You Asked for Perfect

by Laura Silverman

  “Oh,” I say, clearing my throat. “Yeah, he did. I mean, I think so. It’s your soup. Everyone likes it.”

  “That’s good. And how long have you two been dating?”

  Oh shit.

  That was good.

  “Um.”

  “You’re dating Amir?” Rachel squeals.

  “Well, we…how did you….”

  “Mrs. Naeem and I always said you two would be cute together. Now when did this start? I noticed you talking at Rachel’s game. You know we support that you’re gay, right?”

  I clear my throat. “Bisexual.”

  “Yes, right! I’m sorry. That’s what I meant—I don’t care that you’re bisexual. I mean, I do care. In a good way.”

  I give her a soft smile. “I know.”

  My parents were pretty great when I came out in ninth grade. There was a lot of hugging and thankfully not a lot of questions. Mom took a while to understand the guys and girls part, which to be fair, took me a while to get myself. I know she’s trying, though, and I know Amir and I are ridiculously lucky to have parents who want their sons to date.

  “So.” Mom nudges me. “How long have you two been going out?”

  My face flushes, but I guess it’s better to rip off the Band-Aid. I should’ve known she’d figure it out sooner rather than later. “We’re not going out, but yeah, we’re talking or whatever…it’s new.” I rub my face. I’m so not prepared to define the relationship, much less with my mom instead of Amir. “Can we maybe leave it alone for now?”

  Mom smiles. “Yes, yes we can. For now.” She sighs and settles back into the couch. “Rachel, could I bother you to grab the lotion from my bathroom?”

  “That depends.” Rachel has a scheming look in her eye. “Can I bring leftover soup for lunch Wednesday? My teacher will let me use the microwave!”

  “Deal,” Mom says.

  My phone buzzes as they shake hands. It’s a text from Amir. Warning: the parents know

  I laugh. Yep. That didn’t take long. We’re great at secrets

  He responds: Basically, we should be secret agents

  It only makes sense

  “That Amir?” Mom asks in time for me to realize I have the most ridiculous smile on my face.

  “Mom,” I groan.

  She laughs and extends her foot to nudge my leg. “Love you, tatala.”

  “Love you, too,” I mutter, cheeks red, still smiling.

  Eleven

  Wednesday morning rushes by in a blur of catch-up assignments. I always ask my teachers to provide the work ahead of time, but few prepare to help the handful of Jewish students in their classes. By the time I get to English, I know it’s going to require a late night to get all of it done. And my family is going to Amir’s house for dinner, so I won’t even get started until after eight. At least I’ll see Amir. Maybe we’ll have time to sneak off for a few minutes.

  Sook is bubbling over as I slide into my seat. “Guess what?” she asks.

  “One of your YouTube videos went viral, and you’re going to be whisked off to LA tomorrow.”

  “If only,” she says. “But you know my new great friend Clarissa?”

  “You mean your Tumblr mutual?”

  She waves her hand. “Same thing. Anyways, she liked my post about the gig we’re playing and then said”—Sook reads from her phone—“‘Sounds cool. I’ll be in town. See you there.’ Can you believe it? Clarissa! Clarissa of Carousels! At our show!”

  We have a gig coming up at a café known for its live music. It’s a small spot, but they always feature great new bands, so it’s pretty awesome they asked Dizzy Daisies to play. Sook said talent agents are even rumored to drop by sometimes.

  “I can definitely believe it. Your music is great, and so are you.”

  Sook grins, then scoots forward. “I think I’m actually nervous. Thank god we have practice tonight. You didn’t forget, did you?”

  I had, in fact, forgotten.

  Crap. Dinner at Amir’s. Practice. And then this pile of homework. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Of course not. What time again?”

  “Hmm, think you can be over by seven?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Thank you, really.” Sook meets my eyes. “You’re an awesome friend, Ariel.”

  The bell rings. Mrs. Rainer walks into the room jingling. There are little bells on the fringe of her scarf. I try and fail to bite back a yawn. I’m already tired at the thought of being tired.

  We go over college essays again. I pull out my phone and put a double asterisk next to mine on my to-do list. I’ve really got to get that done.

  At the end of class, Mrs. Rainer hands back our Crime and Punishment essay tests. I’m always nervous turning over a grade, even for a class with an assured A. I take a tight breath and flip over my paper.

  Seventy-eight.

  I got a C.

  But everyone told me this is the easiest AP class ever.

  I grip the edge of my desk, pulse thudding in my ears as the bells rings. This isn’t right. This can’t be right. I brought up my calculus grade. Everything was supposed to be okay now.

  “Ariel, coming?” Sook asks. She slips her purse over her shoulder. Her essay sits on top of her desk. Ninety-two. She barely studies anymore, devoting all her free time to the band, and she got a ninety-two.

  For a moment, I hate my best friend.

  “Uh, yeah, I’ll be there soon. I’ve got to check some emails.”

  “Okay.” She grabs her books and leaves.

  I slide my phone out of my pocket and stare at the screen, waiting for the room to clear. My vision blurs. I rub my eyes hard.

  Finally, it’s Mrs. Rainer and me.

  I walk over to her desk, shoving a shaking hand in my pocket. She slips off her reading glasses. They dangle on a chain around her neck. “Ariel, I’m glad you stayed. Let’s talk.”

  “Is this…” My voice falters. “Is this graded right?”

  I feel ridiculous asking the question, but I have to. I’ve found mistakes in the past, debated my way through unclear multiple-choice questions and exceptions of grammatical rules. Sometimes the A doesn’t start as an A. Sometimes you have to argue your way up from a lower grade. Teachers here are used to it. Maybe there’s room to negotiate.

  “Ariel,” Mrs. Rainer sighs. “This isn’t a difficult class. I don’t want to teach a difficult class. But to understand literature, one needs to read and participate. It’s obvious you didn’t finish the book.”

  I did. Okay, I didn’t. I read most of the book. And the SparkNotes. Though switching back and forth between reading and audio did get a bit confusing. Still, I read more than enough to write a competent essay. “I read it,” I lie. “I promise.”

  “Not closely, then. And you never participate in class conversation. You barely listen. You were on your phone again today! And it shows in your essay. This isn’t some blow-off class. English is an integral part of everyone’s future. If you can’t read and write competently, you won’t get anywhere.”

  I bite back the fact that I got a perfect verbal score on the SAT. “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s been a difficult start to the semester, but I care about this class. I love English. Is there anything I can do? Rewrite the essay? Any extra credit?”

  I practically hold my breath waiting for her to answer.

  Finally Mrs. Rainer says, “I want you to succeed, Ariel. So I’ll help you out. But promise you’ll dedicate yourself to this extra work, not rush through it for the credit.”

  “I promise.”

  Relief sweeps through me. I push hair out of my eyes.

  “All right.” She grabs a thick book from her desk. It must be at least five hundred pages. “This is one of my favorite contemporary novels. It was published last year, so I doubt you’ll find summaries and st
udy guides online. Read it and pick another twenty-first-century novel, and then I want a twenty-page comparison essay.”

  My stomach lurches. “Twenty pages?”

  Our final paper for the class is only fifteen.

  “I’m trying to prepare you for college,” Mrs. Rainer says. “You’ll be writing essays that long for your courses there. And if this class is important to you, you’ll make time.”

  Make time.

  My vision blurs again.

  I’m already taking six AP classes, sacrificing lunch, a full night’s sleep, and a normal social life, so sure, I’ll just make time.

  “Do you want the extra credit or not?” Mrs. Rainer asks.

  “I—” My voice catches. “Yes, I do. How much will it be worth?”

  Mrs. Rainer sighs. “All about the grades.” Well, fucking obviously. “If I find the essay satisfactory, I’ll add five points to your final grade. All right?”

  Five points. That’s good at least.

  “And don’t dawdle with it,” she continues. “I expect it on my desk within a couple of weeks.”

  “Absolutely. Thank you.”

  I leave and head straight to the bathroom. It’s the old one, with a broken stall door and cracked mirrors, always empty. I grip the sink and take a shaky breath. My heart beats too hard. The pressure behind my eyes builds.

  “Fuck!” I slap the porcelain sink, hands ringing with pain.

  Tears release, but only a few. They slide down my cheeks. My stomach constricts, and I take a sharp breath.

  Then the warning bell blares.

  I splash water on my face and go to my next class.

  * * *

  “Ready?” Pari asks me, as we tune our instruments.

  Today I’m playing my solo for Dr. Whitmore. I’m already on a precipice with English, so if I also mess this up…

  “Ready,” I lie, then lift my violin and pull my bow across the A string.

  Dr. Whitmore exits her office and strides to the front of the room. She nods at me. “Afternoon, Ariel,” she says brusquely. “I hope you’ve found the solo agreeable.”

  I wonder if she can read the I hate you in my eyes.

  Everyone sets their instruments. A harpist and an oboe player are joining us today to play the prelude to my solo. Dr. Whitmore drops her baton, and we begin. My pulse beats quickly, but I keep the tempo and play in tune. The piece now memorized, I even lift my eyes to watch the baton and meet Dr. Whitmore’s cold gaze. I count the time I have left until my solo begins. A few pages. One page. Only lines now.

  The oboe plays its prelude into my solo, each note perfectly sung, and then the room goes quiet and—

  I begin, bow swiping too fast across the string. But I regain control. I play each note with precision and continue to meet Dr. Whitmore’s eyes. The measures slip by, and then, it’s over.

  I hold my breath, waiting for her to say, again.

  But Dr. Whitmore keeps tempo, the baton throwing another downbeat, and we continue into the next section. No again. We’re still playing. I did it. Dr. Whitmore glances my way, and for a wild moment I expect possibly even a smile, but my heart drops when I meet her callous stare.

  For the rest of class, my shoulders are taut, fingers stiff. When the bell rings, Dr. Whitmore calls me into her office. I head back with trepidation.

  “The solo, Ariel, was unsatisfactory,” she says. “There was no feeling. It was mechanical. Continue to work on it. Try to find the heart of the piece. But in the meantime, I’m going to consider an alternate for first chair. You’ll both perform for me in three weeks, and then I’ll make my decision. Now grab Pari for me before she leaves class.”

  * * *

  My ears buzz as I stand in the parking lot, like there’s a radio playing on the wrong frequency. A thick knot hardens in my throat. My foot jumps up and down, as my mind races with everything I need to get done.

  I’m standing with Sook and Amir while we wait for the parking lot to clear. Most days we hang out for twenty minutes, instead of sitting in a jammed line of cars.

  Pari and Isaac head toward us. “L’Shana Tova!” Isaac says. Pari doesn’t meet my eyes. Good.

  “Shana Tova,” I reply, mouth dry. I clear my throat. “Have a good New Year?” We grew up going to the same Sunday school classes at our synagogue, but I don’t see him at services often anymore.

  “Eh, I went to class instead of shul.” Isaac hitches his bag up onto his shoulder. “Couldn’t miss a full day. But Mom made brisket for dinner, so it’s a good New Year so far.”

  “Nice.” I nod.

  “Sorry about the solo,” Pari says. “Dr. Whitmore is such a—” She breaks off. “I don’t like saying that word. But anyway, I thought you played it fine. Great!” She corrects herself.

  Is Pari sorry? This is the opportunity she’s always wanted. She can take first chair from me. I can already imagine the letter she’ll send to Harvard: Dear Admissions Board, I have an addendum to my earlier application. I am now first chair violin of the Etta Fields Philharmonic Orchestra…

  We can’t both be first chair. I’ll have to hold off on my application until we play against each other so I don’t look like I’m lying to Harvard.

  “What happened with the solo?” Amir asks. His camera is out, and he’s fiddling with the lens.

  Exhaustion presses down on me. “It’s nothing,” I say. “Just a tricky piece.”

  I stare Pari down, pleading she’ll drop it. Her brow tenses for a moment, then she shifts back on her feet. “C’mon, Isaac. We should go, start tackling that homework. It never ends, does it?”

  “I’m ready to end it,” Sook replies. “I want out now. Hell, I wanted out last year.”

  It can’t be that bad, I want to say. You’re only taking four AP classes, and your safety school is freaking Dartmouth.

  “We’ll see you guys later.” Isaac waves, and they walk toward his car.

  Amir glances at me. “I’m going to leave also. I want to get some film developed. Ariel, want to hang after dinner? We can study.” His smile is shy. “Or not study.”

  How do I tell the guy I like that I need to be alone? Sook answers before I have to: “Sorry, lover boy, he’s practicing with the band. We have a gig coming up, which you should come to.”

  “Already in my calendar,” Amir replies. “What about tomorrow, Ariel?”

  Tomorrow I’ll be behind on the work I have to push aside tonight. My brain spins. There’s too much to do. “I can’t. I’m—” I glance between the two of them. “I have a lot of catch-up work from the holiday. I might be a little MIA for a few days.”

  “Unfortunate.” Amir clicks the lens into place. He snaps a picture of Sook and me. “But if you must. I’ll still see you at dinner.” He steps forward and kisses me softly on the lips, but my thoughts are on all the work I have.

  I lean back and bite my nail. “And I’ll still see you at school.”

  “Yes, you will.” He waves at Sook. “All right. Bye, guys. Have a good practice.”

  “Thank you!” Sook says, as he walks away. Then she turns to me. “He’s quite cute.”

  I run a hand through my hair. “Yes, I agree.”

  “You will be at practice tonight, right?”

  A sharp headache presses against my right temple. “Of course.”

  * * *

  “Ocean’s Eight!” Rasha shouts, then waves her hands. “No, wait! Finding Dory?”

  “Yes!” Rachel squeals. She jumps forward and gives her a high-ten.

  “They’re competitive,” I whisper to Amir. We’re sitting on the love seat together as our family plays charades after dinner. I needed to leave five minutes ago for Dizzy Daisies practice, but it’s rude to come to a Naeem family dinner and only stay for the food.

  “I was going to say annoying,” he responds.


  We laugh. His eyes spark when they meet mine. In an alternate reality, it’s been the perfect night. Mr. Naeem made my favorite, chicken karahi, a Pakistani curry dish that somehow tastes even better than it smells. Our parents didn’t embarrass us at dinner; well, with the exception of Mrs. Naeem saying, “Ariel, will you pass the water to your boyfriend?”

  Amir and I both blushed, but neither of us denied it, either, and that made me blush again, but in a nice way.

  But now it’s after dinner, and we’re playing charades, and my mind is swimming with the to-do list in my phone, and I can’t even begin to touch the work until after band practice.

  “Amir, your turn!” my dad says. “Come on—the guys need redemption!”

  Amir nudges me and raises his eyebrows. “Here we go.”

  “Good luck!” I say.

  He gets up and pulls a scrap of paper from the bowl. His eyes flicker with recognition, and his shoulders relax. Good, it’ll be a fast one, and since everyone will have gone once, I can make my exit after.

  “And go!” Mrs. Naeem says. She leans back onto the couch, crossing one leg over the other. Her black motorcycle boots match Rasha’s.

  Amir boxes his hands together. “TV show!” I say.

  He nods. Dad and Mr. Naeem lean forward. Next, Amir marches in place. “An army show,” Mr. Naeem says. “What are some army shows?”

  “What about—” Dad begins.

  Amir shakes his head. Nope, not an army show. Next he stretches, reaching one arm over the top of his head at a time. His shirt lifts up, and I avert my eyes, because I don’t need the embarrassment of my parents watching me watch Amir.

  “Something with athletics?” Dad asks. “Sports television…”

  Mrs. Naeem must have written the clue because she cups her hands together and whisper-shouts. “Try jumping jacks!”

  Amir, distracted, pauses what he’s doing. He shakes his head, trying to decide his next move. Mrs. Naeem leans over to Rasha and whispers something to her. Rasha laughs, then says, “Amir, next clue! They won’t get it with that.”

  “What is it?” Mr. Naeem asks them. “Give us a hint!”