Free The Distance from A to Z by Natalie Blitt

desperately try to find something—no, anything—to wear. Wednesday’s jeans? Fabulous. Don’t care if they have a coffee stain on them. The sweater I wore Thursday night to the dorm eighties party? Not a problem.
    â€œAbby!” There’s clothing falling everywhere, and I know I should be one of these people who hangs up her clothing, but this week totally owned me. Next week I’ll be better, I promise myself as I try to shove both my feet in the same skinny-jean leg. If I can just get to class before Mariannenotices I’m not there, I’ll hang up all my clothing before I go to sleep and even video chat with my grandmother this weekend and—
    â€œAbby! It’s Saturday. Breakfast isn’t until eleven because we’re doing that special pancake brunch. That’s why I didn’t wake you.”
    Saturday. Breakfast. Eleven.
    Merde .
    â€œWhy didn’t you—” I collapse back against my bed, trying desperately to get my jeans off my leg while burying myself under my covers. Before my head is officially under my pillow, I peek at the clock. Nine fifteen.
    I need more sleep.
    â€œSo what are you doing today?” I ask Alice as we walk out of the cafeteria. She’s wearing a tight black tank over bright green pants, and it makes me feel like a mess with my cutoff jeans and old Doctor Who Where’s My Tardis? T-shirt that used to be black but now, not so much.
    Two pain pills, an additional hour of sleep, and a shower are contributing nicely to the feeling I’m no longer wearing my head inside out. That and copious amounts of coffee and a stack of pancakes that should have been illegal. So between the sugar and the caffeine, I feel like I can do anything.
    â€œI’ll tell you in a minute. First, what’s the story with Zeke?”
    Except maybe talk about Zeke.
    Zeke, who came back yesterday and might be with some girl who makes the sound rwar . And redheaded Stephie. And who knows who else.
    Not that I care. Especially since I’m apparently too nosy for his taste.
    But now my shoulders are up near my ears and all the morning relaxation is gone. “Nothing.” I sigh. “We spend a ton of time together and we speak French and I think that’s just messing with my brain.”
    â€œAre you interested in him?”
    Interested?
    â€œNo,” I say, without letting the question fully settle in the air.
    Except then it does—
    â€œHe confuses me. He’s clearly into sports and is everything I don’t want. But he’s also as passionate about French as I am.”
    â€œCan’t he be both?”
    I turn to face Alice and she shrugs, the braids on each side of her head bopping as she moves. “Yes,” I say slowly. “Obviously, yes, but . . .”
    But I’m not into sporty guys. Been there, done that, pitched the commemorative T-shirts. How can I say that without sounding like a bitch?
    â€œHe’s just not right for me.”
    â€œBecause he’s into sports.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œEven though he loves French and you spend hours and hours together.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBecause you don’t really like him that much.”
    This time there’s a longer pause. “Right.”
    These words, all these words, are wrong. I hate them. I hate the feeling of the yes and right coming out of my mouth, the bitterness of the lies. I hate the fact that I’m lying to Alice and to myself and and and . . .
    Oh, Zeke. Zeke with his perfect French, his easy smile, his arms around every girl, his name screeched across the hallway. It’s too much, even before I roll in the baseball shirts and the refusal to talk about what’s wrong with his shoulder.
    Too effing much.
    And the headache is back.
    â€œI’m not interested in dating a player,” I blurt out, and Alice doesn’t need to hear the inner monologue to understand. To understand that at least this isn’t