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

too.” And I know she means it, truly, though she’s also distracted.
    My life in a nutshell.
    â€œOkay.” I sigh, knowing that the sound won’t be audible over the noise on Addison as a Cubs game begins.
    â€œHow are your classes?”
    I nod. Class, just one class, I want to say. I told her this, but . . . “It’s great. I’m loving my French prof and I’m learninga ton.”
    â€œI’m so glad.” Her voice almost sounds wistful, and I’m not sure what to do with that. “I’m still hoping your dad and I can come out to visit but the summer is crazy busy and . . .”
    I know. And she knows I know. And she feels bad that I feel bad and there’s nothing we need to say.
    â€œI have a great roommate,” I tell her, even though usually in the conversation, this would be the point where I’d let her go. “Her name is Alice and she’s from Hyde Park.”
    â€œThat’s fabulous. Well, then even if we don’t make it to visit, we’ll at least meet her in Chicago. Maybe you can convince her to go to a Cubs game and she’ll take you to a Sox game.”
    It’s all about baseball. As well as my mom knows me, she still can’t hear the different neighborhoods in the city without translating them into fan teams.
    But I’ll take a Cubs game and a Sox game if that means I’ve convinced Alice I was being an ass and she’s forgiven me.
    â€œI love you,” I say, and she repeats my words back to me and hangs up. Even if I were in Chicago, I wouldn’t be with her right now. But I don’t think I quite realized how much I’d miss that.
    I finally find myself at Tea and Sympathy in the late afternoon, a small teahouse on an out-of-the-way street off thedowntown strip. With painted mugs and knitted tea cozies, it screams the perfect place to disappear into. Because in six days, I’ve managed to piss off my roommate, who I love, and my study partner, who I . . . who I . . .
    Who is Zeke to me?
    Apart from the boy I’ve pissed off.
    As I sip my tea, the herbs begin to relax the knots between my shoulder blades. I pick up the French novel I’m supposed to be puzzling through, but for once, the words do little to comfort me.
    â€œYou’re welcome to join us if you’d like.” I startle at the hand on my shoulder, almost knocking my teacup off the table.
    â€œCrap,” I mutter, making a grab for the table to settle it.
    â€œI’m sorry,” says a woman with bright red hair in a thick braid down her back. She’s wearing overalls and a tie-dye shirt that seems to work quite well with her hair.
    â€œI’m good.” I smile.
    â€œI’m teaching a graphic arts technique in the corner over there,” she says, pointing to a group of tables that have been pushed together to form a large clutter of table space, “and it’s free. So if you want . . .”
    â€œI suck at art.” I shrug.
    â€œHa! That’s exactly what every single person said before they joined us. This is actually using words and quotes tomake art. I’m Rebecca, by the way.”
    Words. Quotes. My favorite things.
    But she’s probably a religious freak, or she wants me to come live on her commune, where they grow pot and have massive orgies.
    Except the other people look remarkably normal.
    â€œThere’s no catch,” she calls over her shoulder as she makes her way back to the group. “I’m in art school, and this helps me develop my teaching projects. Today we’re making mugs with quotes on them. The store is providing us with the mugs at cost so it’s only two bucks a mug. Or you could just hang out and learn the technique and then it’s free.”
    I stare at the group. Four women and two men, all somewhere near college age. What’s the worst—
    â€œHey, Abby, mind if I join you?”
    I apparently chose the most popular cafe in Merritt.