We Are the Perfect Girl

by Ariel Kaplan

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Ariel Kaplan

  Cover photograph copyright © 2019 by Christine Blackburne

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 9780525647102 (trade) — ISBN 9780525647119 (lib. bdg.) — ebook ISBN 9780525647126

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Acknowledgments

  For Paul,

  for twenty-five years.

  If there is a word in Greek,

  I do not know it.

  Thankfully, we have emojis.

  My heart always timidly hides itself behind my mind. I set out to bring down stars from the sky; then, for fear of ridicule, I stop and pick little flowers of eloquence.

  —EDMOND ROSTAND, CYRANO DE BERGERAC

  Sometimes, when I’m lying in my bed at night, staring up at the darkened ceiling, I think that the greatest problem in the English-speaking world is that we don’t understand love.

  It’s a lack of vocabulary, that’s what I’ve decided. We have one word: love. And we expect it to mean everything, only it’s clunky and imprecise and leads to misunderstandings and anger and frustration and tears.

  The ancient Greeks, I think, had a better system: multiple love words, a love word for every possible occasion. If you love your friend, you’ve got philia. If you love your mom, you’ve got storge. If you love the sexy, sexy guy who sits across from you in biology, you have eros. And if you feel some great, cosmic, unconditional love for God or the Universe or your Fellow Man, you have agape.

  There are others, actually, but those are the mains. So while in English we may have beautiful sentiments like “Love is love,” clearly eros is not storge, unless you are Oedipus, and then you have a problem. Anyway, the specificity of the Greek system has always appealed to me.

  I guess philia is probably my favorite. I don’t exactly understand agape, and eros is not something I ever expect to experience myself. But philia is love for the masses. Everyone has a friend. At least, I hope they do.

  My greatest source of philia is Bethany Newman, who has been my best friend since we were eight. I have other friends, of course, but Bethany is special because she looks at me and sees me exactly as I am. I really philia her for that.

  I was philia-ing her a little less this morning, though, when I woke up to find her sitting on my kneecaps. She was smiling at me with a smile that was too wide to look at first thing upon waking. It was more like a midafternoon smile. An “I’ve already had two cups of coffee” smile.

  “Ow,” I said.

  “The pool opens today,” she replied. She bounced a little. “Did you forget?”

  I kind of had, being asleep and all. Our town had splurged and installed a heating system in one of our outdoor pools, which meant it opened on the first of May instead of over Memorial Day like the rest of the pools in the area. I remembered that we’d talked about going last night, but I didn’t remember agreeing to wake up at the crack of dawn for it.

  “My knees don’t bend that way,” I said, shoving her off. “Why are you waking me up to tell me about the pool?”

  “We were supposed to go shopping!” she said. “Half an hour ago! It’s 11:30.”

  “It is not,” I said, but it did seem kind of bright out. I’d set my alarm for ten. Hadn’t I? I was pretty sure I had. I felt around on the bedside table for my glasses and then for my phone. “Where’s my phone?”

  “I have no idea. Come on, Aphra, get up.”

  I sat up slowly. It wasn’t regular shopping Bethany wanted to do; it was bathing suit shopping, which is the worst kind of shopping. Bright lights. Spandex. Those hygienic liners that don’t make me feel any better about trying on a suit fifty other people have already tried on, even with underwear.

  I had agreed to go, though, because Bethany came to me last week with a Plan, and Bethany so seldom has Plans that I felt like I had to go along with it.

  The Plan was agreed upon the night of junior prom. Bethany and I went together with a bunch of other girls, and while we were there, we saw Greg D’Agostino with a bunch of his friends from the swim team. He was in a tux, and he looked, possibly, even hotter than usual.

  Bethany really wanted to ask him to dance and spent nearly the whole night trying to work up the nerve. Around 10:30, she decided to walk by him during a slow song and hope he’d take the hint.

  Except by then, he’d already left.

  So now we had a plan to throw Bethany’s bikini-clad body in front of Greg D’Agostino until he magically notices her, falls in love (technically, in eros, but Bethany doesn’t appreciate the Greek system like I do), and then…I’m not really sure what happens after that. I guess maybe he’ll ask her out? And then they’ll go out. And then Bethany will, with any luck, be able to speak more than four words to him.

  This seems a little unlikely to me, but I haven’t said anything because I’m sure Bethany already knows that.

  I pried myself out of bed, jammed my contacts into my eyes—I swear, this is not vanity, glasses just annoy me—put on some clothes, and went off in search of my phone, which was in the hands of my little brother, who was using it to play Minecraft. Walnut the cat was curled up on his lap whi
le Kit used him as a furry lap desk.

  “Why are you on my phone?” I asked, pointing at the laptop he’d abandoned on the coffee table.

  Without looking up, he said, “I hit my time limit.”

  There are parental controls on the family computer that cut Kit off after an hour so he doesn’t rot his little brain. “So do something else,” I said. “How did you get my phone?”

  “It was by your bed.”

  “You can’t just steal it while I’m sleeping!”

  “You weren’t using it.”

  “Did my alarm go off?”

  “Oh.” He looked up. “I didn’t know what that was. I turned it off.” He switched off his game and handed the phone to me, looking contrite, because Bethany and I row on the crew team and he knows that we usually have regattas on Saturday mornings. “Sorry. Did I make you late for your boat race?”

  “I’m not mad,” I said, patting his head. Kit is only nine, and I think he has the softest hair in the whole world, like the down on a baby duck. Someday he probably won’t want me to pat his head anymore, so I’m getting my Kit-hair fix now, while I still can. Plus, he’s the only sibling I have that I’m on speaking terms with, and I’m not willing to let a hijacked cell phone get in the way of that. “We didn’t race today,” I said. “Where’s Mom and Dad?”

  “Dad’s at the store. Mom’s asleep.”

  Both of my parents are professors at George Mason: Mom teaches English, Dad teaches medieval history, and Mom has an evening class on Fridays and likes to sleep in on Saturday mornings. This was a little late, though, even for her.

  “You should wake her up,” I said. “I’m leaving with Bethany.”

  “Can I go with you?”

  “You’ll be super bored,” I said. “We’re going shopping.”

  “For candy?” he asked hopefully.

  “Could we do candy?” I asked Bethany. “That actually does sound better.”

  “No candy,” Bethany said. “Suits.” She leaned down and we gave him the Kit Kiss, which we’ve been doing since he was a baby, where I kiss one cheek and Bethany kisses the other. Probably someday he won’t let us do that anymore, either. “We’re going to the pool later, if you want to come.”

  “Can I play on your phone there?”

  “No,” I said. “But you can swim.”

  He made a face.

  “I’ll buy you a Fudgsicle,” I said.

  He made another face.

  “I’ll let you eat half my cookie-wich, too,” I offered.

  “If you let me eat the whole thing, I promise not to steal your phone again.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

  “You’re mean.”

  I ruffled his hair again, saying, “The meanest.”

  * * *

  —

  Half an hour later, we were ensconced in a dressing room in the Wet Seal at the mall.

  I stood holding an armful of Bethany’s discarded bathing suits while she stuffed herself into a one-piece with these weird spiderweb cutouts in the middle.

  “That’s going to give you the worst tan lines ever,” I said.

  She looked in the mirror. Bethany has, like, actual abs, but even she could not make this work. “This is hideous,” she said. “Who designed this?”

  “It’s like the Charlotte’s Web model,” I said. “Only it should give you tan lines that say Terrific! Or Radiant!”

  “Or Some Pig,” she said, and we both cackled. The woman in the stall next to us made a hrmph noise.

  “Shhh,” I said. “There is no laughing while swimsuit shopping. This is very serious business.”

  “Serious,” she said, dropping her voice.

  “The fate of the world may be at stake,” I said. “I mean, really. That suit could kill someone.”

  “The person wearing it, or the person looking at it?”

  “Possibly both,” I said. She was already peeling the straps over her shoulders, because we’ve been friends so long that nudity is no longer a thing between us. I handed her the next one, which was a blue bikini with hibiscus flowers on it. She put it on and turned to look in the mirror. “I like this one,” she said. “The top’s really supportive.” She gave an experimental wiggle and nothing fell out.

  “Looks good to me,” I said.

  “Here, they have one in red,” she said, taking a suit with white polka dots out of the pile. “You should try it. It’s on clearance and everything.”

  “Oh,” I said. “No.”

  “You always wear red.”

  This is true….I always buy a red bathing suit. A red one-piece bathing suit. I like a utilitarian approach to swimwear, which means not having to put sunscreen on locations I would prefer not to be seen touching in public.

  Unfortunately, they did not have any red one-pieces at the Wet Seal that day. Bethany thrust the bikini at me. “It’s your color,” she said. “And it’s only twelve bucks.”

  “Fine,” I said. I put it on and then stepped out to look in the three-way mirror. There was a salesgirl out there putting discarded suits on hangers; the hrmphing woman seemed to have exited the premises to find a more serious bathing suit store. I stood in front of the mirror and held out my arms to either side for Bethany’s inspection.

  “Oh,” she said.

  I poked myself in the rear. The leg holes were so tight and cut so high I looked a little like a segmented insect. “I appear to have grown a second butt,” I said. “I don’t think it’s a good look for me.”

  “You need a bigger bottom,” the salesgirl said. “But the top’s fine. I mean, that side’s fine.” She pointed at my left boob.

  I glanced down. Yeah. So the thing is, one of my boobs is a cup size bigger than the other. I’ve been informed—numerous times!—that this is very common. Very common. Also: annoying. I have discovered that if I tighten the straps on the left side of my bra, it is mostly not noticeable when I have clothes on. But in a bikini? I am exquisitely lopsided. My left boob looked great. My right looked…kind of sad.

  “I can give you a cookie,” the salesgirl said.

  “I love cookies,” I said. “I’m not sure that would help, though. Unless you can make all the fat from the cookie metabolize into my right boob.”

  She laughed. “No, I mean, it’s a little insert that goes in the bottom of the cup and makes your smaller side a little bigger. It’ll just even you out.”

  “Won’t that be noticeable?”

  “Nah, it’s silicone,” she said. “They look super natural.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s see the fake boob.”

  “It’s not a fake boob,” Bethany whispered as the salesgirl ducked out. “It’s a cookie.”

  “That is not a real distinction,” I said.

  The salesgirl reappeared with a little moon-shaped piece of beige silicone, which she directed me to put in the bottom of the bikini cup, plus a bigger-sized bottom.

  “Wow,” Bethany said. “Look at your rack!”

  I looked in the mirror. I had to admit, my torso had never looked this good. There was still an awful lot of my butt on display, though.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Get it,” she said. “Get it, get it, and we can go to the pool later.”

  I poked the cookie through my bikini top. “Is this really going to stay put?” I asked. “Like, even if I go swimming?”

  “It will,” the salesgirl said. “Promise.”

  I thought, Do you work on commission? But I didn’t say it, because it seemed kind of rude, and also because I couldn’t imagine what commission she’d get for selling a twelve-dollar suit. Instead, I just stared at myself in the three-way mirror, turning right and then left, mostly checking out my chest, which did look amazing. I tried to ignore the ot
her parts of me that looked less good. Of which there were several.

  I have never, myself, sat down and cataloged my many imperfections, but if you are a girl-person and you live in the world, people feel compelled to let you know this stuff. So I am aware that, in addition to the lopsided boobs, my shoulders are too wide (rowing crew has not helped with this) and my eyes are too small; I have a weak chin, no cheekbones, stumpy legs, and, oh yes, a big bump on the bridge of my nose, which itself is not particularly small.

  Most days, none of this bothers me. I know that’s a radical position, to be a homely girl who does not secretly dream of a makeover, but I truly don’t. Of course, part of that is because I can do all the extreme makeovers on earth, but nothing will fundamentally change what I look like. I will look like me, but with extra makeup. Me, but a tiny bit thinner. Me, but with a new haircut.

  On the whole, this is not something I mind, because knowing this gives me license not to obsess about it too much. If it’s not a thing I can change, then there’s no point in worrying about it, and it’s not like my self-worth is tied to whether random guys want to hook up with me.

  I’m actually a very secure and happy person, and I know this because I tell it to my therapist every Monday for fifty minutes.

  I pushed my hair behind my ears and checked out my reflection. It was a radical act, to be the homely girl in the red bikini. It was a giant middle finger to men and the world and my fellow swimmers at the Hidden Oaks community pool.

  In my ear, Bethany said, “Get it.”

  So I bought the bikini. And then I went to the pool with Bethany.

  * * *