You Asked for Perfect

by Laura Silverman

  The lie slides out with ease, then a twinge of guilt. I don’t lie to Sook. I don’t lie much in general. But if I tell my best friend I’m failing, she’ll be concerned and ask questions and try to help, and this façade of having my shit together will collapse.

  I’ll study with Amir, bring up my grade, and no one has to know I slipped.

  The bell rings.

  We both take our seats. I pull out my Ticonderoga #2 pencil from behind my ear and flip to a fresh page of my spiral notebook.

  I’m probably the least-organized valedictorian in history, using the same jumbo notebook for all my classes until it runs out of space and I have to start a new one. It’s easier that way, less stuff to bring home. All my notes from the week are in one place, and when finals come around, I shrug sheepishly and ask Sook if I can photocopy her notes because mine are a hot mess. It’s best friend symbiosis because she always copies forgotten homework assignments from me.

  Mrs. Rainer strides into the room. She’s awesome, and Sharon Mo, last year’s valedictorian, swore her class was an easy A. Mrs. Rainer’s white hair is streaked with pink, and glasses dangle from a chain around her neck.

  “Morning, class.” She unzips her black fanny pack, which is covered in glitter and gemstones, and takes out a dry-erase marker. Got to keep them close, she said on the first day of class, these things always seem to disappear to other classrooms.

  The top left of the board reads Daily Writing Prompt in permanent marker. We do a quick-write for five minutes every morning. Mrs. Rainer says creativity needs a warm-up like our muscles.

  “Hmm,” she says, then writes: Apple pie with vanilla ice cream.

  A couple kids laugh, and Mrs. Rainer gives us a look. “What? I’m hungry, okay? All right, all right. Simmer down. Five minutes. Let’s go.”

  I crack my neck, titling my head to the left then right. The classroom is silent, save the light scratching of pens and pencils. With no grade attached, the words flow out easily.

  Rebecca kneaded the piecrust dough while her mom peeled apples. “We should put chili powder in!” Rebecca said.

  “Ew, Rebecca no!”

  “What about oregano?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Pepper?”

  “Honestly, who taught you how to bake?”

  “You did!”

  “Please don’t tell people that.”

  Before I know it, Mrs. Rainer calls, “Time! Pencils down! Okay, who wants to read their story out loud?”

  I close my notebook. Definitely not. My unpolished writing is embarrassing, especially because half the people in this class can basically craft the opening of a novel in, like, five minutes. Ellen Cho raises her hand and reads off her story about an apple pie baking contest. After compliment and critique, Mrs. Rainer turns on the smart board and clicks away at her computer.

  “All right, class,” she says. “Today, I thought we’d go over a college essay. Keep in mind, our Crime and Punishment essay test is coming up at the end of next week. We’ll begin to go over the text tomorrow, all right? Now! This is from a student of mine a couple of years ago. He got into Princeton.”

  I slump down into my seat, stomach twisting. I still haven’t started my college essay. More likely than not, I’ll write about playing violin, but thousands and thousands of applicants are in orchestra. There’s nothing special about it. It’s not a true passion. Maybe I could lie and say I compose my own music, but an admissions counselor could probably fact-check that.

  I wish I had a real passion like everyone else. Sook has her band. Amir has his camera. Everyone has something that makes them stand out. Everyone except me.

  When I signed up for classes freshman year, no one told me that straight As, volunteer hours, and time in the arts aren’t enough. No one told me I’d have to know every answer to every test and also be a “unique individual” following my life’s calling at seventeen.

  “Want to come over after the animal shelter?” Sook whispers as Mrs. Rainer searches her computer. “We can eat shrimp snacks and work on our essays.”

  I stare down at my blank page.

  “Yeah,” I say. “That would be good.”

  * * *

  I text Amir: I’m here

  A minute later, I’m walking up to the door as it opens. Amir stands in front of me, wearing gray sweatpants and a plain white V-neck. His stubble is dark and runs over his cheeks and along the curve of his sharp jaw. My eyes scan him a moment too long, and the word want surfaces in my thoughts.

  He cracks a crooked smile. “Hey.”

  “Hey. So—”

  “So—”

  We both laugh. Amir scratches the back of his neck, still grinning. “So, okay. Come on in. I’m set up in the kitchen.”

  “Yeah, sounds good.”

  His house is familiar. Art hangs on the walls, from prints of famous artists to Amir’s photography to Rasha’s watercolors. Sara has her own nook, shelves full of pottery and photos from ballet and soccer. We head down the hall to the kitchen. The table sits by a giant bay window overlooking the backyard.

  Amir mentioned his family is out watching Sara’s play. He already went to opening night. “Would you like a drink?” he asks. He opens the fridge and leans over it, one arm pressed against the frame. I try and fail not to stare at his bicep. “We have Coke, iced tea, water…”

  “Tea works,” I say.

  Amir pours us both a cup, then grabs a bag of chips and some grapes. I pull out sour gummy worms and Haribo Fizzy Cola bottles from my backpack. He laughs when he sees them and asks, “Sour candy fan?”

  “Understatement of the year,” I respond. Honestly, I don’t know how I’d get anything done without sour candy.

  We go to settle at the table, but there are a bunch of photos spread out over it. “Sorry,” Amir says, sliding them into a pile. I catch a glimpse of Rasha in a library and a photo of their parents laughing in the kitchen.

  “Can I see that one?” I ask, reaching for it.

  “Sure.”

  Amir hands it to me. It’s an evocative shot, within a private moment. It feels as if they’re alone in the room. Intimacy caught on film.

  Something stirs in me. “It’s really good.”

  “Do you think so? I can’t figure out which ones to use.”

  “Use for what?”

  “A competition for high school photographers. If you win, your work gets shown in this new art gallery. It’s not the best space, but still, I’d have my photographs on an actual gallery wall.” His eyes light up. “And they’re giving scholarship money. I can only pick five pieces for my application, so I’ve narrowed it down to shots of the family, but…” He stacks the photos. There must be at least two hundred of them. “I have a few of those.” He raises his eyebrows, looking a little overwhelmed.

  I nod. “Quite a few.”

  “They’re good subjects. There’s something familiar and unfamiliar about looking at your family through a lens, seeing your parents as actual people.” His fingers trace the photo of them. “Capturing a moment I wouldn’t linger on otherwise.”

  “Like Sunday mornings,” I say, half to myself.

  “Hmm?” Amir glances at me.

  I clear my throat, a bit embarrassed. “Sunday mornings at my house. My parents run around nonstop all week, but they have a date at home every Sunday morning. They stay in their pajamas and read the newspaper and sip coffee for hours. And they talk about politics and movies and their friends. It’s always weird seeing them like that, like an out-of-body experience, because suddenly they’re not Mom and Dad—they’re real people.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Amir says. “I remember the first time I really saw my dad.” He leans forward some, and I do, too. My skin tingles. “I was fourteen. He was running late, and his car wouldn’t start, so he got out to check o
n the engine and spilled coffee on his shirt. And then his boss was calling on the phone, and Sara was cranky and crying, and I thought, He’s really stressed out. It must be tough. Before that, he was Dad. Invincible. After, he was just a guy.”

  “It’s life-altering when you realize your parents are human.”

  Amir’s gaze connects with mine, and I’m startled by its intensity. But eventually, he looks away, straightening the stack of photos. “So—”

  “So—”

  We both smile. Amir continues, “We should study. My family will be back in a couple of hours.”

  “Oh, right.” I pause. “Could you not tell them? About the tutoring?” He almost looks hurt, so I quickly continue. “Sorry, it’s those human parents of mine. I don’t want them finding out I failed a quiz and getting all parent-y.” I pick at my nail. “Do you mind? I mean, it’s not really lying, more like omitting, but I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  He’s silent for a moment, then says, “Sure. No problem.” Tension eases from my muscles. “It’s not like we’re sneaking around doing drugs or having sex.”

  My cheeks burn. Amir said “sex” so casually. I mean, I guess there’s a good chance he’s had sex. He dates older guys, which means college guys now. And plenty of people have sex in high school, too.

  Even though I want to have sex in the abstract, every time I think about actually having it, I go into a panic spiral, which tells me I’m not ready. I mean, I know how to put on a condom, but what if it’s more difficult than it looks? What size do I buy? And do I buy them, or would Amir? I mean, not Amir. I mean—who would buy them? And how do you know your parents aren’t going to show up while you’re doing it? And—

  Yeah, way too stressful. I’ll figure it out in college.

  I open my textbook and stare at the page. “Where should we start?”

  “Math builds on itself, so we need a solid foundation. Let’s start at the beginning.”

  Amir’s we is generous since he obviously has the foundation down.

  “Okay, from the beginning then.”

  I slip my phone out of my pocket and turn off the buzzer so we aren’t disturbed. I have three email notifications. What if they’re from colleges? No, I need to study. I resist the urge to touch the icon. I’ll check when I use the bathroom or something.

  We flip to page one. “A heads-up, I’ve never done this before.” Amir sounds confident. It’s more a perfunctory notice. “I looked up some how-to guides and—”

  I bite back a smile. “You did?”

  He shrugs. “Sure.”

  “That was nice.”

  “It’s no problem. Anyways, tutors make good money. If I take to it, I can charge other people, maybe save some for college.”

  Oh. Right. “That’s good,” I say. “Smart.”

  “I’m going to teach through doing. I’ll talk through my work as I complete the problem. Stop me if you have any questions. We’ll do a few problems like that and then work on one together. Then you’ll take over. That work?”

  My pulse races, and my hands grow damp. This is happening. A minute ago it was iced tea and conversation, but now it’s on. There’s a test in three days. If this study session doesn’t work out…

  It has to work out.

  I grip the edge of my chair and nod, trying to keep my voice level. “Yeah, cool.”

  Amir angles his notebook toward me and brings his pencil to the page. I don’t recognize the brand. It’s nice. Like it’s from an art supply store, not Office Depot. The graphite slides across the paper. His flicks numbers on the page with ease, his voice soft and steady, explaining each step as promised. I’m so entranced, it takes me a few seconds to realize I’m paying attention to the cadence of his voice not the actual lesson.

  “Wait, can you go back?” I ask.

  He glances at me. “Sure, to which part?”

  I’m too embarrassed to say, “To the beginning,” so instead I say, “That last part, the uh—”

  “Reversing the inequality?”

  “Yeah, that.”

  He goes back and scrawls the numbers again. “Got it?”

  I grip my pencil. “Yep. Thanks.”

  “I’m glad this is working out.”

  My grip tightens. “Yeah, me too.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I’m completely lost, but Amir thinks all is well. He flips the page and says, “Okay, so why don’t you work through this one, and if you get stuck, I’ll help.”

  I nod. “Sure.”

  Yeah. Sure.

  I take my time copying the problem, checking each and every number before writing it down in my notebook. Then I nibble the end of my eraser, looking it over. My foot shakes up and down.

  “Okay,” I say. “So apply the quotient rule.”

  “Right.”

  Right…

  Wait, what’s the quotient rule?

  Amir just did this. Like, five times in a row. So I can, too. It’s only math. I’ve been doing it forever. One step at a time.

  First step, first step…

  Oh, right. I deconstruct the first bit of the problem. “Good, right,” Amir says.

  I pick at my nail. Then bite at my nail.

  “Next you’ll want to take out the constant,” Amir says.

  My brain hurts. It actually pulsates.

  I take another sip of my tea, but the cup is empty. “Want a refill?” I ask Amir. “I’m kind of thirsty.”

  “Don’t you want to finish the problem?”

  “In a second.” I stand and grab both of our cups. My pulse skips, staccato. Calm down, Ariel. Focus on something else. His cup has the Deathly Hallows symbol on it. “So you’re a big Harry Potter fan, yeah?” I ask him.

  “I am,” Amir says. “Still waiting on my Hogwarts letter.”

  “I bet they don’t have calculus at Hogwarts.”

  “They don’t, but I’ve heard Arithmancy is difficult.”

  My laugh disorients me. It’s as if my mind is functioning in two separate spaces. I push toward the good space. “You’re a bit of a nerd, aren’t you?”

  Amir grins. “Little bit.”

  I turn back, then open the fridge and inhale the cold air. I can do this.

  What if I can’t do this?

  I blink, eyes blurring. I have the distinct urge to break into tears. Stop it. Refocus. I slip out my phone and scan my messages. There’s one from Sook: What time are you coming over?

  I don’t respond yet because I have no clue when we’ll be done.

  “You see it?” Amir asks. “It’s on the top shelf.”

  I shove my phone back into my pocket. “Yeah, thanks.” I pour our teas and head back to the table. “What time are your parents coming home again?”

  “We have plenty of time. I don’t think the first act is even over.”

  I nod, twisting my fingers together. “What’s the play about?”

  “A children’s adaptation of Cyrano de Bergerac. It was pretty funny.”

  “Oh, I liked that play.” My fingers lock together, squeeze. “I’m not loving Crime and Punishment. Are you in Mrs. Rainer’s class?”

  “I am,” Amir says, but he doesn’t seem interested in more conversation. “C’mon, let’s get back to work. We were doing well.”

  Hah. We really weren’t.

  I pick up my pencil. The eraser is half-gnawed off.

  “Okay,” Amir says, “So you were about to take the constant out and—”

  “Isn’t Mr. Eller the worst teacher?” I ask.

  “He’s all right. Scattered. So we take out the constant and—”

  “I had no problem with calculus last year, but this guy can’t teach to save his pension. Good thing he doesn’t have to. It’s ridiculous. I wish they could get rid of him. Sticking us wit
h this guy at the end of school is such bullshit.”

  “I guess so. Okay—”

  “And he doesn’t even—”

  “Ariel, stop procrastinating.”

  His tone is relaxed, but my whole body tenses. He can’t see me falter. No one can. I swallow hard, then say, “I’m not procrastinating. I wanted to talk. Sorry. Didn’t mean to bother you.”

  “You aren’t bothering me. I like talking with you.” He pauses. “But you came to me for help, and I want to make sure you get it. If you’re still having trouble with the material, we can go back to the beginning.” His tone is warm, but I don’t feel comforted.

  “I don’t think this is working out.” I close my notebook.

  “Wait, what?”

  “I don’t need this.”

  My heart pounds fast as I stuff my things into my bag.

  “You don’t need what?” Amir asks. I stand, and so does he. “You’re leaving? Ariel, why?”

  “This isn’t working for me. I’ll be better off studying on my own. Thanks for trying.”

  “I don’t understand what just happened. Sit down. We’ll try again.”

  “No thanks. This was a mistake.”

  I slip my bag over my shoulder and walk toward the door. If I stay any longer, he’ll see what’s happening. He’ll see I don’t understand. I’m not smart enough. I’m an imposter. If I’m going to lose everything I’ve worked for, at least I don’t have to do it in front of an audience.

  “Ariel—” he says again.

  But the slamming door cuts off his voice.

  Five

  The neighborhood rushes by as my feet smack the pavement. Sweat pours down the back of my neck. My breath comes sharp and fast, while Keith Moon pummels drums for “Who Are You.”

  My legs ache. My lungs constrict.

  I push harder, bearing down, increasing my run to almost a sprint. Wind rushes through my hair. My body floods with endorphins.

  Then revolts.

  My stomach lurches as I round the corner to my street. I stop short and fling out an arm to brace myself against a tree. I tense, then bend over and dry-heave. But I must have stopped in time because nothing comes up.