The Distance from A to Z by Natalie Blitt Page A

assignments? S’il te plaît? ”
    Oh god. He’s giving me puppy-dog eyes.
    Zut.
    â€œD’accords.”
    And now Zeke, in his Star Wars T-shirt and long plaid shorts and those bright green Chucks—how many pairsdoes this boy have?—is dancing a little happy dance in front of Lederer Hall. His index fingers point up and his hips rock back and forth, and he moves to some disjointed tune he tries to sing, and I can’t help it.
    I laugh.
    And I continue laughing later that evening when Zeke takes me on a tour of Merritt as if it were Paris.
    â€œVoici le fameux Jardin du Luxembourg,” he says, stopping at the very ordinary, nothing-at-all-like-Paris Daley Park. He’s created one of those sticks with a sign on top that reads A to Z Tours and he waves it back and forth when he stops. Like there’s a crowd of people we’re walking through. Like there’s a crowd of people following him.
    â€œUh, this isn’t . . .”
    â€œLook from this angle,” he says, shoving a photograph of a park in front of my face, the real Jardin du Luxembourg, his face so earnest.
    â€œYou may not be able to tell,” Zeke continues, changing the photographs as he rotates me around to see different angles of Daley Park/Jardin du Luxembourg, “but this park is actually fifty acres, and is one of the most popular places to hang out for Parisians and tourists alike.”
    His French flawless, his voice like a tour guide, he tells me how the widow of King Henry IV originally lived here, how she created the gardens to remember the Boboli Gardens ofFlorence.
    â€œHow do you know all this?” I ask as we finally leave the famed Jardin du Luxembourg.
    â€œI did a bit of research this afternoon when I was waiting for . . .” He pauses and clears his throat. “But much of it I know from being there with my grandmother. She walks there every day, rain or shine. As long as there’s no ice, because she’s terrified of falling.”
    I notice the little pause, the words he drops, and I wonder, but I don’t press. Today’s a good day. And plus, based on the next stack of photographs he’s pulling out, I’m guessing the tiny church on the corner of Sheridan and Thorndale is actually the Notre-Dame Cathedral. Who knew?
    By the time it grows too dark to see our map clearly, we’ve visited Palace of Versailles on the outskirts of Merritt, the Centre Pompidou (Paris’s famed cultural center is Merritt’s run-down movie theater), and walked down the Champs-Élysées, also known as Main Street. Thankfully, our last stop is the diner for some chocolat chaud , which Zeke assures me is just as delicious as the rich chocolate drinks at Angelina, the famous French teahouse.
    â€œIs the decor just as well worn?” I tease as I put one of the unused paper placemats from our booth under my legs so that the broken vinyl seat cushion doesn’t cut into my skin.Which is when Zeke starts propping up pictures of the real Angelina all around us. Tables set with teacups and creamers filled with chocolate, the name of the salon de thé in Paris in uppercase gold lettering on everything. Plates of macarons in every color imaginable.
    â€œI wish I was there right now,” I murmur, trying desperately to fill the walls of this run-down diner with the images of Paris. “I know lots of people dream of going to Paris. But I want it so badly, I can’t stand it. I want these gilded mirrors and the gorgeous hot chocolate mugs and everything. I want to see the architecture, stand at the corner of Rue Saint-Martin and Rue Saint-Denis, where the unsuccessful June Rebellion took place. Where the barricades stood.”
    My voice cracks and this time I’m glad that I’m able to rein it back in.
    â€œYou will,” Zeke says. “Soon. Anyone who can apparently quote back street locations from Les Misérables can’t be kept away.” And