You Asked for Perfect

by Laura Silverman

  Just write a twenty-page paper.

  I laugh, almost delirious. Dad glances at me, but I stare down at my siddur.

  Services go by in a daze. There’s so much standing and sitting, when all I want to do is lie down. It’s the longest service of the year, and doesn’t end until past three. “I’ll see y’all at home,” I tell my parents. “I’m giving Malka a ride.”

  “Okay, tatala,” Mom says.

  I slip out quickly before most people stand up. I don’t have the energy to schmooze today.

  I walk down to the east wing of the synagogue. Malka texts that she’s caught in the Jewish goodbye vortex and will escape as soon as she can. So that means it’ll be at least thirty minutes.

  The hallway is blissfully deserted. There’s a couch outside Rabbi Solomon’s office. I sink into it, then curl up on my side. Might as well hang out here and be comfortable until Malka is ready.

  I yawn a tiny yawn. It reminds me of Pari. I really should apologize…

  “Ariel?”

  My eyes blink open.

  Rabbi Solomon stands over me, hands on her hips, looking concerned. “Are you all right?”

  I clear my throat and slide to a sitting position. Too fast. I hold my head and close my eyes, waiting for the dizzy feeling to go away. I’m a dizzy daisy. I laugh out loud.

  “Can you stand? Come into my office.”

  “I should…”

  She waves off my nonexcuse. “For a minute. Come now.”

  I stand slowly then take a short breath and follow her inside. “Sit,” she says. She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a white baker’s box. There are a dozen pieces of mandel bread inside. “Here, eat. I’m going to grab you a cup of water.”

  My rabbi is handing me food on Yom Kippur.

  “But I’m fasting…”

  “Hashem understands. You need nourishment.”

  I hesitate, but grab a piece of mandel bread. I’m already starting on my second by the time Rabbi Solomon comes back with a cup of water.

  “What’s going on, Ariel?” she asks. “Are you sick? Have you been sleeping well?”

  I hesitate. Lying to a rabbi seems real un-kosher.

  Rabbi Solomon answers the silence. “Perhaps I should go find your parents. Tell them you’re not feeling well.”

  “That’s really not necessary,” I say a bit too loudly. Mom has a filing deadline for a story tomorrow night, and Dad is in court all next week. I don’t need to bother them over nothing. “Really,” I say. “I’m good.”

  “How about this then—you call me after the holiday and make a time to come see me. We’ll have a little chat. You’ll be off to college before we know it.”

  “And you won’t talk to my parents?”

  “If you come here and chat with me, then no, I won’t talk to your parents.”

  “Okay, sure,” I reply, head throbbing. One more thing on my list. “I’ll be here.”

  * * *

  “Thanks for the ride,” Malka says.

  My fingers tap the steering wheel. Why won’t this car in front of me move? Move! The parking lot is gridlocked. I need to get home. I thought I’d be there almost an hour ago, but time is slipping away. I need a plan. Okay, first I’ll start the paper—

  “Ariel, you can go,” Malka says as the car behind me honks.

  I startle and press my foot to the gas. The car jerks forward. “Crap, sorry,” I mutter. I put on my blinker and turn out of the parking lot.

  Okay, so first I’ll start the paper, and then I’ll take a break and work through the practice problems for—

  “Um, Ariel? My house is the other way.”

  I glance at Malka, then back at the road. “Right. Sorry.” I was on autopilot thinking about getting home. The light in front of me turns yellow, but the lanes are clear, so I press down on the gas and whip a U-turn to take us back toward Malka’s house.

  “Whoa, there,” she says, touching the roof of the car. “Okay, fast and furious.”

  “What?”

  She gives me a funny look. “Nothing. Speaking of fast, how’s yours going?”

  My stomach growls. The mandel bread only made me hungrier. Screw it. I should eat when I get home. If the rabbi says I can eat, then I can eat, right? I’ll get home and have a nosh, and then I’ll start the paper, and then I’ll take a break and work through the practice problems for—

  “Ariel!” Malka shouts.

  A car horn blares behind me as I finish crossing an intersection. I glance in my rearview mirror. A car coming from the cross street is stalled in the middle of the road. Wait, what just happened?

  Malka is gripping the oh shit handle. “The light was red,” she says, voice taut. “Slow down. Please slow down.”

  My heart can’t slow down. It’s racing a hundred miles an hour, like someone cut the brakes. My mind swims with exhaustion. “Sorry,” I say, but my voice isn’t even a whisper. I clear my throat. “Sorry, sorry.”

  “We’re almost there. Please be careful.”

  I can feel Malka’s tense muscles, body bracing for an accident.

  Shit. Shit.

  I place both hands on the wheel and stare at the road. Focus, Ariel. Drive down the street. Take a right into Malka’s neighborhood. Slow, now. Twenty-five miles an hour. Make it twenty. Pull into her driveway. Car in park. You’re on a hill. Emergency brake.

  Malka puts her hand on mine. I’m still gripping the wheel. I don’t want to look at her. I can’t look at her.

  “Ariel, you want to come in for a little bit? We can take a Yom Kippur catnap.”

  I blink. A nap would be nice. But I’m already late. I’ll get home and have a nosh, and then I’ll start the paper—

  “Ariel?”

  I turn to her and force a smile. “Nah, I’m good,” I say. My hand shakes, so I grip the wheel tighter. “I’m not tired.”

  Fourteen

  “Pizza or mac and cheese?” I ask Rachel.

  “Um, mac and cheese?” she responds from the living room floor, where she’s surrounded by puffy paint and poster board and pictures of pirates.

  “You got it.”

  I made it to the end of the week. I turned in the massive English paper, caught up on my Spanish reading, and snagged another A on a calculus quiz. Our parents are out for Shabbat dinner at a friend’s house, so I’m cooking for Rachel, stirring while reading notes for AP Gov on my phone.

  My phone rings. It’s Malka. Calling me. I’ve been brushing off her texts since Yom Kippur, quick responses like “all good” and “awesome.” I’m tempted to ignore her, but I answer the call.

  “Hey!” I say, voice too bright.

  “Hey,” she says, suspicious of my too-bright voice.

  I stir the mac and cheese. “Shabbat Shalom.”

  “Shabbat Shalom. So, what are you up to tonight?”

  This isn’t normal. We both know this isn’t normal. We don’t call—we text. I shift on my feet before answering. “Making some dinner for Rachel. Parents are out, so we’re going to hang here.” The line buzzes. Should I invite her over? No, I have too much work to do. “What about you?”

  “I’m—” She pauses. “Look, Ariel, are you okay? You really freaked me out on Yom Kippur.”

  My pulse races. “I’m great. Fine.”

  “You were really distracted and—”

  “I was fasting,” I say. “I was hungry. It’s all good. I promise.”

  The line buzzes again. “Do you maybe want to—”

  “Ah! Water’s boiling over. Sorry, got to go!”

  I hang up the phone, then turn it on silent. If I can’t hear her calling, then I can’t stress about whether or not to pick up. Running a red light was not good, but I know that. I don’t need her worrying about it. I’ll be better, get more sleep. In fact, after practicing m
y solo tonight, I’m planning on getting a solid eight hours. It’s fine.

  I’m fine.

  When the food is ready, I call Rachel to the table. “Can we eat in here?” Rachel asks. “I want to keep working.”

  “Sure.” I carry the bowls into the family room and settle on the couch. I can read over more notes while eating, then practice violin for a few hours, and still be asleep by midnight.

  Rachel and I both demolish our mac and cheese, then continue to work. Squeaking markers, cutting paper, rustling pages, the sounds are nice ambience as I study. Every now and then Rachel glances back for my opinion. “Do you like that?” she asks, after pasting a close-up of a sword next to a full illustration of her pirate.

  “Awesome, good choice.”

  I ask if she wants ice cream before I go upstairs, and she says yes and joins me in the kitchen to make it. We go for full sundaes, whipped cream, cherries, and all.

  “What are you working on?” She twirls her spoon in the ice cream but doesn’t eat it.

  I sigh. “Like, everything. When is your pirate project due?”

  “Next week.” She stares at her untouched dessert.

  “Aren’t you going to eat any?”

  She twists her mouth. “Put it in the freezer for me? My stomach feels kind of funny. Too much mac.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  She hugs me with one arm, her body warm and close, before retreating to the living room. I put her ice cream in the freezer, but only after stealing a bite.

  * * *

  I clean the dishes and check on Rachel before heading upstairs. She’s still at work on her project, but she has the Disney Channel on in the background.

  Up in my room, I crack my knuckles, then examine the pads of my fingers, half-callused and half-blistered, already aggravated from doing the dishes. But I have to practice. Less than two weeks until I play the solo against Pari.

  I can picture her, playing with intent, hair swept back into a sleek ponytail, fingernails coated with cracked blue polish, conjuring each note with heartfelt perfection. If Harvard has two applicants from Etta Fields High School, will they take first chair or second?

  I grab a couple Band-Aids from the bathroom and wrap them around the worst of my fingers. Then I lift my violin and begin to tune it, turning the small metal screws. “Shit!” I gasp, fingers burning, almost dropping the instrument. Tears spring to my eyes.

  How am I supposed to do this? I have to practice the solo to keep first chair. I’m nowhere near ready. But the gig with Dizzy Daisies is tomorrow night, and Sook wants a full dress rehearsal beforehand.

  My fingers throb. I can’t do this. I physically can’t keep this up. I can push my mind all I want, but my skin will crack and bleed. I wipe away more tears as they come.

  Try again. It’s not that bad. I’ll play through the solo, see how it goes.

  I lift my violin and grimace as I place my fingers on the strings. Tears spring up again. Ignore them. I begin to play, pain vibrating through me. I try to zone out and sink into the music, think only of the notes and their arrangement. And it works. I make it through. But when I’m done, the pain rushes back, and there’s blood on my strings.

  “Fuck.” My heart drops. Just do it. Get it over with.

  I wipe my bloody fingers on my jeans and then text Sook: I’m so sorry. I can’t play with you guys tomorrow night.

  I stare at the message, weary and numb. What kind of a best friend bails at the last minute, especially on something so important?

  A moment later, Sook is calling me.

  I swallow hard, pulse racing, then tap ignore and turn off my phone. It seems safer than silent.

  I’ll go to sleep, rest my mind and fingers, and get back to work tomorrow. Everything will be better in the morning. I strip down to my boxers and climb into bed, pulling the comforter over me. It’s warm and safe and dark. My body sinks into the mattress. The second my eyes dip closed, I’m asleep.

  * * *

  I wake up to darkness and frantic voices. Disoriented, I roll over to check the time, but my phone is off. My laptop is on the floor by my bed. I open it and see it’s little past four in the morning. My head is swimming, jarred from heavy sleep.

  The voices are too muffled to hear. I throw off my covers, get up, and crack open my door. The hallway is bright. Half of the house lights are on.

  I head downstairs. Mom is in the kitchen, pulling on a jacket over her sleep shirt and pajama pants. Dad is pacing in the living room, on the phone. “Yes, we’re on our way. Bringing her now.”

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  Then I hear it. Rachel. Her cry sounds more animal than human. I rush into the living room. Her project supplies are still out on the floor, and she’s on the couch, clutching her stomach, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  My pulse thuds in my ears. “What is it?” I turn to my parents. “What’s going on?”

  “We don’t know,” Dad says, getting off the phone. “C’mon. We’re going to the hospital.”

  “Okay, um, I’ll put clothes on.”

  I rush upstairs, almost tripping on a step, then yank a shirt on and pull sweatpants over my boxers. When I get to the garage, my parents are already piling Rachel in the car. She’s quieter, whimpering. Maybe it’s her appendix? Or something she ate? Was it the mac and cheese?

  But then I’d be sick, too.

  I slide in next to her and sit in the middle seat so I can keep my arm around her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say, even though I have no idea what I’m sorry for.

  * * *

  Dad walks into the waiting room. “No update yet,” he says.

  Rachel was admitted into the ER two hours ago. They’ve ruled out imminently life-threatening diagnoses, but that’s of little comfort since they still don’t know what’s going on.

  “How’s she feeling?”

  “Better, Baruch Hashem. They gave her some pain and anxiety medication, but since we don’t know what caused the symptoms…”

  Dad trails off and kind of blank stares at the wall. It’s unsettling to see him like this. Dad is always in control, but in this moment he looks as lost as I feel. I stand and wrap my arms around him. He’s still taller than me. I tuck my head against his shoulder, and he hugs me back. I close my eyes and breathe deep, and for a moment I feel safe, protected, like a kid again. “I love you,” I say.

  “Love you, too, Ariel.” We stay like that for a while until Dad steps away, running a hand through his hair, the curls wilder than usual. “I’m going to get more coffee. Do you want anything?”

  “Coffee sounds good.”

  I rub my eyes and settle back into my chair, both wired and exhausted. It’s strange to sit here with nothing to do. I never sit still, never hit pause. Restlessness makes my skin crawl.

  I have my phone, but I’m nervous to turn it on and see messages from Sook.

  The waiting room is mostly empty. There’s an elderly couple who look like they’ve been camped out all day. A young family with multiple little kids wanting to be entertained. A girl with torn jeans and a hoodie sitting alone.

  I glance down to see what they see. A teenage guy with curly hair, wearing black sweatpants and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt.

  After ten minutes pass, Dad still isn’t back, and my nerves kick into overdrive.

  I don’t understand what happened.

  I don’t understand what’s happening.

  My leg shakes up and down. I need to do something. Sighing, I turn on my phone.

  Texts from Sook light up the screen. The most recent one begins: I can’t believe you would…

  The gnawing guilt I felt only hours ago is now tucked far away. I think my brain is compartmentalizing because I can only deal with so much stress at once. I scroll past her texts and find some from Amir. I’ve barely seen hi
m all week, and my body actually aches to have him near me. Feeling a trace of relief, I open the thread and read:

  Hey what time are you coming?

  Are you on the way?

  I’m in the back left corner

  There’s only an hour left

  I hope you’re okay

  …Thanks for the support

  I blink. Oh. Oh. Fuck. It takes all my willpower not to throw my phone across the room. I forgot about Amir’s photography show. I set an alarm to remind me earlier this week, but then I was so distracted with all my work, and then I turned off my phone…

  I glance at the time. It’s six thirty on a Saturday morning. My weekend plans had been set. Amir’s photography show on Friday. Gig with Dizzy Daisies on Saturday. But then I chose my work over them. And now my sister is in the freaking ER, and I’m alone in the waiting room, having fucked up my relationships with the few close friends I have.

  I can’t deal with this. I can’t.

  I’m about to turn off my phone again, when it starts ringing. Startled, I almost drop it. Amir is calling. But I didn’t text him back…

  I pick up. “Hello?”

  “Ariel.” His warm voice stirs unexpected emotions. My eyes blur. I close them and pinch the bridge of my nose. Breathe. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I just heard about Rachel. My mom is about to leave for the hospital. Want me to come with her? I can bring sour gummy worms.”

  Oh, of course. My mom probably texted Mrs. Naeem. They’re so close. “Um, that’s okay…I mean…maybe later. I don’t know what’s happening yet.”

  “All right, whatever you want. No pressure at all.”

  It’s weird to talk on the phone with him. He sounds so distant.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “For all the texts. I had no idea what was happening with Rachel. I must have sounded so callous.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Yeah, she was fine then, um…”

  Silence.

  “What?”

  “She was fine earlier. I forgot about your show. I’m really sorry, Amir. I had a reminder on my phone, but I turned off my phone because I’ve been really stressed with school…”