Also by Laura Silverman
Girl Out of Water
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2019 by Laura Silverman
Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover art © Philip Pascuzzo
Internal design by Danielle McNaughton/Sourcebooks, Inc.
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Quotation on page 255 from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone copyright © 1999 by J. K. Rowling. Used by permission. Quotation on page 255 from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows copyright © 2007 by J. K. Rowling. Used by permission.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Silverman, Laura, author.
Title: You asked for perfect / Laura Silverman.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Fire, [2019] | Summary: Ariel Stone is the perfect college applicant until a failed Calculus quiz sends his grades into a tailspin that can only be halted by a handsome tutor, but adding a burgeoning romance to his other commitments may push Ariel past his limit.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018041050
Subjects: | CYAC: Academic achievement--Fiction. | Perfectionism (Personality trait)--Fiction. | Dating (Social customs)--Fiction. | Homosexuality--Fiction. | High schools--Fiction. | Schools--Fiction. | Jews--United States--Fiction. | Muslims--United States--Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S543 Yo 2019 | DDC [Fic]--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018041050
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Author’s Note
Recipe
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For Raya Siddiqi—
You brightened up my life.
Rest easy, sweet girl.
One
My feet pound the ground, and sweat drips down my face. With four miles down and one to go, I ease my pace to a comfortable jog and switch from my Crime and Punishment audiobook to The Who. All around me, the neighborhood yawns awake, people walking dogs and piling their kids into cars. The sun, which was creeping out of darkness when I left home, now lounges low in the sky.
Finally, I make it back to my driveway. Breathing hard, I massage a stitch in my side and check my phone to find I ran a minute faster than average. Nice. I crack my neck, then head into the house. Mom left early this morning. She’s a journalist for the Atlanta Standard and was muttering something about a two-faced politician as she rushed to get ready. And my sister is already at elementary school, so Dad and I are the only ones home.
I find him futzing around in the kitchen, already dressed for work in gray slacks and a lavender button-up. “Morning, Ariel!” He spins to face me. His hair, dark and curly like mine, probably should’ve been cut weeks ago. “Eggs? Oatmeal? Smoothie?”
“Smoothie would be awesome,” I say. “Shower. Be back down in a minute.”
“You can take five minutes if you want!” he shouts after me as I climb the stairs two at a time. In my bathroom, I strip then step into the shower. Icy water blasts me before it has a chance to warm, and my muscles protest the cold. “Crap, stretches,” I mutter.
I press both palms against the shower wall and stagger my legs, bending my right knee and extending my left calf. As the water warms up and cascades over me, I bow my head, taking a few long breaths and stilling for a moment. But then it’s time to switch legs, then time for my quads. I wash quickly after.
A few minutes later, I’m back in the kitchen, a bit uncomfortable in damp jeans and holding my Fleetwood Mac T-shirt so it doesn’t also get wet.
“New look for school?” Dad asks, sliding a berry smoothie across the counter. He’s drinking a kale one. Nasty.
“Yeah, all the cool kids are going shirtless these days.” I climb onto the stool at the breakfast bar. My calculus textbook is on the counter, notebook wedged between the pages. I open it with one hand while checking my phone with the other. Water from my damp hair drips down my neck as I read a message from Sook, my best friend.
Running five minutes late
I text back: No problem
And it isn’t a problem. She’s always late. I’d only be screwed if she got here on time. I copy a problem down in my notebook. Usually I do well in math, but there’s a long summer between Calculus AB and BC, so it’s hard remembering old material.
“Any plans for the weekend?” Dad asks.
I register the question in the back of my head as I stare at my notebook. “Um, usual, I guess.”
“We have synagogue tomorrow. And your sister’s soccer game is Sunday. Should we make signs since it’s the first game of the year? Embarrass her a bit?”
My pencil inches down the page. Crap. What’s the next step again? There’s a quiz today. I thought I had this down last night. I glance back at the book, while grabbing my graphing calculator. I already did—
“Ariel, signs? What do you think?”
“Huh?”
Dad stares at me like I came from an alien planet and not his own sperm. “You know,” he says, “I read an article that said too much studying is detrimental to learning.”
“I don’t study too much,” I reply. “Besides, you were the one up at midnight working last night.”
“Yes, but I’m an adult, and my brain is already developed. Can I at least help you out with anything?”
“I’m good, Dad.”
Workaholics shouldn’t try to convince other people to work less. Dad is a civil rights attorney, and he’s been known to disappear until three in the morning to work on a case.
If he can stay up late, so can I. Besides, it’s just sleep. It’s not like I’m ta
king pills to stay up like some kids at school. That stuff is dangerous.
“Drink your smoothie,” Dad says.
“I am.” I glance at the glass. It’s full.
Dad raises an eyebrow.
I take a sip as my phone buzzes. An email from my safety school. Seems like a mass email, but better safe than sorry. I save it to my college applications folder, then tap my calendar to stare at the only date that really matters. November 1, less than two months from now, when my Harvard application is due.
My phone buzzes again.
Sook: I’m here
I slap my textbook closed and shove everything into my bag. “See you tonight,” I tell Dad, sliding off the stool.
“Ariel, smoothie. Please?”
Crap. Forgot. My stomach growls. I pick up the cup, push the straw aside, and chug the whole thing. “Ugh.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Brain freeze.”
I’m heading out the front door when Dad’s voice calls out again. “Ariel. Shirt!”
I glance down at my bare chest. Oops.
* * *
“Coffee?” Sook asks, passing me a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts.
“You are”—I crack a giant yawn—“the best.”
“This is true.” She grins at me.
My best friend is beautiful, warm eyes and smooth skin. She’s chubby, her soft white shirt hugging her stomach, and her nails are coated in pink polish. She flips her hair over her shoulder and puts the car into drive.
I groan in comfort as I sink down into her leather bucket seats. Sook’s car costs more than the ones my parents drive combined, and I’m not complaining. She drives me to school every morning since there aren’t enough parking spots for all the students. I open CalcU, an app with practice problems and tutorials. My eyes run over the formulas.
“Test today?” Sook asks.
“Nah, calc quiz,” I say. “What about you?”
“I don’t think so?” She shrugs. “I left my planner at school, so I might be forgetting something.”
Sook and I have been best friends since sixth grade, when we were placed on the same advanced math track. Back then, she went by her full Korean name, Eun-Sook.
We were “precocious little kids” according to my dad (“bratty little shits” if you ask Sook). We bonded over our mutual drive to be the smartest kids in the class, but these days Sook cares more about her band, Dizzy Daisies, than her grades.
“Oh my god,” Sook says, turning up the volume. “You’ve got to listen to this song.”
A gentle acoustic intro builds up to a harder, defiant sound as the drums enter. I nod along. “Pretty good.”
“Pretty good? Try incredible. The band is called Carousels, and their lead singer Clarissa is a genius. And also basically the hottest person. Like, absurdly hot. I want to be her, and I want to be with her.”
I laugh. “Good luck with that. Where does she live? How old is she?”
“She’s a freshman at the University of Georgia, so only a couple of hours away. Hey, you never know.” She turns up the volume more. “God, her voice is everything.”
“It is,” I agree. Clarissa’s voice is grit and fluidity all at once. I glance back at the CalcU app and pick a walk-through problem.
“Maybe we could road-trip to Athens, go see one of her shows,” Sook says.
I narrow my eyes. But wait, why would the equation…
“What do you think?” Sook asks.
“Yeah,” I say, eyes on my phone. “Maybe.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, I’m walking into class.
“Morning, Ariel,” Pari says, as I slide into my seat in the back row. She spins in her desk to talk to me, eyes bright. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing leggings and an orchestra T-shirt.
Pari Shah is my sworn enemy. Okay, not really. We’re actually friends. But for years we’ve been competing for both first chair violin and the valedictorian spot. I won the chair, and it looks like I’ll also be valedictorian.
At Etta Fields High School, becoming valedictorian is more complicated than perfect grades. We have weighted GPAs, so we earn extra points for AP courses, a 5.0 instead of a 4.0 for an A. The path to the top depends not only on the grades but also on signing up for the right classes.
I edged out ahead of Pari last year when I discovered I could sign up for online AP computer science. It was a monster of a class, but because my high school counts online course grades into our GPAs, it gave me the extra weight to outstrip Pari. I didn’t tell her about the class until the registration deadline passed. Vicious. But I’m sure she would’ve done the same. We both knew one of us would have to win eventually. I’m not going to apologize for being the one to come out on top.
“How’s it going?” she asks.
I nod. “Pretty good. You?”
“Good! Well, mostly. I forgot about the quiz until this morning.” She laughs. “I guess I have senioritis after all.”
“Hah, yeah,” I say. “It gets to all of us.”
But I eye her with skepticism. There’s this thing some AP kids do. We act like we don’t care, like those perfect grades appear without effort. We pretend to study only in the five minutes before class, and we shrug our shoulders when teachers hand back tests with As scrawled across the top.
But we also make sure to keep those tests flipped up on our desks, so everyone can see how smart we are and just how naturally it comes.
In a way, it started in truth. I used to get good grades with minimal effort. And I bought into the hype, thought I was awesome. But then the AP classes stacked up. And as the work pressed down on me, I saw through my own bullshit. No one just gets As in all their classes. It’s a lie we were telling each other and ourselves.
Pari sneezes, a tiny sneeze. It’s kind of cute. I’ve always thought she was attractive: petite with warm brown skin and quick with a sly comment. But even though I’m attracted to guys and girls, I could never date Pari. She’s too similar to me. Too competitive. Too calculating. And I have zero interest in dating myself.
“Gesundheit,” I say.
She smiles. “Thanks.”
The bell rings. Our teacher Mr. Eller enters the room. Amir Naeem walks in right behind him. Our eyes connect for a second as he heads to the back row and slides into the desk next to mine. I was surprised he picked this spot on the first day of class, but it is the closest to the window.
I’ve known Amir forever. Our little sisters are best friends, so I’ve spent countless family dinners and holidays with him, but we’ve never clicked. When our families are together, he sits in silence, scrolling on his phone. And he carries his camera everywhere, like the world will end if he doesn’t capture a shot of a scavenging bird in the courtyard. Also he only dates older guys. He probably thinks the ones in our grade aren’t cool enough for him.
It’s just hard to relate to someone who works so hard to be unrelatable.
My gaze flicks over his fitted jeans and plain white V-neck before focusing on my desk. It hasn’t escaped my notice that his once-gawky body has filled out with lean muscles.
I shake my head as the second bell rings. “Okay, everyone!” Mr. Eller calls for our attention. “Phones and books away. Hope you studied!”
Quizzes pass down the aisles. One lands on my desk. “Twenty minutes,” Mr. Eller says.
I scan the page. Only ten problems. My shoulders tense. When it comes to keeping a perfect GPA, less isn’t more. Ten problems mean I can only get one wrong if I want an A.
I want an A.
My pencil wavers above the paper. I take a tight breath and glance around the room. Heads are bent, hands writing.
It’s only a quiz…
How much are quizzes worth in this class? I close my eyes and try to visualize the syllabus. Ten percent? Fifteen? I can’t remember. Someone co
ughs in the front of the room.
Okay, I studied. It’s fine.
I start working on the first problem, hesitating a bit at each step, double-checking every number. I’m forgetting something. Am I forgetting something? I rub my eyes. I should’ve slept more.
Pari leans back in her chair. My heart skips a beat. For a moment, I think she’s already finished, but she’s just stretching.
My pulse thuds in my ears. Light yet piercing like the Mozart piece we’re playing in orchestra. All around me, everyone scribbles on the page. Pari stretches again. In the seat next to her, her boyfriend, Isaac, flexes the stress ball he always has out during tests. Amir yawns and scratches his dark stubble.
I can do this. I have to do this.
I crack my knuckles. I crack my neck.
Then I bring my pencil back to the page and pick up the pace. With each answer, I gain confidence. It was beginning-of-semester nerves, nothing more. I’ve got this. I’ve always got this.
I finish the quiz with time to spare, then lean back and exhale. My right hand shakes lightly. I breathe again. Relax. Less than a year to go. Almost there.
Mr. Eller calls, “Time. Pencils down.” I go to pass up my paper, but he turns on an ancient projector. “Switch quizzes with the person next to you.”
Next to me. The two girls on my right switch papers, which means I’m left with Amir. Of course I am.
“Ariel?” My name is smooth between his lips. The proper pronunciation with the hard Ar. Not like The Little Mermaid.
My foot shakes as we switch papers. I look down at his quiz. He uses a pen in math class. The confidence irritates me.
Mr. Eller slides the transparency sheet onto the projector. But the answers don’t look familiar. Is it the wrong slide?
Wait, no. I stare at Amir’s quiz. Every answer matches his neat handwriting.
His answers are right. But I don’t recognize most of the numbers. My pen slips in my damp hand. If his answers are right, and my answers don’t match his…
Amir looks up at me with an unreadable expression. Oh.
“Trade papers back when you’re ready,” Mr. Eller says. “We’ll go over any questions you have so you’re prepared for the test next week.”
You Asked for Perfect Page 1
