“My name starts with the first letter in the alphabet and yours is the last one.”
His smile falters.
“Well, we each have two consonants and two vowels. And if Abby is short for Abigail, then even our full names have the same number of letters. Seven each.”
I’d dispute whether y is really a vowel but I can’t remember the rule, and I have a bad feeling that not only will he know the rule, but it will be in his favor.
I turn to our last names. Nope. Martin and Berman, same number.
“Yup, six letters,” Zeke quips and winks. It’s the wink that drives me to desperation.
“I’m Jewish,” I blurt out, as though I’m exposing a deep, dark secret, like I have seven toes on one foot.
Based on the sly smile that extends across his face, I can’t believe that I thought I might have won. So before I can answer, I pull out the only thing I can say with certainty we don’t have in common. Though with my luck . . .
“Well, you’re a boy and I’m a girl.”
His eyebrows rise, and I know I’ve lost. Because that was ridiculous, even for me.
I pull in a deep breath. By now he’s probably no longer interested, I can back off of the crazy-lady act. “I’m sorry. I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot.”
“Was it the comment about the Cu—”
“Don’t say it. If we can stay away from the team that shall not be mentioned, we should be able to make it through the summer.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” He smiles. “I’d hate to have made a mortal enemy on my first day.”
I need to relax before I become known as the freak who despises the Cubs instead of the freak whose family adores the Cubs. I just want a summer without baseball. How hard can that be?
“How about we try this again?” I say, holding out my hand this time. A winner has been declared in the room, with fifteen similarities between two random students. But I don’t care and neither does Zeke, it seems. I can be friendly with him because there are a hundred other students in this program. We don’t need to be best friends; we don’t even need to see each other on a regular basis. “I’m Abby Berman. I’m from Chicago, and I’ll be doing the intensive French language program here this summer.”
Zeke’s mouth widens, like a lovely dance between a smile and a laugh. Does he think it’s funny that I’d elect to study French—
“Zeke Martin, from San Diego.” His hand grasps mine and there’s something gentle in the way he holds it. “And I’ll be doing the intensive French language program here this summer.”
I let out a chuckle. “No, this is when you’re supposed to tell me what you’re taking. I’m doing Intensive Intermediate French. It counts for both of my classes.”
His grin doesn’t falter and suddenly the impossible seems like . . . No. What would someone who looks like him care about French?
“Me too. So I guess we’ll be practicing our French together.” And then, in a move that couldn’t possibly be more clearly designed to make me want to hit him, he gives me an exaggerated wink.
Merde.
Kill me now.
TWO
WHEN I GET BACK TO my room, there’s a thin girl sitting in the far corner of the other bed, scrunched up into a tiny space. With only her bedside light on and the curtains drawn, it’s almost as though she’s sitting in a spotlight, her long hair slipping down her arms and chest, her bangs blending into her thick black glasses.
She doesn’t look up when I enter; her hand is furiously writing in what appears to be a black Moleskine notebook. She’s using a fountain pen.
I think I’m in love.
“Sec,” she whispers, more to herself than me.
I’ve found my spirit animal.
I know this moment for her like it’s mine. I know the feeling of being so deeply invested in something that the idea of forcing yourself out feels like a tooth extraction. Like the tight grip of a book you don’t want to put down. So I don’t say a word. I slip onto my dark bed even though I’d only come in to grab some money to go find something to eat. I sit on my bed and wait.
It takes almost four minutes until she’s done. Four minutes that allow me to quietly place my pile of French novels on the top