Read Online The Distance from A to Z by Natalie Blitt - Free Book Online

is definitely still flirty. And it makes me want to remove all my veins and use them to strangle myself.
    I don’t care about Zeke Martin.
    I don’t care about Zeke Martin.
    Provided he does his work in class, that he keeps his extracurricular activities to times that don’t interfere with our French speaking, I don’t care what he does. Or who he does. I keep telling this to myself.
    â€œBut everyone skips . . .”
    If I wasn’t so freaking tired, I’d sprint to the front doors of Lederer just to get that damn voice out of my head. But then there’s giggling and more giggling and instead, I focus on not vomiting.
    Except then, when he sits next to me, he smells like girly perfume. And it makes me sneeze. Over and over.
    â€œAre you getting sick?” he whispers. This is the time when we’re supposed to be ignoring each other, giving me a chance to warm up to him. Marianne is passing out photographs that we’re supposed to use as prompts for an in-class writing assignment. Not only is he not paying attention, buthe’s speaking in English.
    â€œI think I’m allergic to your effing girlfriend’s perfume.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œMonsieur Martin, if you have something to say, I’m happy to pause the lesson and wait.” Marianne’s French words are sharp, and I expect him to mutter an apology, but he doesn’t.
    â€œ Excusez-moi . I’m concerned that Abby isn’t feeling well.”
    Abby ne se sent pas bien.
    Abby doesn’t feel well.
    Though ironically, it’s close to: Abby doesn’t smell good. Abby ne sent pas bon.
    â€œI’m fine,” I whisper urgently, the words in English because between the sneezing and the smell of perfume, I can’t seem to find any French words at all. Except sentir . Feel. Which is the same word as sentir —smell. I feel fine. I smell fine. “Je sens bien.”
    Crap. That’s I smell good .
    â€œJe me sens bien,” I correct under the faint noise of tittering behind me.
    â€œI’ll get you some water.” And before I can stop him, he steps out of class, the strap of my water bottle banging against his thigh. I stare down at my blank sheet of paper and sigh.
    â€œI’m sorry about that,” Zeke says once we’re finally dismissedfrom class.
    â€œCan we not talk about it?” I mean, it’s lovely that he fetched me some water and tissues. And that, given his water-splattered T-shirt, the wet ringlets of hair framing his face, and the pervasive smell of soap, I’m guessing he washed his face and neck. But it’s still mortifying. It feels like something you’d make up. Like, please don’t make out with my across-the-hall neighbor before class because I’m allergic to the smell of her on you .
    Even though as soon as he washed his face and neck, I stopped sneezing.
    â€œI assume since it’s Friday night that you don’t want to meet up tonight to work. Would you rather do the assignments this afternoon or later this weekend?” I ask.
    Zeke pulls out his phone, his head shaking as he taps the screen. Taking a deep breath, he exhales and drops his phone into his bag; then he reaches over to massage his shoulder.
    â€œWhat’s the deal with your shoulder anyway? Your leg seems better but your—”
    He looks up quickly, his eyes narrowing. “Nothing.” Rien . But his voice is no longer apologetic, no longer sweet. It’s hard. Rien . The word rips through our conversation.
    Because he’s lying. Il ment.
    Lying. Mentir . It rhymes with sentir . Smell. And se sentir. Feel.
    He smells like a girl’s cheap perfume; he lies; he’s the kind of guy I should stay away from.
    Sentir. Mentir. Reasons I shouldn’t care at all.
    Except—
    â€œAre you okay?”
    I speak in French because things are different in French. In French we’re not quite Abby and Zeke, the distance between the two