The Distance from A to Z by Natalie Blitt

Lucky me, because Drew is now standing over my table, his once-attractive long poet hair now looking like he should have washed it before he left the house this morning.
    Ew.
    â€œI was also coming in to work on French, so maybe we could work together. I mean, I know you’re technically with Zeke, but it can’t hurt to stretch yourself.”
    The words individually are probably okay but it’s the way he licks his lips at the end of the sentence that makes mefeel like I need a shower now too. “I’m actually moving over there to learn this new art technique.” I smile, my dry lips catching on my teeth. “But you’re welcome to the table.”
    And then I pack my stuff in record speed and practically sprint to the corner, where I grab a chair and thrust it between two normal-looking women. It’s a tight squeeze but it puts me with my back to Drew, which is exactly what I want.
    At first I’m content to watch Rebecca describe the process. Some of the others are looking through the books of quotes she’s provided, but I’m just happy not to have to make excuses as to why I can’t sit with Drew.
    Except it really does seem very easy. She’s using a computer program to generate different fonts and combinations of fonts, and then we simply trace them on the mugs, outline them with the colored Sharpies she’s brought, and the guy behind the counter at Tea and Sympathy will bake them in the oven for the half hour necessary to set the designs. The woman beside Rebecca, another art student, is helping someone create a drawing of one of the wild things from Maurice Sendak’s picture book to accompany the quote “We’ll eat you up—we love you so” on a dinner plate.
    And while I’ve agreed to be the courier back and forth to the counter, bringing the mugs to be baked, after the thirdtrip, I buy myself two sea grass–green mugs. Worst case? It’s four dollars down the drain.
    And maybe I can make something for Alice. Something to make things right.
    I don’t let myself think about it too much. Flipping through the quote books, I scan for keywords that describe Alice. Passion . Drive . Creativity .
    I read through the quotes and some of them are okay. Some of them could probably work, and I make a list of those. But none are quite right.
    Then I think back to the awesome black-and-white striped tights she wore to the poetry reading last night. The look on her face before she left, shoulders back, determined to make it through. The look on her face when she came home, all light and bright and filled with joy.
    And then the look when I reacted to her taking medication, like I’d burst a balloon she was trying so hard to keep inflated. All that sadness she was trying to keep at bay.
    Courage. The word that best defines Alice is courage.
    And that’s when I find the quote from the poet e.e. cummings that’s so perfect, it’s almost painful.
    â€œIt takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”
    I spend two hours making Alice’s present.
    Rebecca stays with me after everyone’s left, until I feel like it’s perfect. Swirly purple letters for all the words, except courage and really are , which I set apart with a different font—a bold one, lines straight and thick in a strong dark red.
    The mug is gorgeous.
    It’s so Alice, and there’s a little part of me, a niggling part, that wonders why it doesn’t feel like me too. After all, aren’t I walking away from everything, from all that is important to my family, my home? But it doesn’t fit.
    I bury that thought, and when the mug comes out of the oven perfectly I hug Rebecca, and then hug the barista behind the counter, and I buy a ton of different herbal teas to go along with it. For every minute that my phone doesn’t ring, I realize how much I messed up.
    So when I walk into our room and Alice is huddled in the corner with