You Asked for Perfect

by Laura Silverman

  I pull back for a second, breathing hard.

  “You okay?” Amir asks.

  My hands tangle with his, like I’m unable to break complete contact. “I’m okay, but uh—” I clear my throat, glancing back at my bed. “I don’t want to have sex or anything. I mean, I do, like one day, but I don’t want to have sex right now.”

  “Me neither,” Amir says. I exhale. He scratches his neck, self-conscious for a rare moment. “Pants stay on?”

  “Pants stay on,” I agree.

  We both smile.

  Then we’re kissing again. Then we’re on the bed kissing, twisting and pushing closer together. I pull my lips across his skin, against the stubble of his jaw, down his neck, and across his collarbone. Amir shudders beneath me as I accidentally nip the skin.

  Too hot. He is actually too hot of a person.

  “This okay?” he asks, reaching for the hem of my T-shirt.

  “Yeah.” I’m a bit breathless as he pulls my shirt off and then his also. I’m overwhelmed by the press of his bare chest against mine.

  We slow down, more like our first kiss. Lingering in the moment, kisses as wandering as our conversations. Time slips by, and we only pull apart when Scheherazade ends and the room drops into silence.

  I lean my head against his bare chest and breathe him in. My hand runs down his skin. There’s a spot of my dried blood from earlier. I rub it away, then kiss the spot. He makes a soft hum in response.

  I blink, my eyes half-closed, suddenly sated and sleepy. “I don’t want to go to services tomorrow,” I say. “I want to stay right here.”

  “I wish I had a Time-Turner like Hermione. Think about it. We could keep turning back the clock and stay here as long as we want.”

  “I could be into that.”

  “Will your parents be home soon?”

  “We have some time.” I look down at our bare chests. “But maybe we should put our shirts back on.” I pause. “Should we tell them?”

  Amir shifts so he can glance at me. “Tell them what?”

  He’s grinning, teasing me. He wants me to say it. “I don’t know,” I say. “That we’re hanging. Talking.”

  He traces a finger across my collarbone. “I think we’re doing a bit more than talking.”

  I blush. “Maybe we should wait.”

  “Maybe,” he agrees. “I’ll be here tomorrow, by the way. Your mom invited us for Rosh Hashanah dinner.”

  “Let’s definitely wait then,” I say. “We’ll be animals in a zoo if we tell them before we all spend the evening together.”

  “Good call,” Amir agrees. The air-conditioning clicks on, the cold air blasting the room. Amir pulls the blanket up so it covers us. It’s warm under here, snug. “We’ll keep the invisibility cloak on for now,” Amir says.

  I snort. “Nerd.”

  Amir grins. “Dork.”

  Ten

  The benches creak as everyone rises to their feet for the Amidah. “Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu veilohei avoteinu, elohei Avraham, elohei Yitzchak, veilohei Yaakov…”

  The prayer continues. I have it memorized from years of repetition, so I recite it as I look around the room. The synagogue is packed for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. Many of our congregants only attend shul for the High Holidays. Our sanctuary even has removable dividers so we can expand the space to twice the size.

  Voices boom around me, the entire congregation joining together in something more powerful than song. It’s always comforting, being surrounded by so many people reciting the same prayers as the generations before us.

  As the Amidah switches to the silent portion, I think of Amir, up in my bedroom last night. The back of my neck heats.

  I slip out my phone, keeping it low and against my thigh. No messages. I refresh my email. Even though it’s usually spam, every time a new email from a college pops up, my heart jolts, and I panic and wonder if I’m forgetting something.

  People are beginning to sit, so I do also. My parents are still praying. Mom mouths the Hebrew, and Dad traces the English translation with his finger. I glance at Rachel. She’s playing with a rubber band, twisting and stretching it, hands never stilling.

  My phone buzzes. A calendar reminder to prepare for my Harvard interview, which is in less than two weeks. I scan the calendar: calculus quiz, gov test, paper for Spanish lit, college essay, practice violin solo, work on college applications…

  Maybe I have more work to do this weekend than I’d thought.

  The prayer finishes and another begins.

  * * *

  Everyone mills around after services. Rachel runs off to play at Tinder Hill, and Mom and Dad say Happy New Year to a hundred different people. They’re connected to every family through some good deed, from reporting on a health crisis at a school to representing families pro bono. They do so much for the community and ask for nothing in return. My volunteer hours at the shelter are a pittance in comparison.

  I find Malka in the tide of congregants, and we wander up and down the mostly deserted preschool branch of the synagogue. We peer into one of the classrooms, with its map of Israel and toys and miniature tables and chairs.

  Malka laughs and squats down into one of the tiny seats. “Can you believe we were ever this little?”

  “Nope,” I say, sitting also, my butt not even half fitting.

  “I remember you both being that little,” a new voice chimes in. Rabbi Solomon stands in the doorway, holding her lavender tallis bag.

  “Rabbi!” Malka says. “L’shana Tova!”

  “L’shana Tova, Malka. L’shana Tova, Ariel.”

  “Shana Tova!” I respond. “I enjoyed your sermon.”

  Rabbi Solomon raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t sure if you caught it with your phone out.”

  Malka snickers and says, “Ooooh,” like we really are kids again.

  My cheeks flame red. “Sorry, I was listening. I promise.”

  Rabbi Solomon waves her hand dismissively. “That’s all right. Come with me, you two. Ariel, I have something to give you.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, though I’m curious what she has for me. “Aren’t you busy today?”

  “Too busy. I need to hide, and you two will be my buffer until we get to my office. Act like we’re in a very intense conversation, fershtay?”

  Malka and I nod, both amused. Our rabbi has us pulling a con. We walk down the hallway on either side of her. Sure enough, everyone we pass tries to get her attention.

  “Wonderful sermon, Rabbi Solomon, I wanted to ask—”

  “Rabbi Solomon, how are your—”

  “Oh good, Rabbi, solve this debate for us—”

  We take turns cutting people off. Rabbi Solomon is the most adept at it, though. She raises one finger, looks serious, and says, “I’m so sorry. I’m in the middle of something important with these young ones.” And then we keep moving down the hall. I’ve never gotten through a crowd at synagogue so fast.

  We make it to her office, and she breathes an overdramatic sigh of relief as she shuts the door behind us. “Baruch Hashem,” she says. “We made it.”

  Her office is large. There’s enough space for a six-person table, plus her desk and two giant armchairs. Bookcases take up most of the wall space, filled with texts, both in Hebrew and English. Judaica also lines the shelves, from ornate, expensive pieces to bits of sculpted clay from the preschoolers. Rabbi Solomon tutored me here for my bar mitzvah, a few one-on-one sessions to critique my D’var Torah.

  I remember enjoying it. Her questions and critiques pushed me to learn and grow. And it was nice improving my speech simply to improve it, not for a grade.

  “Here we are.” Rabbi Solomon plucks a book from the shelf. “It’s a shortened version of the Talmud. The one I had growing up as a girl was too bulky, so it never left our coffee table. But this could ea
sily fit in a book bag or even a purse. I brought my copy to university and read it there. Before I knew it, I was reading from the Talmud every day. Of course, then I ran out of stories and moved on to the big book. I like to give every graduating student an abridged copy.”

  “Thank you,” I say, taking the book, feeling a bit guilty it will likely go home to sit on my shelf. But Rabbi Solomon did say it’s for college, so maybe I’ll have time to read it next year.

  “Malka, are you enjoying yours? How’s college?”

  “I am.” She tucks her hair behind her ears. She’s wearing gold hoops today, and her lips are coated in some kind of gloss. “I read a few stories. They were good. And college is…great!” She clears her throat, looking like she wants to change the subject. “I went to the campus Chabad. They were nice.”

  Rabbi Solomon clasps her hands together. “That’s wonderful to hear! I love Rabbi Shmul! He’s done a fantastic job getting the students involved.”

  “Yeah,” Malka says. “I like him.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful. I like hearing our young ones are investing in their community. Those relationships will last you a lifetime.” She glances at the time on her watch and tsks. “I should probably get back to the masses. Thank you both for providing me a respite.” She smiles. “And again, L’Shana Tova.”

  * * *

  “Don’t do it!” Sook squeals.

  Rachel cackles and chases Sook across the kitchen, fingers coated with honey. “I’m coming for you!”

  “Make it stop!” Sook hollers.

  “On it!” I intercept and pick Rachel up by her armpits, bringing her to my eye level. She grins wickedly. “Don’t,” I warn. But she plants her sticky palm flat against my cheek. “Ugh, now you’re going to get it.”

  I put her down and snatch the dish of apples and honey from the table. Holding it high above her reach, I swipe honey onto my finger and dash after her around the dining room table, but before I can get to her, the front door opens, and I stop short in front of Rasha and Amir.

  Amir looks exceptionally amused. “Happy New Year,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I respond, breathless. Our eyes lock for a long moment, and I swallow hard.

  Rasha looks back and forth between us. “Something is going on here. Are y’all like…”

  “Shh!” We both shush her at the same time.

  “We haven’t had a chance to tell the parents,” Amir says.

  “We will. Soon.”

  “It’s new,” Amir continues. “We don’t need them planning a wedding before Ariel takes me out on a date.”

  “Oh, I’m taking you out on a date?”

  “Well, the photography show was my idea, so it’s your turn. Better be good, too.”

  “Challenge accepted.”

  “Whoa,” Rasha says. “So this really is happening.” She glances back and forth between us, then nods. “Okay, cool. I ship it.”

  I grin. “Good. I’m gonna go shower off. There’s honey everywhere.”

  “Everywhere?” Amir asks.

  “Oh my god,” Rasha groans, while I blush.

  Upstairs, I shower fast, body humming with endorphins and nerves. I still have a lot of work left, but all I really want to do is spend more time with Amir. I step out of my bathroom, towel wrapped around my waist, then freeze. Malka, Sook, Rasha, and Amir are all hanging out in my room.

  “Hi, guys,” I say. “Please. Come in.”

  They all laugh. “Sorry, dude,” Malka says. “It was getting a little grown-up heavy down there.”

  “Yeah, really couldn’t deal with one more person asking me where I’m applying to school,” Sook says.

  “Or how I like college,” Rasha says.

  “Or how my dorm is,” Malka says.

  “Or where I’m applying to school,” Amir finishes, but his voice is higher than usual, and he’s very intently not looking at me in my towel.

  “Understandable. I’m gonna, uh—” I slide open my dresser drawers and grab some clothes. “Change. I’ll be right back.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re playing Settlers of Catan on my bedroom floor. I love this game and haven’t had time to play since summer. Amir has never played because he, unsurprisingly, prefers Harry Potter Clue, but he picks it up with ease. It becomes apparent Rasha is a mastermind of Catan.

  We pick at my stash of candy as we play, Haribo Sour S’ghetti and Peaches. The game passes by quickly with laughter and shouts of “Longest road!” and “Don’t knight me!”

  Amir is stretched out on his stomach next to me, head propped on his arm, laughing as Rasha and Sook barter with wheat and sheep. He glances my way, and I fizz with pleasure.

  Before I know it, we’re being called downstairs for dinner. I glance out the window into the fading light. I’ll have to get some work done after everyone leaves, maybe stay up a bit late, but that’s okay. I don’t need much sleep to sit through morning services. Most kids don’t even go to synagogue on the second day of Rosh Hashanah. Some because they’re not as observant and some because it’s so difficult to miss one day of school, much less two. But in my family, both days are mandatory.

  We all file downstairs. The house booms with loud voices and laughter. There are a couple dozen people here for dinner. Malka and Sook’s parents. Amir’s entire family. A few other couples from shul. My parents’ cousins. Everyone greets me, a blur of hugs and handshakes and kisses on the cheek.

  “L’Shanna Tova!”

  “Happy New Year!”

  “Shana Tova!”

  It’s warm in the kitchen, and the smell of matzo ball soup and brisket wafts toward me. Amir joins his family at the counter, as my parents ladle out bowls of soup.

  Mr. Naeem wraps an arm around Amir. “Be sure to remember the name Amir Naeem,” he says to Mrs. Rifkin from shul. “He’s going to be a famous photographer.”

  “In all the galleries, I know it,” Mrs. Naeem agrees. “He’s a genius with the lens.”

  Amir forces a half smile, and my heart tugs. He must feel me staring because he glances up. I nod toward the dining room, and he excuses himself and heads that way, passing me with a quick grin.

  I grab two bowls of soup from Mom and Dad. They’re pulling the same crap. Ariel is applying to Harvard, Mom says. My jaw tenses. Sometimes it feels like it’s the only thing they say about me, like it’s the only interesting thing about me, the only thing worth being proud of. At Passover Seder, will they be telling the same people, No, he didn’t get in?

  I join Amir in the dining room. It’s still mostly empty in here, and the few people sitting are busy devouring their soup.

  Amir and I grab seats at the end of the table. His eyes light up. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “Jewish penicillin, the best food in existence. Yes, it is my mother’s matzo ball soup.”

  “That’s quite the intro.”

  “I haven’t even begun to do this soup justice.” The scent of dill and salty kosher chicken drifts between us. “God, I’m jealous of you. I wish I could remember my first time, but Mom probably fed me the broth in a bottle as a baby.”

  “Is it better than the Thai food?”

  “It is better than all food. It is another plane of existence. Like there’s food, and there’s great food, and then in another galaxy far, far away there’s matzo ball soup.”

  I angle my chair so I can watch Amir. I’m suddenly anxious. What if he doesn’t like it? Obviously, we can’t date if he doesn’t like matzo ball soup.

  Amir looks at me. “I feel like whatever reaction I have isn’t going to be big enough.”

  “Okay, I’m chilling. Promise.” I cross my arms and lean back in my chair. “See? I’m chill.”

  “Mm-hmm, sure.” Amir eyes me with suspicion. “All right, here we go.”

  He lifts his spoon and sips. His eyes widen. H
e stares down at the bowl, then takes another sip. Then he glances up at me for only a second before taking another spoonful and another.

  “Take a bite of the matzo—”

  I start to say, but Amir is already spooning off part of the matzo ball and trying it, a bit of carrot and shredded chicken, too. Before I know it, his entire bowl is finished. He looks up at me, eyes full of wonder. Finally, he gives a Jewish mother’s favorite praise: “Please tell me I can have seconds.”

  * * *

  Later that night, after all the guests have left, my family is collapsed in the living room. Dad snores in the armchair, too tired to make it upstairs. One of his slippers has fallen off.

  “Oy gevalt, remind me to never host the High Holidays again,” Mom says, yawning. Her feet are propped up on a pillow on Rachel’s lap, and Rachel is massaging them for her.

  “You say that every year,” I respond, while reading AP Gov notes off my phone. So far, thanks to the detailed presentations our teacher posts online, I haven’t had to open a textbook for the class, and I am so not complaining. “And then every year you say you’ll have a low-key dinner, and you won’t make a big fuss, and then you end up inviting the entire tribe, and we end up here, with your ten-year-old daughter rubbing your feet.”

  “I don’t mind!” Rachel says. “I will always rub feet for matzo ball soup.”

  I tap away from my notes and pull up my calendar. The Harvard application is looming closer, but at least I’m back on the right track. I’ll use my last day off school to practice for my violin solo, and I can also get ahead in my reading for Spanish lit.

  “Thank you, mamaleh,” Mom says. “Ariel, did your friends enjoy the soup?”

  “They always do,” I answer.

  “What about Amir? Did he like the soup?”

  I freeze. She knows. How does she know? “Um…”

  “Amir’s mom mentioned he hadn’t tried it before. He had some tonight, right? Do you know if he liked it?”