You Asked for Perfect

by Laura Silverman

  Without looking at him, I shove Amir’s paper in his direction, then hold my hand there, waiting for mine. When I get my quiz back, I can’t help but look at the score. Only five out of ten correct. That math I can do. Fifty percent.

  I failed.

  I am failing calculus.

  Dunkin’ Donuts coffee swirls like acid in my stomach.

  I can feel Amir looking at me. But if I look back, this grade becomes real. And it can’t be real because I can’t fail calculus. I can’t even get a C in calculus because I’ll lose the valedictorian spot. And worse, if Harvard defers my decision and puts my application in the regular admission pool, they’ll see my fall semester transcript. They’ll see a bad grade, my dropped GPA, and they’ll reject me.

  The bell rings. Everyone stands and collects their things.

  “How’d you do?” Pari asks, turning toward me.

  I swallow hard. If she finds out I failed, she’ll know she has a chance again at valedictorian. She’ll bear down, steal my spot. I’ve got to keep this quiet.

  “Yeah, how’d you do?” Isaac asks. He’s wearing his football jersey for the game tonight. His white skin is tanned from summer practice.

  Amir sits at his desk, messing around on his phone, but I can feel him listening. “I did well,” I lie. “Only missed one. Wasn’t paying much attention. You guys?”

  Isaac shrugs. “Nice. Missed two, but I guess I’ll take it.”

  “One hundred percent,” Pari says.

  “Of course.” Isaac rolls his eyes. “Perfect Pari.”

  She lightly punches him in the arm. “Shut up.”

  Isaac winks at her, then turns back to me. “Coming, Ariel?”

  “You guys go ahead,” I say.

  They both leave, and then it’s only Amir and me.

  He gathers his things and heads down the aisle. I shuffle behind him, keeping his pace with a few feet of distance. I wait until he turns out of the classroom before dropping off my quiz. Then I speed walk out to the hall in case Mr. Eller sees my grade and asks me to stay after class.

  In the hallway, heart pounding, I look left and right, before spotting a glimpse of his medium-brown skin. Amir turns the corner, and I chase after him. I’ve got to ask him to keep this to himself, but if I do it in public, that kind of defeats the purpose. When I’m only steps behind him, I whisper-shout, “Amir!”

  He turns, and I point to an empty classroom. “In here,” I say. He raises an eyebrow, and the word “please” escapes my mouth.

  No one seems to notice as we slip into the room. I shut the door behind us. For a moment, I’m overwhelmed by his scent. Spearmint and basil. I take a short breath, pulse jumping.

  “Ariel?” he asks. “Why are we in an empty classroom?”

  “That’s a very good question,” I say.

  With the lights off and blinds closed, I’m grateful it’s too dim to read his expression. I’m not sure which would hurt more, a look of annoyance or amusement. Not that I care what he thinks of me.

  “Ariel?”

  “I failed the quiz,” I blurt out.

  “I know.” He shifts. “Is that it?”

  “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “Why would I tell anyone?”

  “I don’t know.” I tug at my pockets. “So you won’t? Say anything?”

  “No.” The warning bell rings. “I’m going to go now…that okay?”

  I clear my throat. “Yeah. Fine. I mean, sure. Thanks.”

  Since when do I get tongue-tied around anyone? I guess since when I fail quizzes. I step to the side, and Amir moves past me and opens the door.

  Then he’s gone.

  I close the door again just so I can bang my head against it.

  Two

  “Ariel, do we have an appointment?”

  Ms. Hayes, my guidance counselor, looks up from her desk. I’m standing in the doorway of her office, one backpack strap looped over my shoulder. Guidance is busy since it’s still the start of the semester, but I don’t have the luxury of making an appointment during a lunch period because I don’t have a lunch period because I had to make room for an extra AP course. Hopefully Ms. Hayes can squeeze me in before my next class starts.

  “Um, no,” I say. “Do you have time?”

  Her desk is a mess of papers. And there are not one, not two, but three coffee cups in front of her.

  “Time, time…” she mutters, clicking her mouse and scanning her computer. “I have exactly five minutes until my next appointment. What’s going on?”

  Great. Five minutes. That’s plenty of time to discuss my entire academic future. I like Ms. Hayes, but she has something like three hundred students assigned to her, so I’ve been trying to steal spare seconds of her time since freshman year.

  “Um.” I stand by the chair at her desk, hands gripping the back, as pressure mounts behind my eyes.

  Why do I feel like I’m in trouble?

  Ms. Hayes picks up her phone and begins typing. Crap. I’m losing her. I need to talk, now. “I failed a math quiz this morning.”

  Ms. Hayes looks surprised. My stomach constricts. “I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?” She nods to the chairs in front of her. “Go on, sit.”

  One chair has a towering stack of folders and pamphlets on it, the other a filing box. I move the box to the ground and sit.

  “I studied,” I say. She peers at me, silent. “I mean, I guess I could’ve studied more. And my dad kept distracting me this morning. But I thought I had the material down. I mean, it’ll be okay, right? It’s only one quiz.”

  “Well, it is only one quiz,” Ms. Hayes says. “We can’t worry ourselves silly over every little grade.”

  I breathe out, relaxing a bit.

  “But,” she continues, “assuming you still want to be valedictorian, it does mean more for you than others. And when a student is taking almost all AP classes, colleges want to make sure they haven’t bitten off too much. So, we definitely want to get you back on the right track.” She smiles at me. A smile. At a time like this. “Now who teaches AB?”

  “It’s BC. Mr. Eller.”

  “Right, of course. Let me see if I can pull up his syllabus.” She unwraps a granola bar and bites into it. Then, chewing while clicking around the computer, she says, “Here we go. Okay, quizzes are weighted quite heavily. Twenty-five percent of the grade. Let me check…” She clicks a few more times. “Looks like you have five quizzes this semester, at five percent each, so as you can see… What exactly did you score?”

  “Fifty percent,” I mutter.

  Her silence is punishing. She taps on her phone. “Fifty percent on five percent of your grade, so that’s two point five percentage points gone. That’s not catastrophic by any standard.”

  I swallow. “It’s not?”

  “Not at all. You’re still at 97.5 percent. Though the quiz affects your margin of error going forward, which could be challenging as the difficulty of the class increases.” She puts down her phone and looks up at me. “Math is an uphill battle.”

  I pick at the fabric of the seat. “So what do I do?”

  Ms. Hayes glances at the clock. “My appointment is running late.” She gives a soft smile. “Good news for you. Give me a second. We’ll come up with a plan.”

  I wouldn’t be this close to the finish line without Ms. Hayes. Over the years, even in our truncated time together, she put me on the right track, signed me up for the classes I need. She advised me how to audit courses like orchestra so they don’t bring down my GPA, how to skip lunch and sign up for zero period classes and take PE online so I could squeeze in extra weighted credits like AP Latin and AP European History.

  But I was supposed to be done with all that. I did all the planning, all the maneuvering. The only task left is easy: Get straight As.

  And yet I’ve al
ready messed that up.

  “All right.” Ms. Hayes rubs her hands together. “First off, have you spoken to Mr. Eller?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, I’m sure you know the drill. Ask if you can come in and correct your wrong answers for partial credit. And ask if there’s any extra credit work. A few points would make up the grade.”

  “Right,” I say, leaning back. A plan. Some of the tension eases from my muscles. “I should’ve thought of that. Thank you.”

  “Second, remember this isn’t an excuse to throw all your focus into math and slip up in your other classes. We don’t want this creating a domino effect.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I nod and start typing notes into my phone. This is good. I can come back from this.

  “Third, it looks like there’s a test next Friday, and since studying independently isn’t doing the trick, you should get a tutor.”

  I pause and glance up. “Um…what?”

  She sighs. “What is it with kids at this school? Sometimes even the smartest student needs a tutor. That means you.”

  I shift in my seat. If I get a tutor at school, people will know I’m struggling. Pari has let her guard down. If it stays that way, maybe I could still secure valedictorian with a B in calculus.

  “Ariel, what is it?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Look, there are lots of options. You can get a tutor outside of school if you prefer.”

  There’s a knock on the door. A small girl with blond hair stands there. “I’ll grab you from the waiting room in a minute, Becca,” Ms. Hayes says. The girl nods and leaves. “That’s my next appointment. Are you okay for now? You have the steps: go to Mr. Eller, don’t forget your other classes, and get a tutor. That’s all doable, right?”

  “Yup, all doable,” I say, my throat tight.

  “Excellent.” Ms. Hayes smiles. “Make me proud.”

  * * *

  A familiar cacophony erupts around me as I open the double doors to the orchestra room. Sliding seats and rockstops squeak across the floor. Lockers slam, metronomes tock, and bows whistle across strings. And over it all, shouts and laughter as people discuss their upcoming weekends.

  I spin the combination on my locker and take out my violin case. Every day I bring my violin to and from school so I can practice at home. Last night it sat by the front door because I was too busy with other work. My reading for Spanish Lit is getting ridiculous. It turns out, reading a book in a foreign language takes a long time.

  I’ll have to catch up on practice this weekend. Orchestra should be my easiest class. I’m auditing it, so there’s not even a grade. But first chair means all ears are on me, no room for error.

  I slip out my phone and check my email. One notification from a safety school and one from Harvard. My heart jumps. I open the email and scan it. Remember to schedule your alumni interview by…

  I’ve already scheduled mine. One month from now I’m meeting with Hannah Shultz, CEO of AquaShroom, a hydroponic mushroom company with a fervent user base. I can’t help but wonder if the majority of her customers grow a mushroom she can’t advertise on her website. I’ve already prepared study flashcards about Hannah, her company, Harvard history, and my own biography because you can’t know your best self too well for any Ivy League interview.

  I save the email anyway. I can always confirm with Hannah. Doesn’t hurt to be safe.

  Pari is at our seats. Is there any way she found out about my grade? No, I’m being paranoid. It’s Pari, my friend. Not a secret student spy.

  She’s running through warm-up scales with diligence. She has tennis practice right after school, so she already changed into a tennis skirt and racer back. I used to rush to soccer practice after the final bell, but I had to leave the team last year. Practice took up too much time, and it’s not like being on JV is an impressive enough addition to my college application.

  Now, I run on my own. I enjoy it, and occasionally, I’ll enter a 10k in attempt to still look like a well-rounded student.

  “Hey.” I slide into my seat.

  “Hey!” Pari responds. “Looking forward to the weekend? Doing anything fun?”

  “Think it’ll be low-key,” I say. “My sister has a soccer game. Gotta cheer her on.”

  Pari grins. “Y’all are cute. Makes me want an older brother.”

  “What about you?” I ask. “What are you up to?”

  I start tuning my violin, pulling the bow across the string and adjusting the metal screws. I like this part of class. The jumble of notes. Hands warming up. The violin comfortable in my grip.

  “Isaac and I are driving up to Nashville tomorrow morning. Gonna check out a museum, go to a concert, and of course, eat delicious barbecue. Don’t tell my mother.”

  I laugh. “Wouldn’t dare.” Pari is Muslim, and both of our moms would have a fit if they knew we sometimes indulged in the rare pork product. It’s not like either of our families keep strict kosher or halal, but pig is definitely a no-go for them.

  “Why Nashville?” I ask.

  “Isaac is applying to Vanderbilt, so we figured we’d make a trip of it. I told myself I was actually going to have fun this year. Foreign concept, right?” Too right. “Can’t believe our parents said yes. I mean, we’re staying with Isaac’s aunt up there, but still. I guess they’re gearing up to take off our training wheels, you know?”

  “Yep,” I say.

  I’m relieved to hear she’ll be busy this weekend. Maybe she really is easing back on schoolwork.

  The main double doors whoosh open. Dr. Whitmore strides in, and we all straighten in our seats. She looks like a conductor. Black slacks. White blouse. Hair swept up into an orderly bun. She clears her throat and takes the podium. The room drops into taut silence.

  I’m pretty sure she hates us, and the feeling is mutual. She doesn’t care about anything except making sure we come first in state every year, and she gets away with her harsh methods because the school loves the prestige of those awards.

  Last week, a cellist forgot his sheet music. Dr. Whitmore lectured him for five minutes, ironically chiding him for wasting everyone’s time. She didn’t stop until she brought him to tears. It’s why most of us have multiple copies of our sheet music, extras tucked away in our lockers and cars.

  But being prepared isn’t enough. We have to be perfect. She doesn’t care if our blistered fingers burst and bleed—if she isn’t happy with a movement, a meter, or even a note, she’ll keep at us, often making us play past the bell, with the one word that terrifies us all: “Again.”

  A lot of students quit. Tapping out freshman year. Giving in to a concerned parent sophomore year. Saying screw it, this isn’t worth it junior year. But many others remain. Because the truth is, we also want the prestige. First in state looks damn good on a college application. We’re masochists, and Dr. Whitmore knows it.

  Pari pulls out the Mozart sheet music. Her nails are coated in chipped orange polish. But then Dr. Whitmore says, “I’ve prepared something new for us.”

  She’s met with silence. Usually, we get our sheet music over the summer. The runs are so difficult we need plenty of time to practice for fall competition.

  “I’ve decided the Mozart, while darling, isn’t difficult enough to truly showcase our talents, so we’ll be learning Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade. It requires a full orchestra, so some members of the band will be joining our rehearsals later in the semester. Violin section, you’re up first. Line up outside my office for the music.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. When the hell am I supposed to make time to learn a new piece? God, I hope there’s not a difficult solo.

  I stand and follow the section to Dr. Whitmore’s office. Masochists.

  “Can you believe she’s changing the music?” Pari whispers to me. “No one has time for this. Why does every teacher think thei
r class is the most important? I swear I’d drop orchestra if I didn’t love playing violin so much. Though, she’s doing good work to change that.”

  Yes, she should drop orchestra. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about a better player sitting next to me.

  “Yeah, this is rough,” I say.

  I step up to the desk. Dr. Whitmore focuses in on me. She holds the sheet music just out of my grasp. “Ariel, there is quite a complex solo here.” Damn it. “I know you’re more than capable of playing up to the challenge. And if you’re not, well…”

  She lets the sentence hang, then passes the music to me. “Go over the solo now. Third movement,” she says. “We’ll spend the rest of class doing a run-through.”

  I walk back to my seat in a daze, staring at the pages. The notes swim before my eyes, but when I get to the solo, they stand in daunting clarity. This is some next-level shit. Doesn’t she know we’re a high school orchestra and not the Atlanta Symphony?

  Pari glances at me as she sits down. “Did you hear she’s going to make us run through this today?” I ask.

  She sighs. “Yeah, this is going to be hell. I am not jealous of that solo. Good luck, buddy.”

  I give her a forced smile, then turn back to studying the notes. Ten minutes later, everyone settles back into their seats, pencils scratching on the sheet music, fingers running down the necks of instruments. I’m trying to understand the convoluted start of the solo, but even the first few measures refuse to make sense.

  Dr. Whitmore takes the stand. “I’m not a monster,” she says. Cue a hundred pairs of rolling eyes. “But we are going to run through the piece today. This is a wonderful opportunity for sight-reading practice. We struggled through that portion of the competition last year, and I know we can do better. I don’t expect it to be perfect.” She gives a sickeningly sweet smile that says otherwise. “And we’ll take it at a slow tempo. If we get lost, we’ll stop and go again. All right, everyone?”

  Like we could say no.

  The baton lifts. We set our instruments. The baton drops.

  The room bursts with sound. Lyrical yet jagged. Light, high notes. Lilting melodies ending in harsh full stops. The piece is full, beautiful even with our fumbling. My fingers scramble down my violin. At least we’re a mess together. Dr. Whitmore jerks the baton up and down roughly, like she can corral us into playing better if she whips it through the air with enough force. I’m counting the time I have left until my solo begins. A few pages. Then lines.