You Asked for Perfect

by Laura Silverman

  My fingers sweat, almost slipping on the metal strings.

  Only measures left. Ten. Five. My bow slips, but my thumb repositions its grip in time to keep it from falling.

  Two measures.

  My heart pounds.

  The room goes quiet and—

  My first note is out of tune. My eyes blur as I try to focus on the page. Dr. Whitmore’s stare pierces me. I’m supposed to meet her gaze while playing, acknowledge her and her baton, but there’s no chance of that with music this new. My fingers fumble like I’m last chair. They squeak out notes one by one, off tempo and out of tune.

  It’s all I can do to play and breathe.

  And then, with a final flat note, it’s over, and the entire orchestra raises their instruments to burst back into play. I muster the courage to meet Dr. Whitmore’s eyes.

  Disdain.

  The movement is supposed to continue. But she drops her baton. We put down our instruments.

  Silence.

  Dr. Whitmore stares right at me. It takes every ounce of nerve not to bolt from the room.

  “Well, that won’t do,” she says, her voice hard. “Ariel, again.”

  I swallow, throat thick, eyes stinging. She just handed out the music. What does she expect?

  She lifts the baton. We set our instruments. I play it again.

  * * *

  “Kids, dinner! Wash your hands!” Dad calls from downstairs.

  I peel my face off my pillow and blink. I must have crashed when I got home from school. “Ariel? You okay?”

  I clear my throat, then sit up, a little light-headed. My sister, Rachel, stands in my doorway. She’s in fifth grade, but skipped kindergarten. Her teachers wanted her to skip three grades, but my parents said no way. Her hair, dark and curly like the rest of us, is past her shoulders, and she’s wearing her favorite tie-dye dress.

  “Yeah, I’m good.” I rub my face. “Long week. I was resting my eyes.”

  “Um, yeah, you were definitely snoring. Can we play Scrabble after dinner?”

  “Sure.” I smile, but there’s a knot in my stomach. Dr. Whitmore said I need to perfect the Scheherazade solo in two weeks or else.

  Literally, she said or else.

  I wash up in my bathroom, then check the notes on my phone, scanning through all the work I need to get done this weekend. The never-ending reading for Spanish lit. My homework for AP Physics. Of course, calculus. I have to get an A on the upcoming test, so I need to dedicate every spare minute to studying for it. The violin solo will have to wait until next week, even with Dr. Whitmore’s or else.

  “Kids!” Dad calls.

  “Coming!” I respond.

  There’s a strict no-phones-at-Shabbat dinner policy, so I drop mine on my bed and follow Rachel downstairs. Mom and Dad are in the kitchen, finishing making dinner. Mom pulls a golden-brown challah from the oven, the delicious smell of fresh baked bread wafting through the kitchen. Dad tosses the salad and adds a flourish of crushed almonds. A roasted chicken sits on the counter.

  “Smells amazing, guys,” I say. “Need help with anything?”

  “Want to grab some dressings?” Dad asks.

  “Sure thing.” I walk to the fridge and grab everyone’s favorites.

  “No soup?” Rachel whines.

  “Sorry, mamaleh, didn’t have time,” Mom says. Some Friday nights we have matzo ball soup with dinner because my parents are superhuman, working hard all week and still providing home-cooked meals.

  Mom is wearing her pencil skirt from work, but with a worn AC/DC T-shirt. She heads to the table with the Kiddush cup and a bottle of Manischewitz, a sweet kosher wine that basically tastes like grape juice.

  Then she grabs two lace kippahs and passes one to Rachel. They walk over to the sink, where we keep the Shabbat candles on the ledge in front of the window so the world can see them from outside. They light the candles and wave their hands in circles in front of their eyes three times before saying the prayer: “Baruch atah adonai eloheinu melech haolam asher kideshanu bemitzvotav vetzivanu lehadlik ner shel Shabbat.”

  “Amen,” Dad and I say.

  We all sit, and Dad blesses the wine. We pass the cup around, all drinking some, even Rachel. A lot of Jewish kids are allowed to have a sip of wine on Shabbat from, like, infancy. And in our family, when we turn fifteen, we’re allowed to properly drink for Passover, which means four cups of wine over a four-hour seder. I only got through two and half cups last year before I fell out of my chair laughing and called it quits.

  “Ariel, want to do the challah?” Mom asks.

  “Sure.” I place my hand over the braided bread, then lead our final prayer. It’s always comforting saying the familiar Hebrew words together. It lightens me in a way that’s hard to explain.

  After the prayer, I tear off a giant chunk of bread, then break off bits and throw it around the table so everyone has some.

  “So,” Mom says, passing the salad bowl my way. “How was everyone’s week? Bloopers and highlights.”

  We’re all so busy during the week—Mom chasing a story, Dad researching cases, Rachel with all her extracurricular activities—that Shabbat is usually the first time we can all sit down together. So Mom likes us to catch up by sharing the best parts, and most epic fails, of our weeks.

  Rachel tosses a cherry tomato in the air and catches it with her mouth, then grins wide at all of us. “Well!” she says, because she always wants to go first and none of us mind. “I picked my pirate for High Seas week and guess who I get to be? Guess, guess! Okay, I’ll tell you. I get to be Ching Shih!”

  We all exchange baffled looks. “Who?” I ask.

  “Ching Shih,” Rachel says, exasperated. “The most feared pirate of all time! She was a prostitute in the 1800s, then married a famous pirate, and when he died, she took over and became super-scary and was in charge of, like, everyone.”

  “Prostitute pirate,” Mom says. “That sounds appropriate.”

  “She’s awesome. You’ll see. We’re doing a whole week of activities. And I’m doing my own two-hour presentation.”

  “Two hours?” Mom asks.

  “With games and stuff! Like a treasure hunt. It’s going to be so cool. Our teacher said it’s the best part of every year.”

  “I’m glad you’re excited.” Dad spears a cucumber. “What about your blooper?”

  “Umm…” Rachel bounces her legs and stares at the ceiling like she might find an answer there. “I maybe left the cage door open for the class rabbit, and he maybe ended up in the schoolyard trying to burrow under the fence to the road?”

  “Rachel, really?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah, and you maybe have to sign a note from my teacher saying we talked about personal accountability.”

  Mom sighs, then smiles and kisses Rachel on the forehead. “Always an adventure with you. Saul, you want to go next?”

  Dad tells us about a triumph with an ageism case and then about the coffee he spilled on some important papers, and then Mom tells us about snagging an interview with the new mayor and about getting a ticket for parking on the wrong side of the street. “I swear, they switch it every other week,” Mom says. “Who can keep up?”

  “Maybe you should have a personal accountability lesson,” Rachel says with a smirk.

  Mom eyes Rachel, and we all laugh.

  “Okay, Ariel,” Mom prompts. “Blooper and highlight.”

  I hesitate. “I almost walked out the door without a shirt on this morning,” I say. “Dad saved me.”

  Rachel laughs, and so does Dad, but Mom looks concerned. “Maybe you need to slow down in the mornings,” she says.

  “I’m good, Mom. Really.”

  “You could go to bed earlier. Or go on a shorter run.”

  I shift in my chair. “I thought it was funny. You were supposed to laugh. It
was funny, Dad, right?”

  He glances between the two of us. “Yeah, I’m a smart man. I’m not getting in the middle of this.”

  Mom rolls her eyes. “Honestly, Saul. You’re so weak.”

  “This is true, Miriam,” he agrees. “All right, Ariel. Highlight?”

  Wow. So many to choose from. I can talk about the calc quiz I failed or the orchestra solo I bombed. I tear my challah into small pieces. The rest of my family doesn’t have real failures. They have blunders, gaffes. I’m the only one messing up important things.

  “Ariel?” Mom asks.

  I swallow. “Uh, I ran a minute faster than my average this morning.”

  “Nice.” Dad air-high-fives me.

  “Proud of you, boychik,” Mom says.

  “Thanks.”

  I rip my challah again and again until it crumbles.

  Three

  “Barchu et adonai hamvorah,” Rabbi Solomon leads.

  “Barchu et adonai hamvorah leiolam va-edh,” the congregation echoes.

  I mumble the response prayer while reading Crime and Punishment off my Kindle, which is tucked inside my prayer book and angled away from my parents. I need to devote as much time to calculus as possible without ignoring my other classes, so I’m getting creative.

  Mom and Dad are on my left. They’re a matched pair, both wearing classic tallit with dark-blue stripes and the identical reading glasses they purchased in a multipack at Costco. Rachel is on my right, paying close attention, reading along with every prayer. She goes to Hebrew School three times a week now and is only a few years away from her bat mitzvah. Before I know it, she’ll be in high school, sitting in Ms. Hayes’s office.

  Mom notices my Kindle. She nudges me and gives the look. “Pay attention, Ariel.”

  We’re not the most religious Jews on the kibbutz, but we go to services every Saturday. My parents are machers in the community. Everyone knows and loves them. Sometimes I enjoy services, but when I’m behind on homework, every minute stretches by like an hour.

  After reading from the Torah, Rabbi Solomon takes the bema and gives her sermon. There are 613 mitzvot in the Torah, and 74 of those good deeds are in this week’s portion. It’s a parsha of ethical battlegrounds, about making the right decisions even in the most difficult times.

  Rabbi Solomon engages me enough I don’t pick up my phone or Kindle for twenty minutes straight. Eventually, though, we switch to Hebrew prayer, and despite the ethical ramifications of reading during services, I dive back into Crime and Punishment.

  * * *

  After services, we convene in the social hall for kiddush. Congregants swirl around Mom, noshing on bagels and lox as they schmooze. Mom has this ability to make eye contact with everyone at once. Dad says she’s the belle of every ball, even the ones she doesn’t attend. It’s why she’s a great journalist. She’s a talented writer, but she also connects with everyone. And if you’re friends with someone, they’ll come to you with their stories first.

  Dad is off in a corner, a raisin bagel in his mouth, not-so-discreetly working on his phone. Rachel is out of sight, probably running around Tinder Hill Park. The wooded trails back up to the synagogue, and after services, kids race around, playing hide-and-seek and tag. Jealousy seethes through me for a second.

  “Shabbat Shalom, Ariel.”

  I turn and find Malka Rothberg wearing her Saturday best. An olive wrap dress hugs her curves, though it goes past her knees and covers her arms. Her dark hair falls in waves against her face, a contrast to her light skin.

  We dated for about two seconds when I was a rising sophomore and she was a rising junior, but it was one of those relationships people have just so they can say they were in a relationship. We’re much better off as friends. She goes to college in Atlanta now.

  “Good Shabbos,” I say. “What’s up? How’s school?”

  “School is good…” She trails off. “Commuting back and forth for the band can be a pain, but it’s okay.” Malka plays guitar in Sook’s band, Dizzy Daisies, and drives back to our suburb all the time for practice.

  I nod. “Cool, cool.” I glance at the door. I need to leave soon. I have a volunteer shift at the animal shelter. Hopefully I’ll be able to get some studying done there.

  Malka narrows her eyes. “You okay?”

  “Yep.” I scratch the back of my head. My fingers meet the bobby pin holding my kippah in place. I slide both off and shove them in my pocket. “So are Sook and I going to lose you to the cool, glamorous life of college?”

  She laughs, awkwardly, and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “Yup. I’m too cool for you seventeen-year-olds.”

  “Dude, you turned eighteen a month ago.”

  “Dude, whatever.” She grins. “Hey! You should join us for practice sometime. Sook wrote a new song that would sound great with violin.”

  “I’ll think about it. No promises.”

  It would be nice to play violin for fun again, but I don’t have the time for that. My alarm goes off, phone buzzing in my pocket. “I’ve gotta go. Animal shelter. I’ll see you soon. Tell me some cool-kid college stories next time, okay?”

  She laughs awkwardly again. I give her a quick hug and head out.

  * * *

  “Ezekiel, come back!” I shout, chasing after the loose terrier. I didn’t knot his leash properly before bathing him, and now he’s running around the back of the shelter, a tiny ball of suds and fury. “Get him, Rachel!”

  “On it!” She scampers after him. She forgot a change of clothes, so she’s wearing one of my T-shirts over her Shabbos dress. It hangs down to her knees. Ezekiel stops at the window to bark at a squirrel. Rachel sneaks up behind him and pulls him to her chest with a gentle hug. He scrambles for a second, but then gives in and kisses her face. “Good boy.” She giggles.

  “Thank you, hero sister.” I help her settle Ezekiel back into the giant sink, then scrub him while he licks my hand.

  “Any time!”

  I’ve been volunteering at this animal shelter for two years. Volunteer work is a must for a good college application, and this place is an easy shtick. The manager, Marnie, has an overflowing roster of volunteers: animal rights activists, college students, and retirees. She doesn’t actually need me, so I keep spare clothes in the car and only come once a week after synagogue.

  It’s hard to watch the animals stuck in these cages, but at least when I’m here, I can let them out and run around with them. And they especially love it when I bring Rachel. “Watch this!” she shouts.

  She’s trained a mutt that’s definitely part standard poodle to jump up on its hind legs and beg for a treat. The dog is almost taller than her when it does so. “Badass,” I say.

  She bows. “Thank you. Now we can tell her future parents she’s well trained.”

  I grin. “Yeah, but is she housebroken?”

  Rachel shrugs and gives a mischievous smile before turning her attention back to the dog. An hour later, we’re done with the washing and the walks, and I tell Rachel, “I’ve got to study. You gonna play in the yard?”

  Rachel sighs. “I’ve got to study, too, big brother.”

  I raise my eyebrow. “Study for what?”

  “Geography,” she says. “We have a test on the capitals.”

  “Oh, that won’t be bad,” I say.

  “Capitals of all the countries.”

  “What?” We didn’t do that until ninth grade. Though I’d be no help to her now. It’s the kind of information you forget a week after you learn it.

  “It’s multiple choice,” Rachel says, which is better, I guess. “Can Ezekiel study with me?”

  “Sure.”

  Rachel grabs Ezekiel from his kennel, and we head to the front of the shelter. I sit at the desk, and Rachel sits on the entryway couch, dwarfed by the backpack next to her. It’s a slow Saturday,
so we’re the only ones here at the moment. Ezekiel curls up on the floor near Rachel’s feet. She’s bent over an open folder, studying while munching on a bag of Cheetos.

  I take out my notebook, my calc textbook, and a bag of Sour Patch Kids. I chew on the sour candy while copying down the first problem. My pencil carves deep grooves in the paper, like if I write the numbers hard enough, the formulas will stick in my brain. Then I flip to the front of the chapter to study the steps. My shoulders hunch over the page. A stress headache blooms in my forehead. It takes far too long to do one problem, but finally I have it. A wave of relief sweeps over me. I flip to the back of the book to confirm my answer is right.

  It’s not.

  Crap.

  * * *

  It’s too warm for soccer season. The bright sun beats down on me as I climb out of my car. The Grateful Dead plays through my phone speakers. A light breeze ruffles the air but doesn’t offset the humid heat.

  My family is already at the field. They came early to set up the tent and food because the parents in this area like to tailgate elementary school soccer games like it’s college football. I peer down on the scene from the top of the hill.

  The fields back up to the same trails as my synagogue, all of Tinder Hill Park. I’d love to spend the day watching Rachel’s game, then walking the trails with Sook, but I brought my own car so I could come late and peace out early to study. The final hours of the weekend are ticking down, and I’m nowhere near ready for this test next Friday.

  I glance at my phone. 11:27. Only twelve hours left in the day, fifteen if I make it a late night.

  I head down the hill toward my parents, who are congregated with Amir’s family. We sit together every game. Rasha, Amir’s older sister, laughs loudly at some joke my dad must have cracked. She’s wearing a black blouse and a lavender hijab. Her parents are next to her, digging into the food with my mom, piling plates high with pasta salad, cold chicken tikka, and cut-up fruit.