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

his angry look for another long moment and then shakes his head. “ Tu es folle .” You’re crazy.
    â€œHow about I look it up,” I say. “And then we can add it to our list.”
    He rolls his eyes. “Folle, je te dis, folle.”
    â€œYes, I’m crazy, I know.” I flip through my Petit Larousse dictionary, the cover in tatters.
    â€œYou know, I can just look it up on my phone.” Zeke sighs. “I don’t even think my grandparents were alive when that dictionary was last updated.”
    I recite the French letters in my head as I flip through thepages.
    Zeke looks at his watch. “We’ve been yelling at each other in French for a full ten minutes.”
    Jock. Sportif . “Tu es un sportif,” I tell Zeke, who plops himself on a bench facing the lake.
    â€œWhy does that mean I don’t care about French?” He shields his eyes from the lowering sun as he looks up at me.
    The curls that escape from his cap are a sun-kissed blond, lighter than I remember his hair being. Though maybe his ends are lighter because they’re always in the sun, like the darker pink at the top of his nose. There’s a bump there where he must have broken it once.
    â€œQuel sport est-ce que tu joues?”
    â€œWhy does playing a sport mean I don’t care?” he repeats in French, ignoring my question. Now that I’m paying closer attention, his French is strong, solid. He doesn’t pause between words like I do, searching for new ones.
    â€œHow do you say ‘that surprises me’ in French?” I ask, switching languages.
    â€œComment dit-on ‘that surprises me’ en français?” he corrects.
    I repeat, my eyes rolling for effect. And then I add monsieur at the end.
    His lips rise only on one side. “Ça me surprend.”
    I grab my notebook from my bag and go back to my list. Surprendre , surprise.
    â€œSo why did you decide to learn French?” My French is halting, embarrassingly so. Apparently yelling in French is much easier. These words feel thick and awkward in my mouth, as though the muscles of my tongue and lips aren’t used to making them. Which they aren’t. But still. It’s going to be a long eighty hours if this conversation is any indication.
    â€œI love a woman named Emmaline, and she only speaks French,” Zeke says, shifting his eyebrows up and down.
    Emmaline. In his flawless French accent, the name is fluid and lilting, conjuring images of a tall, long-haired beauty, a woman with the faintest trace of lipstick, a slim figure, and perfect skin. Stephie without the red hair.
    I should have known. Not an easy A but an easy lay?
    I snort at my own interior monologue and then try to cover it up with a cough.
    Smooth.
    â€œDid she fall in love with you?” I ask.
    Amoureux . In love.
    â€œBien sûr,” he says: of course. “Apparently from the moment she saw me.”
    There’s laughter set deep in his voice, lightening his words. Like they’re both true and not true at the same time.
    â€œEven though apparently, I was spitting up at the time,” he continues. “Really, what else can you expect from a baby?”
    Un bébé?
    â€œBut it’s a grandmother’s job to love her grandchildren.”
    â€œEmmaline est ta grand-mère?”
    â€œOui.” Zeke smiles, and I can’t help it: I smack his shoulder.
    â€œShit!” he yelps, and I can tell the moment he says it that he’s serious, that it really hurts. He swivels to the side so his back is to me.
    â€œOh my god, I’m so sorry.” I try to get around him to see his face but he keeps shifting.
    â€œI’m fine,” he says in English, but by his strained face, I can tell it wouldn’t be a good time to remind him we aren’t supposed to use any English during our French hours.
    â€œAre you okay?” I couldn’t have hit him that hard. Maybe he’s