Amir is off on his own, down the sideline, taking pictures as everyone warms up for the game. He’s on one knee, back bent at an odd angle, neck craned. I wonder if the exaggerated pose is contrived, like he’s paying more attention to what he looks like than what the photo looks like.
Mrs. Naeem calls my name and waves me over. She doesn’t look a day over thirty, even though she has a twenty-year-old daughter. Unlike Rasha, she doesn’t wear a hijab, so her dark hair is loose around her shoulders.
“Hi, Mrs. Naeem.” I say.
“Beta, come here!” She gives me a hug. Then I shake Mr. Naeem’s hand and wave at Rasha, who cuts off conversation with my dad to come over and say hi.
“How’s college going?” I ask her.
“Slow. The start of the semester is boring. Too many people dropping and adding classes to get anything done. Total waste of time.” Rasha yawns. “God, it’s early.”
“It’s eleven thirty,” Mrs. Naeem says. “You’re not a teenager anymore—no more sleeping until two in the afternoon.”
“I take late classes,” Rasha says.
Mrs. Naeem tsks, and Rasha rolls her eyes.
Even though she’s in college, she still lives at home. She lived on campus in the dorms freshman year, but said she missed being around her family. Especially Sara. She wants to be there while her little sister grows up.
“Ariel’s always been a morning person,” Mom says. Actually, this is not true. I force myself to be a morning person. I can’t remember the last time I woke up without an alarm. Even this summer, I woke up early to study for the SATs. I’d already scored a 1560, but I wanted that perfect 1600.
And I got it.
“I’m jealous,” Mrs. Naeem responds.
“Don’t be. If they’re asleep, they can’t beg you to make them breakfast on the weekends.”
I nudge Mom’s shoulder and grin. “I’m very sorry you have to feed your child.”
She nudges back. “You’re seventeen. You can make your own breakfast when I want to sleep in on a Saturday.”
“But you do it so well,” I respond. Still, I feel a twinge of guilt. Mom works hard all week. I don’t like bothering her with homework woes, and I shouldn’t bother her to make me scrambled eggs, either.
“Come here,” she says. “You have some schmutz.”
Before I have a chance to get away, she licks her finger and rubs my cheek. “Mom.”
“Oh, hush, tatala.”
The ref blows his whistle, and we all turn toward the field. Rachel and Sara both play forward, center and right. The wind picks up, whistling through the trees, and clouds move in and dampen the sun.
My phone buzzes. Sook: Want to hang after Rachel’s game?
Maybe I could walk around Tinder Hill for an hour. I’m about to text back when my parents yell, “Go, go, go!”
My gaze snaps to the field. Rachel passes the ball to Sara, and they both sprint forward, eluding the other team’s defense. Adrenaline rushes through me. I feel transported onto the field, like I’m the one dribbling the ball and tearing past the players. I clench my fist and lean forward. “C’mon,” I murmur. “C’mon.”
Sara rushes the goal, strikes the ball, and—
“GOAL!” I shout as the ball sails cleanly into the net. Everyone erupts in cheers, and I pump my fist into the air.
But the adrenaline drains fast, as I remember my own days of playing are over. My place is on the sidelines now.
The remainder of the first half goes by in a blur. The other team is one of the best in the area, so they actually give our girls a challenge, keeping the game interesting. At halftime, we all turn to the food. I’m piling my plate high with chicken and fruit when Mrs. Naeem asks, “So, Ariel, how are college applications going? Where are you applying again?”
I scratch the back of my neck, my shoulders tense.
“Harvard,” Dad says, patting me on the back. “Smart kid. I’m sure he’ll get in.”
“I don’t know, Dad,” I say.
“That’s wonderful, Ariel!”
I force a smile and say thanks, but then quickly bow out of the conversation. I used to talk about applying to Harvard as if it were inevitable, the next logical step in my education. But classes have gotten more difficult. I’m barely scraping As, and now with that failed quiz…
Am I Harvard material? Or am I only good at signing up for the right classes? Pari is smarter. I’m just better at working the system. Soon that might not be enough. And the more people my parents tell about Harvard, the more people will know I’m a fraud when I don’t get in.
I stroll down the sideline until I’m a few dozen feet past the field and alone. I click open my phone and pull up the CalcU app, looking at practice problems I’ve already gone through multiple times. Last night, I was three pages deep into Google results searching for extra problems.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Damn it.
I used to like school. That burst of satisfaction when new material clicks. The competitive gratification of finishing a test first, knowing you got everything right. But there’s nothing to enjoy when a failing grade is staring you in the face. Maybe Ms. Hayes is right. Maybe I should get a tutor.
I’m about to turn on my Crime and Punishment audiobook when I hear someone walk up behind me. Spearmint and basil. Instinctively, I inhale.
I turn to find Amir. He’s wearing a T-shirt with the Ravenclaw house sigil on it. He would identify as Ravenclaw, the most pretentious of the Hogwarts houses.
“Hey,” I say. “Do my parents need something?”
“Uh, no.” He looks awkward. Amir Naeem actually looks awkward. “Sorry, I was coming to…hang out.”
Hang out? We don’t hang out.
“Never mind.” He shakes his head. “I’ll go over there.”
“It’s okay,” I say, surprising myself. “We can hang.”
“All right.” He rocks on his heels. “I hate the college talk.”
“Yeah, same. That’s why I left.”
Amir smiles. “Great minds think alike and all that. It’s incessant. If I have to hear one more overt hint that I should go to some liberal arts school—”
“Don’t you want to? Or wait, do you want to skip college and, like, move to Brooklyn and live in a loft?”
Amir raises his eyebrow. “Hmm.”
“Erm, sorry,” I say. “That sounded judgy, didn’t it?”
Amir laughs. “Little bit. But it’s okay.” He shrugs. “College isn’t for everyone, but I’m definitely going. I want to be a doctor, and I’m almost positive doctors have to go to medical school.”
“A doctor? Not a photographer?”
“Ariel, you sound like my parents.” My stomach flips when he says my name. A slight smile plays on his lips. “Photography is a hobby. I’m also passionate about medicine, but it’s not like I can carry around a scalpel and fix aortic dissections on frogs.”
“Well, I guess you could,” I say. “But it probably wouldn’t end well.”
I laugh, and so does Amir. His brown eyes are warm, and when they meet with mine, my stomach doesn’t just flip again, it does full-fledged Olympic-level gymnastics.
I look down for a moment, my skin hot. “So why a doctor?”
Amir hesitates. “I don’t want to say.”
“C’mon. What?”
“It’s going to sound silly. Cheesy.” He runs a hand through his dark hair. The silk strands glint in the sun.
“Try me.”
“Fine, okay.” He takes a breath. “I can go to school and learn how to save lives. I can get a degree in saving lives. How wild is that? Medicine is a miracle, and I want to be a part of it.”
I can feel it, the passion he has, the optimism. It radiates from him. For years, I’ve had one goal in mind. Get into Harvard. I’ve been focused on acceptance, no
t what I’ll actually study there. But for Amir, acceptance isn’t the end goal—it’s just a step toward something greater.
“I think it’s amazing,” I say. “Of course, it’s amazing.”
“Thanks,” Amir responds. He scratches his stubble. “Hey, can I show you a picture?”
“Uh, sure.”
He steps forward and turns so we’re standing side by side. We’re about the same height. He maybe has an inch on me. His broad shoulders brush against mine, and my cheeks heat as I wonder what he’d look like without his Ravenclaw shirt on.
I clear my throat and concentrate on his Nikon camera. “I think this is a nice shot of the girls,” Amir says, voice calm, unaffected by our closeness.
Sara is kicking the ball into the goal, and Rachel is rushing forward, screaming something, probably “applesauce,” which she thinks is hilarious because it always confuses the defense.
“Awesome photo,” I say. “You’re pretty good at this.”
“I know,” Amir says with a small smile. It’s not a brag, simply confidence. He’s sure of his talent. I know that feeling, like when I’m on a roll with classes, and all the assignments churn out one after another, and I know I’m earning As. It’s an assuredness, a certainty, I miss. “I can print a copy for your family if you want.”
“I’m sure Rachel would love that. A small one, though—her ego is big enough.”
Amir grins. “Noted.”
“It’s nice of you,” I say, “photographing all the games.”
“Happy to do it. They’re good memories to have. Our sisters are pretty awesome.”
A lot of my friends think it’s weird to be close to their siblings. They see them as annoying people who share their houses and nothing more. But I love Rachel, and it’s cool Amir gets that.
He glances past me, at the field. “The second half will start soon. Should we head back?”
I hadn’t realized that much time had passed. I’m pretty sure this is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with Amir. I always thought he had no interest in speaking to me, but maybe he thought I had no interest in speaking to him. He’s kind of nice to be around. I guess it’s not so bad he’s the one who graded my quiz.
The quiz he passed with flying colors.
Wait…
Amir is walking back when I call out, “Hey, could you, um, do me a favor?”
“Graduation photos?”
“Uh, no, not that.” I take a short breath. “You did really well on that math quiz.” He seems to be waiting for an actual question, so I blurt out, “Do you think you could tutor me in calc? I can pay you. Well, I can pay you when Hanukkah rolls around.”
“I don’t want your money.”
Oh. Good. I’ve embarrassed myself and still don’t have a tutor.
“Come over tomorrow night and we’ll study together.”
Oh. Oh. “Really?”
He nods. “It’s not a problem. C’mon, let’s go watch our kick-ass sisters.”
As we head back toward our families, relief floods through me. Maybe this will turn out okay. I glance at Amir, and he smiles at me, eyes shining in the light.
Maybe this will turn out more than okay.
Four
“Problems twenty-seven to forty-eight for homework,” Mr. Eller says as the bell rings. Everyone stands and gathers their books. Amir swings his backpack over his shoulder and nods at me. I give a half smile back. I’m not sure why he agreed to help me, but we’re studying together at his place tonight, and hopefully it’ll go well.
It has to go well.
Pari turns to me. “Coming?” she asks.
Isaac stands next to her, his arm draped around her shoulder. Their relationship has always been chaotic, more breakups and reunions than I can count, but they seem solid this year. All my “relationships” have started and ended during summer, quick flirtations before classes gear back up. I’ve never quite had the time to get comfortable with someone.
“Um, y’all go ahead.” I twist my pencil in my hands. “I have to send an email.”
“Okay!” Pari smiles. She leans into Isaac, and he pulls her closer. My heart lurches a bit. I could have that with someone, if I wanted it, if I prioritized it over my grades. But good grades will get me into a good school. And a good school will get me a good job. And a good job will get me a good life.
It does matter. It’s ridiculous to think otherwise.
I pull out my phone while the classroom clears, my leg shaking up and down. I click to the Harvard Admissions page, scrolling through staged photos of happy students and application requirements. I should prepare more for my interview. It’s not the most important part of the application, but still, I need to convince Hannah that Harvard and I are the perfect fit.
When the classroom is empty, I grab my backpack and walk to Mr. Eller’s desk, my pulse racing. He’s flipping through a folder of papers. “Where on earth did I put that…” he mumbles.
Seems like his life is as haphazard as his teaching. Mr. Eller always jumps from one point to another, never going straight through a problem. I wish my teacher from last year taught BC also. I wouldn’t call AB easy, but it was manageable with her as a teacher.
It’s amazing so many kids are doing well in this class. Though, maybe it’s only Amir, and everyone else is faking it along with me. Maybe Pari is bright and cheery because she’s playing my same game.
“Mr. Eller,” I say. “Do you have a moment?”
His eyes are unfocused when he glances up at me. “Mm-hmm, yes, what is it, Ariel?”
“AR-riel,” I correct, with the hard pirate arrr.
He lifts his hand. “All right.”
I grab a strap of my backpack and loop it around my hand again and again until the constriction turns the skin white. “I was wondering,” I say, releasing the strap, “if you would give me partial credit for correcting my quiz answers.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “No.” He leans forward. “If you get the problem wrong, you get it wrong and study harder next time.”
My throat tightens, as pressure builds behind my eyes. I take a breath, but it’s too shallow. He couldn’t care less about my grade, about me. I’ve spent more than three years asking teachers about extra credit and corrections. Sometimes they say yes, and sometimes they say no, but none have felt quite as dismissive as Mr. Eller.
If only he knew how much I need this.
If only he knew that one quiz threatens more than three years of relentless work.
I swallow hard and muster on. “What about extra credit? I could complete some extra practice problems or—”
“Ariel, no.” He says my name wrong again. The pressure keeps building behind my eyes. Don’t cry. It’s only a grade. But the thought just makes it worse.
“The grades you get are the grades you get. I’m simply trying to prepare you kids for the real world. There aren’t do-overs in life. You still have plenty of time to pull up your grade. If you need a tutor, I encourage you to check out the sign-up sheets in the guidance office.”
“Right, okay,” I manage to say. “Thanks.”
“Glad to help.”
He’s already bent back over his papers. I escape the classroom, rubbing my eyes before any tears can escape.
* * *
“Want some?” Sook asks.
She pulls lotion out of her purse. It’s one of those expensive kinds in an aluminum tube. We’re sitting on top of our desks in AP Lit, waiting for the bell to ring. Crime and Punishment is open in front of me, but I’m not actually reading it. I no longer feel tense. Instead, I’m drained, exhausted.
There’s no extra credit. Studying on my own didn’t work. If tutoring with Amir doesn’t help, I don’t know what I’ll do.
“Ariel?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say. She squeezes a drop onto my hands.
I rub them together and inhale. Lavender and the slightest scent of basil. My cheeks warm.
“You didn’t text me back yesterday,” she says, crossing her legs. She’s wearing a long off-white blouse and expensive tan leggings that look more suitable for dressage than school.
“I didn’t? Crap, sorry. What was it again?”
“I wanted to hang out with my best friend. I’m starting to forget what his face looks like.”
“Sook, we drive to school together every morning and have two classes together.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t count. And you’re on your phone like ninety-five percent of the drive. Come over tonight. I have something exciting to tell you!”
“You could tell me now.”
“Boo, no. The fluorescent lights will kill the joy of it. C’mon. We can watch the new Marvel movie and eat peanut butter fudge cupcakes.”
“Damn, that sounds nice.”
This past summer I upped my hours at the animal shelter and also helped out at the Jewish Community Center day camp, but all my free time was spent with Sook. We walked the trails in Tinder Hill Park, listening to music and smoking the occasional joint. We had a Great British Bake Off bake-a-thon, where for two weeks straight we binged the show and tried to copy their recipes. And we went to concerts all over Atlanta: a cover band of the Beatles at a tiny venue, an orchestra concert at the Atlanta Symphony, and a punk show at some dark, dingy basement that made me want a tetanus shot. But since school started, I’ve barely seen her outside of it.
“C’mon,” Sook says. “I have shrimp snacks.”
I inhale. “Really?”
She nods. “Really.”
Shrimp snacks are crunchy chips with delicious seasoning that taste like getting into Heaven. Sook gets them and more of her favorite Korean snacks whenever her parents drive to Buford Highway.
“I’m sorry. I can’t. I have plans already.”
Her eyes narrow. “Plans with who?”
“Uh, nothing. No one. An extra shift at the animal shelter.”
You Asked for Perfect Page 4
