The Distance from A to Z by Natalie Blitt Page A

her notebook, it takes so much energy to calm down, to stop bouncing, not to interrupt her.
    Even when it takes more than fifteen minutes for her to look up from her notebook.
    Seventeen minutes, to be exact. Seventeen minutes when she doesn’t even say “one sec,” doesn’t look at me. Seventeen minutes, which is about enough time for me to realize that my gift is ridiculous and she’ll hate it and misunderstand what I’m trying to say and it’ll ruin everything. Even more than it’s already ruined.
    â€œSorry,” Alice says, closing her notebook and clipping the fountain pen to the cover. She’s still not quite looking at me.
    In fact, she’s staring at her lap.
    â€œI—” I take a deep breath and slip off my bed, my paper bag of treats slightly behind me. Because maybe—
    â€œI’m sorry I freaked out on you,” she mumbles, head tilting farther forward until her chin hits her sternum.
    â€œNo, no, no.” I take two steps until I’m at her bed and then slide in front of her. “No, I’m the one that messed up.”
    â€œI just don’t want you to think less of me—”
    â€œIt would probably be a good thing if I could think less of you because I think it’s almost creepy how much I adore you.”
    Alice looks up, a perfectly lovely smirk on her face. “Creepy?”
    â€œIt’s a little bit creepy.”
    â€œHow creepy is a little bit creepy? Like one of those movies where the roommate starts stalking the other one and trying to become her?”
    I giggle. “Not that creepy. But only because I lack imagination. I bought you something. Because I felt like crap about making you think—”
    â€œI didn’t think—”
    â€œBut you did. Because I made it seem like—”
    â€œBut it’s really only my own stuff—”
    â€œBut still. I actually made it. And you can throw it out ifyou hate it. And it’s probably dumb, so feel free to hate it. And throw it out. And—”
    â€œGive me my present.” Alice laughs, leaning across her bed to grab my bag.
    â€œPlease don’t hate it,” I whisper, and I hope the rustling of the paper as she opens it covers up my words.
    She ooh s and ahh s over the tea choices I bought and then pulls out the mug. Holding it gently in both hands, she doesn’t say a word, doesn’t look up at me, doesn’t move a muscle.
    She doesn’t ooh and ahh .
    She—
    â€œI chose the quote because you’re so brave. So much braver than me. And because it’s from a poet, and you’re a poet, and—”
    â€œIt’s amazing,” she says, and when she finally raises her head, her eyes are filled with tears. “Thank you.”
    Her arms circle around my shoulders, and she’s clearly still holding the mug tightly because I can feel it digging into my back. Hard.
    And so when the rest of the weekend passes by in a daze of French verb charts and vocabulary lists and news article after news article, I think about the look on Alice’s face when she finally let go of my shoulders. The way she sighs and pats the mug every time she walks by it. The way shebegs me to go with her next week so that we can both make more quote mugs.
    I think about Alice’s face even when I don’t see Zeke, when I find Stephie crying in the bathroom Sunday morning, whispering to a faraway friend on the phone. Something about a guy putting the kibosh . . .
    I read more French, decode more foreign words, play with them in my head as I take a long walk around the lake on Sunday. Alone.
    And try not to think about Zeke. Zeke, who hasn’t called to set up a French session.
    Sentir. Mentir. Stephie crying in the bathroom. Zeke is my French partner, that’s all.
    No need to be disappointed when he texts Sunday afternoon to say that he can’t meet Sunday night to study.
    No need to be excited when he calls