The Distance from A to Z by Natalie Blitt

ruins September. And October is truly the cruelest month for a Cubs fan. Because it’s never going to happen for us. But—”
    And suddenly there are arms around me. Thick, strong arms, and a hand that is now cradling the back of my head. It feels so good. It feels like I’ve been talking for years, that all this stuff that I’ve been holding on to for so long is finally coming out, all the gunk and sadness, all the anger and the bone-gnawing weariness. It’s finally coming out. Apparently all over Zeke’s shirt.
    Merde .
    But Zeke doesn’t make a move to change position. I know I shouldn’t let myself sink like this. I should pull back. I should create distance. I should do so many things to salvage this moment, and closing my eyes and letting the tears fall isn’t one of them.

NINE
    â€œYOU NEED TO STOP STARING at your coffee,” Alice says, peeling the wrapper from her second banana chocolate chip muffin. Apparently they’re her reward for trying new things, for going out in large environments. One muffin for trying. Another if she sticks it out for a certain amount of time.
    â€œI’d be enormous if I used your system.” I’m shifting my black coffee back and forth between my two hands, trying to see how high I can get the wave up the lip of the mug without it going over. So far I bounce rapidly between undercompensating and overcompensating. Which basically describes my relationship with Zeke in a nutshell. Being accused of being mean to crying on his shirt in under sixty minutes. A new personal best.
    And as a result of my meltdown, I never got the shirt he bought me.
    â€œYou’re going to be late.” Alice is eating her muffin in such tiny bites that I doubt she’ll make it to a class at all.
    â€œI’m thinking of skipping.”
    If eyes could actually roll, Alice’s would be falling out of her head. “It’s only the second week.”
    â€œYou skipped yesterday,” I remind her.
    â€œI had a migraine. Go to class.”
    â€œI cried on Zeke’s shirt yesterday.”
    â€œAha.” She smiles. “Now we’re getting somewhere. You are starting to like your hot French partner.”
    I laugh so hard I snort, causing my little wave of coffee to drench my hand. “You think he’s hot? Remember, I go for the soulful poets.”
    â€œThen why did you cry on his shirt?”
    Why indeed. Could I blame it on baseball? Or on the memories that the discussion generated? Or maybe I was just overtired? I’d been spending every afternoon stuck in the library.
    Is this going to be my life for the next seven weeks?
    And is it okay that I hope the answer is yes?
    â€œI don’t know.”
    Zeke shows up to class wearing his new Support Our Troops T-shirt with a photo of a crowd of Star Wars storm troopers, and we don’t talk about baseball. Or about my little cryingjag. Instead, he suggests we take turns creating French speaking opportunities so that we don’t spend the first half hour of every afternoon session trying to figure out what to do.
    â€œI don’t trust you.” I smirk when he waggles his eyebrows to convince me how fun it will be. Especially as it makes his glasses bounce up and down on his nose.
    Trust. Confiance .
    Which reminds me of the T-shirt he never gave me yesterday. “Où est mon T-shirt? Je n’étais pas méchante . . .”
    I wasn’t mean, was I? I should get the shirt.
    Zeke laughs and reaches into his backpack for the plastic bag from the used clothing store. “I was going to keep it for myself.”
    Inside is a T-shirt with a picture of the cranky old guys from The Muppet Show (Waldorf and the one I can never remember) with the caption Haters Gonna Hate . It’s perfect.
    â€œNot a chance; this one’s mine now.”
    Zeke shrugs and bounces his glasses with his nose again. “Come on, let’s trade off creating