You Asked for Perfect

by Laura Silverman

Without a second thought, I say, “I’ll go with you.”

  Only Malka gives us a suspicious look. Sook and Rasha say thanks and go back to their conversation.

  A minute later, I’m alone with Amir. We walk down the lamp-lit sidewalks. I miss his hand already, but it feels too real to hold it out here. Amir has gone quiet again. A contemplative quiet, but I’m bursting with adrenaline, with the need to make something happen. I keep glancing at his lips.

  “I had fun tonight,” I finally say. “Much better than studying at home.”

  “Good, I’m glad.” Amir looks at me. His eyes are warmer than ever in the lamplight. I search them for a moment, wondering if he feels what I do.

  Curiosity fuels courage. “Maybe we could do it again. By ourselves. If you know of other shows…”

  “I’d like that.”

  We slip back into silence, but the air crackles between us. When we get to the car, Amir follows me around to the passenger side. He stands in front of me, hands tucked into his pockets. My back almost touches the car. I try to take a calming breath but inhale spearmint and basil.

  “Ariel?” Amir asks. His gaze is sincere and resolute. “Can I kiss you?”

  My throat catches, voice coming out rough. “Yeah, you can kiss me.”

  Our lips meet, and it’s soft and sweet with a flicker of need. Amir tugs my jacket, bringing me closer to him. Our chests press together lightly, and my pulse jumps.

  It’s the gentlest kiss in the world. Determined in its leisure, like we can stay here against his car for an eternity. His lips brush against mine and then wander to my cheek and jaw, featherlight. My hands instinctively reach for his hair. It’s full and soft, and Amir makes a little noise when I run my fingers through it.

  Eventually, his mouth returns to my lips, one final kiss. Then he leans his forehead against mine, and I open my eyes just to see him that near. His eyes are still closed, eyelashes long and dark.

  Amir pulls back but only a bit. He nudges me, wearing an unbearably earnest smile, and says, “You know, Ariel, I’m really glad you’re bad at calculus.”

  “Oh my god.” I laugh, then shove him gently, but my hand bunches against his shirt, holding him to me. “That’s terrible.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes,” I say. Then I tug him forward and kiss him again.

  Nine

  “Rachel, can you grab some extra soap from the storage closet?” I call out. I’m elbow-deep in the sink, washing a sweet little mutt.

  No response.

  “Rachel?” I call louder.

  “Ugh. One minute.”

  She stalks into the room a few moments later and drops the soap on the counter. “Here, happy?” She turns on her heel and leaves.

  “You are way too young to be turning into a teenager!” I yell after her.

  An hour later, I’m finished washing all the dogs, but I’m not at all tired. My lips are still buzzing from kissing Amir last night. I could’ve stayed like that, back pressed against the car, all evening. But our friends probably would’ve noticed if we never picked them up.

  It’s only been fourteen hours since I saw him, but it already feels like too long. I’ll be at services instead of school Monday and Tuesday, so what if I don’t get to see him until Wednesday? When will I get to kiss him again? Will I get to kiss him again?

  I’m assuming it wasn’t a one-off.

  It definitely didn’t feel like a one-off.

  I went straight to bed when I got home last night, a crash after all the adrenaline, and slept for eight hours before waking up for shul. Maybe I can see Amir tomorrow. Rachel doesn’t have a soccer game because of the upcoming high holidays, so tomorrow my only commitment is practice with Dizzy Daisies.

  I grab Ezekiel from his cage and head to the front room. “Want to go play with him outside?” I ask Rachel.

  She’s on the couch, reading from a folder, brow furrowed. Her backpack is stuffed in her lap, and she’s hugging it like a pillow.

  “What are you working on?” I ask. “Pirates? Capitals?”

  “Reading sheets.” Rachel flips a page. She nibbles one of her sweatshirt drawstrings.

  “Want to take a break? Play with the dogs?”

  “I’m gonna keep working,” she says, not looking up at me.

  “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

  “I’m working, Ariel. I don’t want to get behind.”

  I guess even fifth graders have catch-up work for missing two days of class. Still, I hesitate. But then Ezekiel yaps at my heels, little tail wagging.

  “Okay,” I say. “We’ll be out there if you want to join us.”

  I grab my phone and take Ezekiel out into the yard.

  * * *

  “That’s a lot of sheet music,” I say when Sook hands me a stack of papers. It’s Sunday afternoon, and we’re in her basement for our first practice together. This morning Amir texted, and we made plans to study tonight at my place. I keep glancing at my phone, watching the minutes tick by until evening.

  “Well, obviously,” Sook says. “This isn’t one of your jam bands. I wasn’t going to let you make up the notes.”

  I leaf through the pages. “But this is a lot of sheet music.”

  “I figured I’d add you into a few of the songs. You know, just in case. If you like playing with us.”

  It looks like she’s written me parts for at least half their repertoire. “Sook,” I warn.

  Malka scrambles down the stairs. She’s holding a bagel in her mouth while she throws her hair up into a messy bun.

  “Oh, good,” Sook says. “I was about to text you.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” Malka responds. “My roommate dragged me to my first frat party last night, so you know, hangover. Getting out of bed today was basically the worst thing to ever happen to me.”

  “Are you good now? Maybe go chug some water?” Sook taps her fingers against her keyboard.

  “How was the party?” I ask. “Did you have fun?”

  Malka scrunches up her face. “It was kind of disgusting. The house was gross, all sticky and dark. And they made some kind of punch in a giant trash can, I’m not even kidding you. All the guys were loud and wasted. So not cute. Not my scene.”

  “Gross,” I say. “So none of it was fun?”

  “Well, my friends and I found a corner and an unopened bottle of flavored vodka, so we drank that. And after we were quite drunk, we all went to Waffle House together, and that was fun. Awesome waffles. Life-changing waffles.”

  “So in college, we should only ever get drunk so we get to drunk-eat?”

  Malka laughs. “Yeah, basically.”

  “So…get that water?” Sook cuts in. “So we can start practice?”

  Malka gives her a look, then tightly says, “Yep. Be right back.”

  “Thank you!” Sook replies. As Malka ascends the stairs, Sook shoves her face in her hands and groans.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  She drags her hands down so I can see her eyes. “I know I’m being annoying. I can hear myself being annoying.” She pauses. “This deal my parents gave me…I know I sound ridiculous, complaining about having to go to an Ivy League school. It’s spoiled and privileged and absurd.” She bites her lip. “But this is my dream and my chance to pursue it. I don’t want to be the person nagging everyone all the time, but if we don’t practice, we won’t get better, and then we won’t find an agent, and my music career will be over before it even starts.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and she tears up. “It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.”

  “Hey,” I say, walking over to her. I sit on the stool next to hers and pat her back.

  Sook gives me a wry grin. “What am I? One of the dogs at your shelter?”

  “Want me to scratch behind your ear?”

  She laughs and shoves me
off. “Oh my god, no.”

  I laugh back and knock into her shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You aren’t ridiculous. You know what you want. But maybe”—I pause—“maybe you’re being a bit harsh with Malka. Let her know what’s going on with you. See if she wants the same things.”

  Sook wrings her hands together. “But what if she doesn’t?”

  “That will suck. But it’s better than ruining your friendship.”

  She puts her head down and groans one more time. I pat her back again.

  “I need this to happen,” she mumbles. She tilts her head, and her eyes meet mine. “If I don’t pursue my dream now, I’ll lose it. I’ll go off to Dartmouth, and I’ll study and get a real job and pay bills and get married, and I’ll never prioritize my music again. I know I’m only in high school, but it’s like I’m already running out of time.”

  Her words echo my own spiral of thoughts. If I don’t get into Harvard, my whole life will be running to catch an opportunity I already missed.

  I’m tempted to let Sook in. Confide in her like I confided in Amir. But my problems are over, right? I aced the last test. I don’t need to complain about an issue that no longer exists.

  Malka’s footsteps pad down the stairs, and I nudge Sook and whisper, “Talk to her.”

  “Almost ready, promise,” Malka says, sipping her water and seeming tense.

  Sook glances up. “It’s okay, take your time.”

  Malka narrows her eyes. “Why?”

  “Look.” Sook clears her throat. “I’m sorry I’ve been uptight about the band and not the nicest person to be around.” She glances at Malka. “I really want this, you know. And I only have like half a year to make it happen. But I know you’re in college and have this other life now, and I need to be considerate of that.”

  Malka looks stunned, but her face softens. “Thank you, for apologizing. Really. I”—she pauses—“I love this band, but do I want it to be my first priority? Do I want to get signed and pursue this for real?”

  “Do you?” Sook asks.

  Malka hesitates. “Truthfully, I don’t know. I don’t want to commit and say yes and then screw you over.”

  Sook twists her mouth. “Yeah, I don’t want you to screw me over, either.”

  “Can I promise to stay honest with you? If I’m ever starting to doubt my commitment, I’ll let you know and give you time to find someone new?”

  “That’s really fair, and I really hate that. I love you, Malka.”

  “I love you, too,” she responds.

  “This is like the happy ending of a Disney Channel Original Movie,” I say, grinning.

  “Shut up,” both of them respond.

  “Okay, but if I shut up, I can’t tell you my news.” My pulse skips just from teasing them. I can still feel the gentle press of Amir’s lips against mine.

  Malka grins. “I think I know what this news will be.”

  “What?” Sook looks confused. “Am I missing something? I’m missing something.” She stands. “What am I missing, Ariel? Tell me!”

  “Amir and I kissed. Friday night. When we went to get the car.”

  Malka squeals. “I knew it! Like you wanted to walk to the car with him out of nowhere. Yeah, right. Y’all could barely keep your eyes off each other at dinner.”

  “Oy,” I groan. “Were we really that obvious?”

  “Obviously not that obvious,” Sook says. “I had no clue.” She narrows her eyes. “I thought you didn’t like him. What’s going on?”

  “I didn’t not—I mean, yeah, he annoyed me. But I don’t know. We started hanging out because…” I hesitate. “We wanted to study for calculus. And we got along better than expected, and one thing led to another, and…” My smile is too big. I pick up a pillow and hide my face with it.

  “Oh my god, adorable,” Malka says. “Y’all make a cute couple.”

  “A couple?” Sook asks. “You guys are dating?”

  “No!” I say. “I mean, no, not yet. We only kissed a couple days ago, and we haven’t talked about it, but we’re going to study again tonight so…”

  “Okay,” Sook says. “Cool.”

  I stare at her. “Your enthusiasm is lacking.”

  “Sorry.”

  I stare more.

  She holds her hands up and smiles, eyes wide. “Sorry! I mean it! I’m happy for you guys. I just need time to adjust. I had no clue. Admittedly, I feel kind of left out, Ariel. You didn’t tell me you were into him. I told you about my crush on Clarissa, and she doesn’t even live in this city.”

  She’s right.

  “You’re right.” I scratch my ear. “It happened really fast. I didn’t tell anyone. Forgive me, best friend?”

  “But of course.” She wraps an arm around my shoulder. “I’m happy for you, really. Now come on. It’s time to actually play our instruments.”

  We set up. It feels weird to have my violin in a new environment. I crack all my knuckles, then my neck. I practiced my Rimsky-Korsakov solo for hours yesterday, so my fingers are sore from the metal strings. It’s going to be a rough week keeping up practice for the solo and the band.

  I read over the sheet music. It’s much easier than what we’re playing in orchestra, but there’s this different kind of pressure. Sook and Malka are practically professionals now. What if I’m not good enough? What if at the end of this session, Sook turns and says, “Thanks very much, but never mind. I’m going to give Pari a call”?

  But I don’t have time for nerves because Sook is counting us off, and then she leads in with Malka. It’s the new song, the one I loved last session, the one where I could hear the opening for a violin. When my time approaches, I set my violin, tuck my chin, and bring the bow to the string.

  The first note wavers, hesitant. But then I pull the next ones out, one by one. The violin is both sweet and growling like the rest of the song.

  The music drifts around the room, atmospheric and entrancing. We get through the song, and I play vibrato on the final, ringing note. My body hums. I can’t remember the last time I fell into a piece of music like this.

  “Not bad,” Malka says, smiling.

  “Could be better.” Sook grins.

  “Can we play it again?” I ask.

  Sook winks. “On the count.”

  * * *

  Later that night, I’m home alone and practicing in my room. The rest of the family is at a friend’s house for dinner, but I begged off earlier today, mentioning practice might run late. And it did run late. After a few run-throughs, my classic rock background had an itch, and I suggested a couple of harder riffs for the transitions. Sook approved the idea, and it worked great. I felt that burst of satisfaction, like when I get a perfect score.

  But blisters have formed, both on my fingers from the press of the metal strings and my neck from holding the violin in place. I’ve got to push through and take advantage of my long weekend to practice this orchestra solo. Acing that calculus test has relieved a lot of pressure, but my college applications still feel bare without soccer. Maybe I should’ve signed up for debate or ran for student government. I’ve got to keep orchestra to look well-rounded, and I’ve got to keep first chair to stand out from all the other well-rounded students.

  I adjust the sheet music. Then I take a small brick of rosin and slide it across my bow’s horsehair. It’s ritual, all the little steps that go into playing. The tuning, the rosin, the tock of the metronome.

  Once done, I lift my violin and focus on the page. I can do this. I take a breath and imagine the prelude. Cellos plucking. Violas singing. All leading up to my solo, and then I hear the oboe play its final notes, and I begin, blistered fingers against metal strings, playing painful, perfect notes.

  The solo picks up, fast yet airy, and I can hear the accompaniment join me. We build and play through the piece together. />
  And then, when it’s over, I relax my stance and breathe.

  It wasn’t good enough.

  Dr. Whitmore’s voice echoes in my head: “Again.”

  I play the Scheherazade solo over and over. Each time I hit the notes a bit more precisely, each time my bow swipes across the strings with more control, each time my fingers burn with more pain, but it’s a distant feeling. Unimportant. This is how it’s supposed to be. This is how first chair practices. Gives it everything, body and soul. I’m about to bear down on the solo once more when there’s a knock on my bedroom door.

  I startle.

  Are my parents home already?

  “Mom?” I call cautiously.

  “No, it’s me.”

  Amir? I rub my eyes. How did I forget he was coming over?

  “Ariel?”

  “Coming!” I open the door, and there he is, Amir, outside my bedroom. He’s wearing black sweatpants. They sling low on his hips. I swallow hard.

  “Sorry, the garage was open, and you weren’t picking up your phone. I heard you playing from downstairs. You sound good.” He holds up his textbook. “Still want to study?”

  I’m home alone with Amir. Amir who is wearing those sweatpants. “Um, yeah. Let’s study. Come in.” I let him into my room. The silence makes my thudding pulse too loud, so I tap my phone and play Scheherazade. The strings fill the room.

  I scratch my ear. “So, do you—”

  “You’re bleeding,” Amir says.

  “What?”

  He steps closer to me, gaze on my neck. And then his fingers are there, tracing the delicate skin. I shiver. His fingers travel down my arm, then to my fingers. Also bleeding. Only a few drops. I’ve seen worse. He lifts his hand, as if to show proof.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  He’s standing close to me, eyes not breaking contact.

  And then the music lifts and we’re kissing. I’m not sure who leans in first. Maybe both of us, but his lips are on mine, and I’m inhaling him, spearmint and basil.

  It’s hungrier than our first kiss.

  My arms wrap around his back, feeling his broad shoulders. And I draw him close to me. His lips leave mine and run down my jaw and neck before finding my mouth once more. We step back together, then back again, until his legs press against the edge of my bed. Scheherazade delves deeper into the first movement. My pulse races to catch up with the tempo.