You Asked for Perfect

by Laura Silverman

  Amir leans back and scratches his jaw.

  “So, to class, I guess,” I say.

  “Yep. To class.”

  I bite my lip. Amir’s gaze moves to it. He shakes his head with a slight grin. “I’ll see you later, Ariel.”

  Yes, he will.

  * * *

  “Saul, come see this,” Mom says. “I think our son is possessed.”

  I roll my eyes. “Really?”

  The microwave beeps, and I take out the now defrosted ground beef. A pot of water boils on the stove, waiting for pasta, and there’s chopped onion and broccoli on the counter.

  “You’re cooking,” she says.

  Dad appears in the doorway. “He’s cooking, Miriam.”

  Mom looks at him. “Is this a fever dream?”

  “I cook sometimes,” I say. Though I’m not exactly sure what to do with the ground beef now. Do I put it in the pan? Or am I supposed to put oil down first?

  Mom laughs. “I’ll take that.” She grabs the ground beef from me. “Come watch.”

  As I observe, Dad finishes the rest of the chopping and pulls out another pan for the vegetables. He puts in a splash of olive oil and minced garlic, and soon the kitchen smells delicious. “What’s gotten into you?” Dad asks. “Good day?”

  Excellent day. I passed my test.

  I passed my test, and Amir…

  Heat rises to my cheeks. I clear my throat. “Yeah, pretty good. I’m going into the city tonight for that Dizzy Daisies podcast taping. And I had free time after school, so I thought I’d cook, and we could have an early Shabbat dinner first.”

  Free time. The concept is so foreign that when I got home this afternoon, I stared at the TV for ten minutes—without actually turning it on. I stared at the blank screen and tried to compute what one actually does with their time when they don’t have piles of homework.

  Today, I aced my calculus test, took my Crime and Punishment essay test, and turned in a paper for AP Spanish Lit. It’s a Friday afternoon, and since Rosh Hashanah services are on Monday and Tuesday, four days with zero school stretch before me. I have to practice the Scheherazade solo, and I have work for some other classes, but four days is more than enough time to get it all done.

  So I stared at the TV until my stomach grumbled, and I realized: Oh, people cook in their free time!

  My parents have been cooking for me for almost eighteen years. It’d be nice to return the favor. “Bow ties or penne?” I ask, grabbing pasta from the cabinet.

  “Hmm…” Mom says.

  “Bow ties!” Rachel shouts, skipping into the kitchen and then racing around the counter.

  “Easy there!” Mom says. “You have too much energy. I can’t believe they got rid of fifth-grade recess at that school of yours. C’mon.” She passes Rachel a spatula. “Help me season the meat.”

  Twenty minutes later, dinner is ready, and the prayers have been said, and we’re all settled around the table, digging into steaming plates of pasta and meat sauce.

  “Mmm,” Rachel says. “Who seasoned this? It’s delicious.”

  We all laugh.

  “Thank you for dinner, Ariel,” Dad says.

  “I had some help.”

  “But it’s the thought that counts.” Dad takes a bite of garlic bread. “Mmm, and you’re the one who thought to defrost this bread, so the thought counts for a lot.”

  “Watch this!” Rachel tosses a piece high in the air and catches it in her mouth. She smiles while chewing.

  “Nice.” I grin, leaning back as Mom starts us off on bloopers and highlights.

  I’m so ready for high school to be over, but next year, I won’t be here for weekly Shabbat dinner. I’ll likely only have a few breaks a year. I’m ready to graduate, but as I look around the table and listen to my family talk about their week, I can’t help but wish moving away didn’t mean moving away from them.

  Eight

  “How large is your audience?” Sook asks. She trails around the recording studio and inspects the equipment, a journal and pen in hand.

  “Depends on the week,” Rasha answers, fiddling with the microphone, screwing it left then right. I’ve never seen Rasha nervous. Maybe it has something to do with that girl Lois, one of the podcast’s executive producers, not-at-all-subtly watching us from her office. This is the first episode Rasha is producing alone, and it looks like someone isn’t ready to give up control. “There we go!” Her voice brightens as the microphone clicks into place.

  “Do you need any help?” Malka offers. We’re sitting on an extra table pressed against the back wall of the room. Malka mentioned Rasha invited her to observe a recording earlier this week, so this is her second time here.

  “Yeah, need help?” I ask.

  “I’m good. Thank you, though!” Rasha is wearing nice jeans and a blazer. She looks like a producer. “We’ll be ready soon. Sook, I’m not sure of our exact audience size, but we have the most downloads of any campus podcast. And we’re in the top hundred for the Atlanta area.”

  Sook draws her pen down the page. “And you’ll link to our social media pages in the show notes, right? Oh! And does your Twitter post when a new episode is up? Will you tag the handle for our band? Crap, I need to update our page.” She scribbles something down. “And how much of an increase in web traffic do your guests experience?”

  Rasha gives us an is-she-for-real look, and I shake my head and grin. Sook, oblivious, flips a page in her notebook and keeps writing. “I’m really not in charge of that stuff,” Rasha answers. “I can put you in touch with someone on the business side if you want.”

  Sook already has out her phone. “Fantastic. What’s their number?”

  I bite back a laugh. Malka snorts.

  “Okay,” Rasha says. “We’re all set up! Sook, I’ll get you that information afterward. Ariel, if it’s all right with you, I’d love to interview Malka and Sook first, and then we’ll bring you in at the end.”

  “You don’t have to,” I say. “We haven’t even had a practice together yet.”

  “We’ll only do a few minutes,” Rasha replies. “That okay?”

  I shrug. “Sure.” I guess it’ll make my “music career” searchable if I decide to write about Dizzy Daisies for my essay.

  The girls settle around the circular table with the microphone in the middle. I ease back, leaning on my hands. Rasha counts them down and begins, welcoming everyone to the show. Her recording voice is slightly different, richer, and she takes time with pronunciation, giving space to each syllable.

  She eases in with basic questions. When the band started—seventh grade. Where they practice—Sook’s basement. What instruments they play—Malka guitar and Sook vocals, keys, drums, and whatever synthesized sounds they want.

  But as the questions become more complex, I notice Sook tense up. She spins a gold ring on her index finger and takes long pauses before answering, like each word has to be perfect.

  Malka keeps the flow better. Her conversation with Rasha sounds natural, like they’re hanging out. They go back and forth for a few minutes about what brought Malka to the band in the first place. And then Rasha asks, “Malka, did you think about leaving the band when you graduated from high school?”

  “No,” Malka answers. “The commute can be tough, but I love Sook. She’s talented and knows what she wants. Sook is going places, and at least for now, I want to tag along.”

  Sook blinks, like it takes a second to comprehend the compliment. It seems to unwind some of that tension she’s holding. She leans over and kisses Malka on the cheek, then says, “Malka forgot to mention she’s also incredibly talented. I’m lucky she stayed with me, and I feel confident we can go far together. If we dedicate ourselves and keep at it, we’ll make it.”

  The conversation relaxes again, as they tell a story of their first gig, which was a total nightm
are and somehow involved a clown. Laughing, I glance up at the window, expecting to find Lois glaring at us, but instead, my eyes lock with Amir. He smiles and gives a little wave.

  I mouth hi, then feel ridiculous.

  Amir’s gaze switches to the girls. It seems like he’s listening to them record. Maybe there’s a speaker outside this room. I wonder what he’s doing here. Visiting his sister?

  Rasha calls to get my attention, “Ariel, come join us.” I jolt, then clear my throat and stand, suddenly nervous. I walk over and join them at the table.

  “Ariel is also a high school senior,” she says into the mic. “He’s joining this duo to play violin for some of their songs. Ariel, what drew you to Dizzy Daisies?”

  My mind goes blank. I don’t know the answer. I’m not prepared. But then I feel a hand on mine, and I meet Sook’s gaze. It’s warm and familiar and seems to say: You’ve got this.

  I breathe out. “Um, I’m really good friends with Sook and Malka, and they needed a violinist, so it was a perfect fit. And I’m really, um, passionate about music.”

  “Who are some of your influences?” Rasha asks.

  I shift in my seat. “I grew up listening to classic rock and jam bands, and I guess that’s still my favorite sound.” I pause, thinking of all the music I appreciate. “But some of the orchestral pieces I play are great also. I guess a lot of instrumental stuff, which works well because Sook is a great composer.” She beams at me as I continue. “It’s like she has five instruments going in her head at once. It’s kind of awesome.”

  The rest of the segment flies by. Rasha wraps, and then we’re all standing and shaking hands with each other. Rasha waves in Amir.

  “Great job,” he says.

  Sook twists her hands together. “So it sounded okay?”

  “It sounded fantastic!”

  “Hey, little brother,” Rasha says, which is funny since he has almost six inches on her.

  They hug, and then Amir steps back to stand beside her. “It’ll be a great episode. Some of the people on here are so boring, it’s painful.”

  “Wow,” Rasha says sarcastically. “Thanks for the vote of confidence in the show.”

  “It’s a vote of confidence in you,” he responds. “I know you didn’t produce any of those segments.”

  “You know what would be an interesting episode? Talking about your photography!”

  Amir’s smile falters, but he shifts and says, “Speaking of photography, I’m heading to a showing near campus, at Elaine’s, if anyone would like to join me.”

  “Hmm, what do y’all think?” Sook asks.

  “Well,” Rasha says, “I don’t drink, but these places tend to have free wine and no hesitation to serve minors.”

  “Free wine? Oh, we’re definitely in,” Malka says.

  “You interested, Ariel?” Amir asks. He reaches up to scratch his neck, and his shirt rises, revealing a bit of his stomach. Brown skin and a dusting of fine hairs.

  I swallow hard. “Sure. I’m in.”

  * * *

  “It’s weird to drink wine without praying first,” I murmur to Malka. We’re standing in front of a giant photograph on canvas. It’s a simple picture, a field with a glimpse of a small hand and a girl’s dress on the side, just out of the camera’s focus. It gives me this strange urge to run after her and see what she’s chasing out of frame.

  Malka laughs. “Yeah, getting drunk the first time on something other than Manischewitz was also weird, but don’t worry”—she pats my arm—“you’ll adjust.”

  We’re a couple miles from campus at Elaine’s. I understand why Amir loves this place. The rooms are minimal but warm, the crowd is quiet but friendly, and acoustic guitar plays from hidden speakers. The song playing now sounds like a stripped-down version of “Blackbird” by the Beatles.

  All five of us carpooled here from the studio. If you’d asked me a month ago who I’d be hanging out with on a Friday night and what I’d be doing with them, this would not have been my answer. I wonder if this is what college is like, going with the flow, always saying yes because who really cares about that waiting pile of homework. It’s remarkable, the possibility in even one free Friday.

  Amir is working his way around the room, shaking hands and talking with people. He’s comfortable here, assured. People seem to gravitate toward him.

  I try not to focus on each guy who shakes his hand or claps him on the back. I wonder if Jacob the twenty-two-year-old photographer is around.

  “You’re staring again,” Malka whispers.

  “Hmm?” I go to take a sip of my wine, but the little cup is empty. “Want some more? I need to, um, cleanse my palate before the next photo.”

  “I don’t think that’s a thing,” Malka says.

  “It’s definitely not.”

  We grab more wine anyway and then move onto the next photo. And the next after that. After a bit, Malka says to take my time. There’s a little pocket park next to the gallery, and she’s going to hang there with Rasha and Sook.

  I trail around the room on my own, enjoying wine that doesn’t taste like grape juice and art that isn’t asking anything of me. There’s a spotlight section, a single wall for a new artist. Her work complements the rest of the gallery well. I settle in front of a photo of a night sky. A silhouette blurs at the bottom of the frame, perhaps someone dancing under the stars. “This is one of my favorites,” a familiar voice says.

  Spearmint and basil.

  I glance at Amir. He’s standing close to me, staring at the photo. “It’s nice,” I say. “It makes me feel content.”

  “At ease. Too many photos are dark, depressing. As if only serious subjects make good art. I think it’s harder to make someone happy than make them sad.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “I guess that’s true.”

  “C’mon.” His hand brushes against my arm. “I want to show you a few more.”

  I’m glad the girls are gone. Everything about this moment feels too indulgent to share. We wander around the gallery together. My skin tingles. I want to take his hand.

  He’s wearing a cardigan over a T-shirt. He pulls the combo off well—he looks hot. But I narrow my eyes at his Hufflepuff shirt.

  “I thought you were a Ravenclaw,” I say.

  “Observant.” He grins. “I’m a Ravenpuff, so I wear both.”

  I shake my head. “I love Harry Potter, but I haven’t put that much thought into my house.”

  “Hmm, I’d say you’re a Gryffinclaw.”

  “I’ll get my two shirts.” I sip the last of my wine. “How often do you come to these shows?”

  We’re now standing in a dark corner of the exhibit. A single light shines on a photo of a moth hovering above a lantern. Our shoulders are close, touching in the most imperceptible way. I swear he leans toward me. I swallow, not wanting to move and break the moment. “Not as much as I’d like,” he says. “But at least a couple of times a month.”

  “Do you go alone or with a friend or a…boyfriend?” I almost cough out the last word.

  “No boyfriend. I usually go alone and run into friends.” He glances at me, smiling. “But I’m enjoying the company tonight.”

  * * *

  The scent of the food arrives before the plates. My mouth waters. The Thai restaurant is small and dark. We’re all squeezed into a booth in the back. A few tea lights illuminate the lacquered black table. I’m in the far corner with Amir next to me. Rasha and Malka are across from us, and Sook sits at the head of the table. Rasha told us she comes here at least once a week.

  Our waitress sets the dishes on the table. Piles of noodles with spiced beef and sliced peppers. Rice with egg and scallions and shredded tofu. I put my face over my plate and inhale the scented steam. It is literally mouthwatering. The perfect second dinner.

  Amir picks up his fork. He ordered the
ginger chicken in a light brown sauce with skinny sautéed onions. “Ariel,” he says. “Stop checking out my food.”

  I laugh. “I can’t help it.” But I pick up my fork and turn to my own plate.

  Rasha grins at me from across the table. “Get ready for the rest of the food in your life to disappoint you forever.”

  I take a bite. Damn, that’s good. I’ve never had Thai like this. Spicy and sweet with a hint of acid from the lime. The noodles are cooked perfectly, and the beef is soft and seasoned.

  “Hello, please bury me in this restaurant because I’m never leaving,” I say.

  “I’ll be buried in the plot next to you,” Amir agrees.

  Our table lapses into satiated silence as everyone dives into their dishes. It reminds me of that five-minute window when we have guests over for Shabbat dinner. We’re a family of talkers, but when Mom’s matzo ball soup descends upon us, no one has time for conversation.

  We all finish, one after another. I lean back in the booth, staring at my demolished plate. Amir reclines next to me, our shoulders pushed together. The booth is small. They have to be touching. Okay, I might be leaning into him a little bit.

  “I really wanted leftovers.” His plate is as empty as mine. “I might be driving back tomorrow for more.”

  “Smart. Take me with you,” I say.

  “Okay.” He smiles, and my skin flushes. I know he’s joking, but still…Amir and I going out to a restaurant alone? A cozy, dim, intimate restaurant?

  Something brushes my hand. I look down. Amir’s fingers sweep over mine. I glance at everyone around us, but no one can see under the low table. Our fingers intertwine, grip, lock. I stare at the table, trying to keep a neutral face, as his hand squeezes mine.

  God, I want to kiss him.

  We slip back into the group conversation. But all the laughter and chatter feel distant, filtered. All I can concentrate on is the heat of our clasped hands.

  Eventually, it gets late. The restaurant empties out. Our waitress gives us the I want to finish my shift sigh. “I’ll go get the car,” Amir offers since it’s parked about eight blocks away.