The Distance from A to Z by Natalie Blitt Page B

different from the last three hours.
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œAu revoir,” he says. Until I see you again. I used to think it sounded so much prettier than see you later . But right now, with Zeke back to being focused on his phone, it doesn’t sound that terribly different after all.

SIX
    TUESDAY MORNING, I WALK INTO the cafeteria to find Zeke with his arm around Stephie, waiting in line for eggs. Which makes me skip the hot breakfast aisle and grab cold cereal and a muffin. And coffee. Because I wouldn’t care if Zeke were making out with Stephie under the coffee tap; I still need it.
    When I get out of the line to pay, I make my way to the farthest table under the big leaded-glass window. I focus on eating my healthy high-fiber cereal with my black coffee. And my chocolate chocolate-chip muffin. I deliberately sit with my back to the rest of the room so I don’t see Zeke. When I turn back to the room, he and the redhead are gone. And I only have three minutes to get across campus for class.
    After that, Zeke and I get into a daily pattern. We eat breakfast separately, though at the same time. He’s always ata table with three guys who look like they just came from playing basketball and anywhere between six and eight girls who flick their hair so much I’m not sure how stray pieces don’t make it into their food. And I sit by my window, watching the quad. We walk, separately, to class. I leave first, but he arrives at the building no more than thirty seconds later, sliding into his seat with a grin, looking like he just rolled out of bed.
    â€œMorning,” he says as Marianne walks into class.
    And each morning, I say, “Excuse-moi. Je ne parle pas anglais. En français s’il te plaît.”
    I’m sorry. I don’t speak English. In French please. Exactly what Marianne encourages us to say when a classmate speaks in English.
    And each morning his eyebrows waggle and he says, “Bonjour.”
    Hello.
    And each morning, I can’t help but shiver.
    And I hate that for the next hour I’m still annoyed until we break off into partners, and then I thaw. And then we joke and tease each other through to the end of class. And then he disappears for a few hours, and reappears freshly showered. And we spend the next few hours walking around campus and bantering in French.
    And then start again.
    French Zeke is fun and charming and maybe, maybe the kind of guy I daydream about a bit. But English Zeke is not. English Zeke wears a baseball cap and a lazy smile and his hand in some girl’s back pocket as he walks across campus.
    But whatever else is true, French Zeke is a great class partner. While his written French needs work, his spoken French is fairly flawless, especially as he gets into the groove of talking. And even after we pass our ten-hour minimum by early evening on Wednesday, he doesn’t hesitate to keep going. His phone stays buried in his back pocket and his focus remains on me and our assignments, both the required ones and the ones we do for extra credit.
    Hours and hours and hours.
    Des heures et des heures et des heures.
    And I love it so much that it hurts.
    By Friday, I’m weary to the point of collapse. I struggle through my walk across campus after breakfast, certain that the cafeteria workers replaced the caffeinated coffee with decaf, a beverage that has no business even being legal. My slower pace means that I can hear Zeke catching up to me as I cross campus, which means I can hear the annoying giggle that accompanies him.
    â€œWhy can’t you skip class?” she asks, her voice high-pitched and cloying. This girl is built the way boys like girlsto be built, all firm thighs and small waist, big boobs and shiny hair, but I swear if I were a guy, I would lose interest if a girl ever used that voice on me.
    â€œSorry, I don’t skip. But I’ll look forward to catching up with you later?” So while he says no, his voice