of me. I mean, not in a bad way, but they were home to make dinner, even if it was corn dogs and French fries. They read me stories, helped me with my homework, took me to movies. I mean, when it wasn't baseball season.”

“What happened when it was baseball season?”

“Well, it was basically all the same things, except I tagged along with them to practices. And Si would help me with homework when he wasn't at bat.”

Alice shakes her head and it's only now that I'm saying it, now that I'm seeing her reaction that it occurs to me how
odd it was. Not that it wasn't back then. But for the first time, being far away from them, it occurs to me how weird it must have been for them too, having their little sister tagging along to all their games.

“Is that why you don't like baseball?” she asks after a long moment. “Because your parents were always too busy and you had to follow your brothers around?”

We move away from the cart and I think about my answer before I speak. It would be easy to say yes, the simple answer. Except it's not true. Because back then, I lived for baseball. The hardest thing about getting my homework done at the games was that I was too busy watching my brothers' teams play, too busy trash-talking the other team, jumping up and down when it looked like one of the guys on my brothers' team was going to get on base before the ball landed in the first baseman's glove, that someone was going to make it home. Half the time I lied about not having homework so I could be the official scorekeeper, filling out the little squares in the notebook with lines that would hopefully form diamonds,
K
s on the opposing team's list for strikeouts.

“I think at a certain point I realized I outgrew my love for it. And the whole thing is exacerbated by my family's devotion to the game. So, I do my thing and they do theirs.”

It sounds so simple, but in reality it's so much more heart wrenching.

“So are you going to change the ringtone back?” Alice's voice jerks me back into the present.

I shake my head, because it's still my brothers' anthem. “But do you know how to make it less noisy?”

“Nope. I'm basically stuck in the dark ages.” Alice laughs, the braids that rest on each of her shoulders swinging back and forth. “I'm totally comfortable with any technology that was in use back then.”

“Computer?”

“Well, yes. Though I prefer my pen and notebooks.”

“Cell phone?”

“Yup, but I only use it as a phone.”

She sticks out her tongue when I roll my eyes. “I couldn't live without my e-reader,” I mumble, and she nods. “Otherwise I'd have filled the van with boxes of books instead of being able to live off a small collection of print books and a large collection on my dependable e-reader.”

But I can imagine the appeal of going low-tech, the possibility of living like there wasn't a need for constantly being in touch, being constantly reachable. Where there weren't dinging text messages ruining a conversation.

Which makes me think of Zeke and the phone he tossed, a little too hard, back into his bag.

“Let's go out tonight,” I say, the idea appealing to me more and more. I clearly need to meet more people, diversify the
pool of boys I see beyond Zeke and Drew. It's Day Two of the summer and it's time for me to make sure I make something out of it. “I think there's some sort of mixer scavenger hunt being planned all around campus. I'm supposed to do French conversation with Zeke after dinner, but I can't imagine we'll last too long. Maybe let's meet up and go? I'll stay with you the whole time, and it shouldn't be too bad because it's all over campus, so no cramped rooms.”