The Distance from A to Z (3 page)

LEDERER HALL IS AN ENORMOUS
stone building on the easternmost point of campus, just across from a small, picturesque lake. With ivy climbing the rocks and an enormous grassy park in front, it screams old, pompous, British-inspired college. Which is to say that I love it on sight.

I quickly snap a picture and text it to my mom. Even though she's just as much a baseball fanatic as the rest of my family, she has a secret softness for old buildings. And last night on the phone she seemed a little sad that she hadn't been able to take the time to bring me here.

I didn't say a word. I was shocked she even felt bad.

Clutching the coffee I'd grabbed from the cafeteria, I make my way to the fifth floor and to the small classroom at the end of the hall. Room 512. With fifteen minutes until class is set to start, the room is still empty. I swing open the door, dazzled by the bright sunlight streaming, the view of
the water beneath. I'm never going to want to leave this place.

“Gorgeous, isn't it?”

The voice is so startling that I jerk backward, narrowly averting the spray of coffee that comes from the sudden movement. It may have missed me, but my coffee, my beloved full cup of coffee, is now mostly all over the floor.
“Merde!”

“God, I'm so sorry! I thought you knew I was here.” There's a scraping of a chair and then the owner of the voice comes into view. Slightly taller than me with stick-straight blond hair that reaches his chin and round John Lennon glasses, he grabs some napkins from his messenger bag and joins me by the door.

“No, I'm sorry,” I mutter. I drop down to my knees and work on cleaning the mess before anyone gets here. I can just see it: the professor and each student walking into class and tumbling through the doorway on my spilled coffee, a veritable Slip 'N Slide on the fifth floor of Lederer Hall.

I can't help it. I giggle. At first it's more like a snort and then it bubbles up in my chest until it's full-on laughter. Emo Boy frowns at first and then lets out a small laugh. “Well, glad you aren't mad at me.”

I want to explain about the Slip 'N Slide but the words are having a hard time getting past the laughter and I'm not completely sure he'd think it was funny—based on the odd
looks he's currently giving me. It only takes a minute or so to clear up the remaining coffee, just about enough time for me to get my laughter under control.

Almost. I still snort one more time as I grab the bunched-up soiled napkins.

“Again, my apologies for startling you,” he says, his voice slightly colder now.

I drag a big breath in and smile. “No problem. Sorry, it's sometimes hard for me to stop laughing when I start. But thanks for helping clean up the mess. I'm Abby, by the way.”

“Drew,” the boy says, reaching for my hand. At first I think he means to take the napkins, but then I realize he wants to shake my hand. “
Enchanté
, as I'm sure we'll be encouraged to say in this class.”

My hand now in his, I giggle, even though I'm still on my knees.
Merde
. I've got to stop.

“Abby, you okay?”

And that stops me. Zeke, in a St. Louis Cardinals T-shirt. Before I can remember that we're not in Chicago, that there's nothing wrong with a non-Cubs fan wearing a Cards shirt, I hiss. I actually freaking hiss.

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 not 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.