“Give me a second, guys,” Sook says. “I want to add a couple of practices to the calendar.”
Malka groans. “More practices? You already added an extra each week.”
Sook points upstairs. “Those people need to learn to take me seriously. We’re going to get an agent and shock the hell out of them. No Dartmouth for me.”
Malka bites back a sigh and turns to me. “We love her, right?”
“We do.” I nod. “We do love her.”
“I heard that,” Sook says, typing at the computer.
“Good!” Malka shouts.
I pick at a thread on the pillow I’m holding. “So what’s going on with you?” I ask. “How’s college?”
Malka shrugs. “All right, I guess.” She glances around, then clears her throat. “I don’t know, I’m trying to…I don’t know.”
I nudge her. “Trying to what? What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” She waves her hand. “Never mind.”
I eye her.
“Really!” she says. “Hey, did you know there’s a Chabad on campus? I think I’m going to check out an event. Free food. Jews. Should be fun, right?”
“Can’t go wrong with free food and Jews,” I agree.
“Okay!” Sook says. “And done! Check your email. I sent the new calendar.”
Malka pulls out her phone and sighs. “Really, Sook? Three practices a week? That might be difficult for me.”
“It’ll be fine,” Sook says.
“No. My dorm isn’t exactly down the street. That’s a lot of driving. And you know traffic is a nightmare.”
“But you’re here literally every weekend. So that’s two of the practices right there,” Sook responds. She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand when everything doesn’t work like she plans it.
“Yeah…” Malka says. “But I don’t always hang around Sunday, and I have shul, and homework, and a life.”
“Dude,” Sook says. “You’re never at college. I’m sure you have the time.”
Malka stiffens. I’m about to defuse the situation, when she clears her throat and says, “C’mon, let’s play the new song for Ariel.”
“Okay!” Sook’s clueless she just bulldozed her friend. I should talk to her later. It’s a best friend’s duty to call each other out about shitty behavior.
They walk over to their equipment. It’s only a two-girl band, so Malka plays guitar, and Sook plays piano, sings, and records their drum tracks. I slip out my Kindle and continue reading Crime and Punishment while they tune their instruments and warm up.
But I can’t focus. My thoughts drift to Amir. I messed up. I should apologize because he deserves an apology—and also because I need his help if I want any chance of passing this calculus test.
“Ready!” Sook says.
As they begin to play, I send off a text before I can overthink it: Sorry about yesterday. Are you free again tonight? I’d like to give tutoring another shot if you’re open to it…
I turn over my phone and scoot it far away on the couch, too nervous to look at it. I’ll check it when the song is over.
Sook presses a button on the keyboard, and the drums fill out the song. Their sound is different than my usual classic rock soundtrack, but it’s catchy and relaxed. Sook’s fingers run across the keyboard in a comfortable rhythm, and then Malka joins in on guitar. Sook’s voice is sweet but has this little growl when you’re least expecting it, drawing you in again and again.
It’s short and entrancing. And I can hear exactly where a violin melody would add to its depth. As the song finishes, both girls grin, and I applaud. The ghost of the melody still plays in my head. “That was great,” I say. “Loved it.”
“It’d sound even better with strings,” Sook replies.
“It would,” I agree. “But I can’t.”
“C’mon,” Sook says. “Just for a couple songs.”
“Sook…”
“You don’t have to commit forever! If it sounds good, we can always find another violinist down the road. Please, Ariel. I think this could really help us get an agent. A couple songs. C’mon.”
Sook stares me down, eyes pleading. I know how badly she wants this. And it would be fun to play with them. And maybe if it goes well, I can even include it on my college application. This could be the passion I’m lacking.
“Please,” she says.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Okay. Fine.”
“Really?” Malka asks, eyebrow raised.
I shrug. “Yep. Really.”
“Ah! Yes!” Sook squeals. “You’re the best. Truly the best. I love you.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say. “Love you too.”
Sook and Malka launch into another song that could use some violin. I stare at my phone, nervous. Then I turn it over quick, like ripping off a Band-Aid. No response from Amir.
My stomach drops. But then, as I’m about to put the phone back down, a text comes in. Amir: I think you can apologize better than that
I quickly text back: Will you let me apologize in person? Is your family home? I can bring textbooks and snacks
My heart thumps as I wait for an answer, watching the three gray dots start and stop. Finally: Empty house for the next couple hours. If you bring Publix Bakery sugar cookies, I’ll let you in
I grin and text back: Done and done
Six
“I should never eat sweets again,” I say.
Then I pick up a second sugar cookie and bite into it.
“I must give Sook credit,” Amir says, pulling apart one of her cookies and popping a piece in his mouth. “These are incredible. Almost as good as Publix.”
I snagged some extra cookies from Sook’s house and then ran to Publix to buy sugar cookies and chocolate milk. When Amir opened the door, he peered into the bag like he didn’t trust I’d brought the goods, then nodded and said, “You may come in.”
“So.” Amir picks up a sugar cookie next and nibbles on it. My eyes flicker to his lips, and the back of my neck burns. “What happened yesterday? I thought we were working well together. And then, well, you were kind of rude.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I, uh…”
“If something’s going on, you can talk to me.”
His unguarded gaze fixes on me, and I feel like I’m under a hundred spotlights. How does Amir know something is up when my own parents and best friend don’t suspect a thing? Maybe when you aren’t as close with someone, they have the distance to see you clearly.
Amir watches me, not with pressure, but patience. Still, my pulse races. I pick up my napkin and shred a corner of it. “Yeah, well it’s…”
No lie comes.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
“Um, the truth is—” I take a short breath, my left leg shaking up and down. I’m too wound up, shoulders too tense, heartbeat too fast. It’s like I physically can’t keep this all to myself.
So I meet Amir’s eyes. They’re dark and warm, and they steady me. “If I fail calculus, I won’t be valedictorian.”
Amir waits. He knows there’s more.
I keep shredding the napkin. “And worse than that, Harvard might find out. Why would Harvard accept someone failing—” Harvard. I could be rejected from Harvard. Years of stress and sleep deprivation for nothing. I suddenly feel ill from the sugar coursing through my system. “I’ve spent years working toward this one goal. It’s all I am. I’m not Ariel, the one with the band, or Ariel, the one with the camera. I’m Ariel, the one with the highest GPA. That’s it.” My voice cracks with the next words. “If I don’t have perfect grades, then who am I?”
Amir’s eyes flicker with sympathy, and I can tell whatever he says next will be too much for me, so I continue, “I’m sorry I snapped yesterday. Really. I shouldn’t have put any of this on you. It’s my own crap to deal with. And I
know other people have real problems, like affording college, or even affording college applications. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”
I take a short breath. Okay, Ariel. Enough talking.
“Hmm,” Amir says. He studies his spiral notebook, hands clasped in front of him. After a moment, he nods and looks up. My shoulders relax when our eyes connect. The sympathy is mostly gone, though I’m nervous he’ll want to pry further. “You know, people do have more difficult problems. But your anxieties are still real. They still count, yeah?”
A catch forms in my throat. “Yeah.”
“Do you want to talk about it more?” Amir asks.
I draw lines in my notebook, scratching until my pencil almost rips through the page. “Maybe we can just study?” I ask. “If that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
I nod and meet his gaze again. “Thanks, Amir.”
“Hey.” He smiles. “Thanks for the cookies.”
* * *
Two hours later, I’m leading us through my fifth consecutive problem when Amir says, “Crap.”
My pencil pauses. “What’d I do wrong?”
“No, not you. We’re out of practice problems. I should’ve gotten us some additional material.”
“I can find some for next time,” I offer.
Amir raises an eyebrow. “Next time?”
“Oh, I meant…if you don’t mind… Or, if you have time. You know, to study again. Is that okay?”
When he laughs, it lights up his whole face. “I never thought I’d see a nervous Ariel Stone. It’s really messing with my head.”
“Really?” I lean forward. “How do I normally seem?”
“Sure of yourself,” Amir says. “Scattered, but sure of yourself. You’re always doing five things at once but seem on top of it all.”
“So I’ve done it? I’ve mastered the look of having my shit together?”
“I’d say so. It’s a bit like watching a stampede. Ordered chaos.” His eyes are bright. “How do you see me? I’m curious.”
He’s close enough I can smell the spearmint and basil. My pulse thuds fast. “Well, you’re usually quiet, paying more attention to your camera than the people around you. And sometimes you can seem a little…” I cough out the next words. “…into yourself.”
He laughs, loud, then leans back in his chair and scratches the stubble on his jaw. “Perhaps I am, a little bit,” he says. “Though to be fair, all my self-confidence is mixed with intense self-doubt. Like my friends—”
“Your cool, older friends?” I interject.
He laughs again. “Yeah, them. They’re all older than me. And sometimes I catch myself trying to impress them, as if I have to make up for the fact that I’m younger.”
“Why do you hang out with older people?”
He shrugs. “I have some friends at school, but I don’t know. It happened naturally. I connected with Rasha’s classmates, and over time, I met friends of friends and so on, and they became my circle.” He pauses. “I like the excuse to get out of the house, create some distance. I love my family, but they can be overwhelming. It’s hard to get a word in when they’re all talking at once. Sometimes I need to get away, decompress.”
His family is like mine—loud.
For an introspective person like Amir, it must be a lot to deal with. Which frustrates me a little because it means, for years, I’ve been missing out on this guy sitting right next to me.
“Well, I’m glad I get full sentences from you now,” I say.
He laughs. “Thanks. So, wait, what were we talking about?”
“Um, studying together again.”
“Right! Yes, let’s do it. This material is difficult for me also.”
“Please,” I say. “You’re like a math savant.”
His eyes tease me. “Perhaps compared to you.”
“Not cool.”
“Kidding.” He grins. “Well, mostly. Let’s finish this problem. You got it?”
“We’ll see.”
His grin widens. “You’ve got it.”
I work through the steps, hesitating before punching numbers in the calculator, running back over all my handwork. My pencil wavers over the page. I’m about to ask Amir for help when he says, “Keep going.”
His assurance steadies me. I nod, take a short breath, and finish the problem. I glance at Amir afterward, unsure. “Is it right?”
“Let’s see.” He flips to the back of the book, then looks at my page, then back at his book.
“Well?”
He nods. “It looks like we might have two math savants in the room.”
“Awesome.” Suddenly, I feel lighter. I stand and bounce on my heels a couple of times. I want to punch the air like that guy at the end of The Breakfast Club, but that might be a bit much.
“You okay?” Amir asks.
“Very okay. I think I’m actually going to pass that test on Friday.”
“You’ll do better than pass. I’ll be both pissed and proud when you get a higher grade than me.”
I laugh, then walk over to their fridge. For the first time since failing that quiz, I feel truly happy, almost buoyant. Amir is right—I will do better than pass. I’ll bring up my grade, and everything will be as it should be again. “Mind if I grab something to eat? I’m starving. All sugar, no substance.”
“Sure. I’m hungry, too. I should eat before I head out.”
“Head out?” I glance at my phone. “It’s almost nine.”
“My friend Jacob has a showing at Elaine’s. It’s this great gallery downtown—small, but Elaine always tracks down the best artists. It’d be incredible to see my work there one day. Anyway, I promised him I’d stop by.”
I scratch behind my ear. “Does, uh, Jacob go to our school, or is he an older friend?”
“Older friend. He’s, like, twenty-two, I think.”
Twenty-two. That’s too old for them to be a thing, right? Still, my positivity trickles away. Whether he’s trying to be cool or not, Amir hangs out at art galleries on weeknights with interesting, older friends. I try to shake the feeling of rejection. Only days ago, I didn’t have a spare thought for Amir. But now, I’m having trouble keeping my eyes or thoughts off him.
I’m sure it’s nothing. He’s the first person I opened up to about my school stress. There’s a relief being around him. That’s all.
He glances at me and smiles. My cheeks heat.
Yep, I’m sure it’s nothing.
* * *
Ten minutes later, we’ve cooked up a double batch of ramen noodles and munched on an entire bag of sour watermelon pieces while it cooked because why not have more sugar?
“Glad to know you’re a great chef like me,” Amir says, divvying up the ramen.
“Who has time to learn how to cook?”
“I wish I could.” We head to the table with the ramen and a bowl of cut fruit. “I’m hungry all the time, and my parents unfortunately have jobs other than feeding me. It’d be fantastic if I could whip up some biryani whenever I want it.”
“True, if I could cook matzo ball soup, I’d probably have it every day.”
“I’ve never tried it.”
I put down my spoon and gape at Amir. “You’ve never had matzo ball soup?”
Amir sips his ramen, looking unconcerned. “Nope.”
I angle my chair toward him and lean forward, hands braced on my knees. “But, dude, you’re missing out on the best food in the world.”
He laughs. “You’re intense about this soup.”
“It’s a soup worthy of intensity. Seriously, though, y’all have come for dinner so many times. We’ve never had matzo ball soup?”
“Nope. But your mom did make brisket once, and it was unspeakably good.”
“Mmm, love brisket.” I sip my ramen broth
. Delicious sodium. “I can’t believe you haven’t had the soup, though. You’re going to have to come over. I’ll ask Mom to make it soon.”
“Sure.” He grins at me. “Sounds like a plan.”
A new voice cuts in. “Ariel? Hey! What are you doing here?”
Amir and I both look up to find Rasha in the doorway. She’s wearing all black, from her hijab to her motorcycle boots. I guess we were talking too much to hear her walk in. It’s still so strange spending time with chatty Amir.
“Oh, hey,” I say, shifting in my seat. Damn. I wanted to be gone by the time anyone got home. “Um, I was…”
“He was helping me study for calc,” Amir says, pointing to the textbooks.
The lie fills me with both guilt and relief. “Really?” Rasha asks. “I didn’t know you two…hung out.”
“Yeah, sometimes,” I say. “Want some ramen?” I ask, eager for a subject change.
Rasha makes a face. “Gross. I will take some of that fruit, though.” She sits, kicks her feet up on the edge of the table, and picks out a piece of cantaloupe. “Class went on forever today. It should be illegal for a three-hour lecture to run long, I’m just saying.”
“Sounds rough,” I respond.
Still, I’m jealous. In less than a year, I’ll be the one in college. Giant lecture halls with a hundred people in the class, no one focusing on me, on my grades. No pressure to be the best, only to be good enough.
“Anyways,” Rasha continues. “Now I’m behind on homework. And I was supposed to hand out fliers for the mosque’s Halal Food Festival today, so I guess I’ll have to do that in the morning. Amir, you’re going, right? You promised!”
“Uh, sure,” Amir says. Rasha has always been more religiously observant than the rest of her family. She tries to get her parents to go to services with her, like how Malka urges her parents to join her at shul.
“And,” she continues, “I have all of this stuff to do for Our Campus. This administration gives us no rest. We’re doing a politics segment every week now.”
“Our Campus?” I ask, glancing at Amir.
He nods. “It’s this—”
“It’s the podcast I work on!” Rasha jumps in. “There are a few at our school, but Our Campus is the largest. I scored an internship freshman year, and because I’m a badass, I’m already an assistant producer. We broadcast all kinds of stuff: politics, arts, personal stories, music, and obviously some segments about the school. It’s awesome. I want to get this brother of mine on to talk about his photography. I think it could really jump-start his brand, but he keeps refusing.”
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