You Asked for Perfect

by Laura Silverman

  “Oh,” he says.

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “I don’t want to be mad at you right now.” His voice is tight, words measured. “Your sister is in the hospital.”

  “But you are mad at me.”

  “I’m—it was important.”

  More silence. I clear my throat. “How did it go?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think…let’s not do that. I’m here if you need me later, okay?” He sounds like he wants to hang up.

  “Okay,” I say.

  I keep the phone pressed to my ear, wondering if he’ll say anything else, but then the line goes silent.

  * * *

  Around nine in the morning, they moved Rachel from the ER into a regular room. The second I got there, I ran in and hugged her, lump in my throat. She looked tiny in the bed—young. She’s a kid. She’s only a kid. I feel like I’m not the only one who forgets that.

  Now it’s almost noon. Rachel and I both dozed for a while, but it’s hard to sleep with the beeping machines and nurses hustling in and out, so we’ve been playing Scrabble on my phone while our parents step out of the room to call family members with updates.

  “Don’t do it,” I warn. Normally, I don’t let Rachel win. She’s too smart and beats me plenty on her own, but I couldn’t help but leave a triple word score open for her today. She’s alert and cheerful considering, her pain mostly gone, but the color is still drained from her cheeks. I hate not knowing what caused this.

  “I’m doing it.” She grins and puts down the word: Jinx.

  I groan. “You’re killing me.”

  Rachel smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You picked the game. Your turn.”

  I’m taking the phone back when the doctor walks into the room. She’s wearing scrubs and sneakers. My parents follow her in. We all stare at the doctor, waiting for her to say something.

  Rachel speaks first. “So,” she says. “What’s wrong with me?”

  She asks it in such a perfunctory way, we all laugh, breaking some of the tension in the room. “Well, let’s see if your brother will wait outside,” the doctor replies.

  “That’s okay,” Rachel says. “I want him in here.”

  Why would the doctor want me to wait outside?

  “Yeah.” I cross my arms. “I’m good here.”

  Mom and Dad nod also.

  “All right,” the doctor says. “So, good news first: all of your CT scans were clear. We’re still waiting on some blood work, but our best guess is you had a psychosomatic response last night, which manifested as sharp abdominal pains.”

  “Wait,” Dad says. “What?”

  “In layman’s terms,” the doctor continues, “she was upset, and it caused physical pains. It’s common for stress to lead to this sort of reaction.”

  “Stress?” Mom rubs her forehead. “What do you mean—”

  “Is she okay now?” Dad asks. “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course she’s not okay,” Mom snaps. She then softens her voice. “It’s not physical, but that doesn’t mean it’s not harmful.”

  “Right, no, of course,” Dad says.

  I’m sitting there trying to take in all of the information, but the pieces don’t fit together. “Stress?” I ask. “She’s ten. What caused…”

  I think of last night and the pirate project spread out all over the floor. I think of the last few weeks and Rachel doing homework instead of playing with the animals at the shelter, not putting her book down at the table. I turn to my sister.

  “Rachel…” I start, not wanting to say it. “Are you stressed about your project? Is it school?”

  Her face is still hard. Then, it crumples. Her voice cracks when she speaks. “I just wanted to do a good job.”

  She starts crying, and I try to fight back my own tears. I want to escape, but this is my sister. I need to be here for her. So, I move to her bed and hug her. She buries her face in my shoulder, and I bury my face in her pillow, and we both let the tears come.

  * * *

  He’s standing in front of the cages, finger looped through the bars, varsity jacket thrown over his shoulder. “Isaac?” I ask.

  He turns and blinks. The animal shelter is busy today. There’s a family and a single guy up front, both waiting to sign adoption papers with Marnie. So Isaac and I are back here all alone. I don’t think either of us expected to run into anyone.

  “Hey, sorry,” he says. “The woman, um, Marnie, said I could come back here.” His eyes are unfocused, hair unkempt. “I’m supposed to be at practice…” He lets the sentence hang without further explanation. “What about you?”

  “Uh.” My brain freezes. Then, the truth. “I just got back from the hospital. My sister is sick.”

  “Oh damn, is she going to be okay? What is it? The flu?”

  “No.” I scratch the back of my neck. “Stress. Uh, school stress.”

  “It made her sick?”

  I nod. “Guess so.”

  My throat constricts thinking about it. My little sister was in the hospital—the freaking hospital—because of school. And Malka and I could’ve landed there when I was driving her home the other day. Because of school.

  “That’s messed up,” Isaac says. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, it is messed up.” I pause, glancing at the cages. “I volunteer here, and Rachel helps sometimes. So I was going to take our favorite dog to visit her. We’re not really supposed to do that, but Marnie is pretty awesome.”

  “Yeah, she seems nice.” Ezekiel sits in a cage by Isaac. He wags his tail, and I mouth soon.

  “What about you?” I ask. “You said you’re supposed to be at practice?”

  Isaac hesitates. He slips that red stress ball out of his pocket and squeezes it twice. I didn’t realize he always carried it around. “I sprained my ankle at the game last night,” he says. “If I play on it, I could injure it worse, and I won’t be able to play the rest of the season. I’ll lose my chance of getting a scholarship.” His fingers grip the ball so tight they go white. “But if I don’t play, scouts won’t see me at the upcoming game, and I could lose my chance of getting a scholarship. It’s only a sprain—” His voice catches. “—but it could ruin everything.”

  Something breaks within me.

  It shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t be this hard.

  Isaac looks like he’s on the verge of tears. I wonder if I look much different. “C’mon,” I say, unlatching Ezekiel’s cage. “We can play with him outside before I take him home.”

  “Do you have time? With your sister and all…”

  “I have time,” I say. Ezekiel scrambles into Isaac’s arms and licks his face. Isaac laughs and pulls him closer. “I can make time.”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, I knock on Rachel’s bedroom door. After she was discharged from the hospital, with a follow-up appointment set with a pediatric psychologist, she came home and napped. So did my parents. It was strange being at home on a Saturday without attending synagogue first. I was too anxious to nap, so I went to the animal shelter instead.

  “Come in,” Rachel calls.

  I open her door. “The Chain” by Fleetwood Mac plays from her iPad. Great music taste definitely runs in the family.

  “Someone’s here to see you,” I say, keeping Ezekiel out of her sight.

  “Who?” Rachel asks. “Sara?”

  “Nope.” I bend down and unhook the leash. Ezekiel races into the room and jumps onto the bed, licking Rachel’s face. She squeals and hugs him.

  “Oh my god!” she says. “Is he ours?”

  “Oh, oops. Unfortunately not.” I wince. “Mom is still allergic. But guess what? My friend Isaac and his family are going to adopt him!”

  “Really?” Rachel asks, excited.

  “Really! And Isaac
said we can come over and play with Ezekiel whenever we want.”

  “Oh good.” Rachel grins. Ezekiel tries to climb onto her chest and ends up haphazardly hugging her, one paw stretched out to her neck, another on her stomach. Rachel leans down and cuddles him, breathing deeply. “I love him,” she says.

  “Me too.” I climb on the bed with them and pet Ezekiel, but he only gives my hand a tiny lick and stays curled up against Rachel.

  We sit with him for a long time, talking about nothing more serious than his cute puppy tail and his cute puppy face. But then, Rachel says, “I’m scared to go to the psychologist. Have you ever been to one?”

  “I haven’t,” I say. Though maybe it’s a good idea to talk to someone. Doing this alone isn’t working, so maybe it’s time to try something new. “I’m sure she’ll be really nice. Besides, Mom and Dad are awesome. They won’t make you keep going if you don’t like it.”

  “I looked it up,” Rachel says.

  “Psychology?”

  “Psychosomatic response.” She pronounces the words deliberately, like she’s still getting used to them. “It’s kind of scary your head can make you sick. How am I supposed to get my homework done if working can hurt me?”

  I stay silent, thinking about all the times I told myself skipping sleep was fine, skipping lunch was fine, all to get the work done. “I wish I knew. I wish I could tell you to stop, but I’m not sure how we can stop school. Maybe the psychologist can help.”

  “Maybe.”

  How do you avoid school stress when you can’t avoid school?

  Ezekiel crawls over to my lap, resting his head on my thigh. My stomach twists with guilt. How can I tell Rachel school doesn’t matter when it does? She has so many years of it ahead of her. What if these classes keep tearing her apart from the inside out? I’ve never wanted the right answers more.

  “I love you, Ra-chell,” I say.

  “Love you too.”

  “I’m always right here.” I bang the wall between our rooms. “You know that, right?”

  “I know.” She shifts under her covers. “I think I’m gonna nap more. I’m tired. Can Ezekiel stay with me?”

  “Sure, I’ll take him back later.”

  Rachel snuggles more deeply into bed. I stand and walk into the hallway, but I leave the door cracked open. That way I can keep an eye on her.

  Fifteen

  Sook avoids eye contact with me as she walks into our English class. On Sunday, she brought over Rachel’s favorite chocolate chip oatmeal cookies and made light small talk, but only for my sister’s sake. I wanted to know how the gig went but was too nervous to bring it up myself. Did they play without me? Was an agent there? And the question I keep trying to push away: Did I ruin her chance at her dream?

  Now it’s Friday, and we haven’t spoken all week. I’ve barely spoken to anyone all week, drifting from class to class, turning in work and taking tests, but feeling like I’m watching an avatar of myself go through the motions.

  My apologies to Sook sit on our text thread unanswered. I’ve never messed up like this before. I want to fix it. I need to fix it. But I don’t know how.

  “Hey,” I say.

  She puts in headphones and opens her leather planner.

  Hey isn’t going to cut it.

  Things are also strained with Amir. I apologized again at school, and he said it’s fine, which historically and universally means it’s not fine. But I don’t know how to make it right with him, either. I fractured two of the most important relationships in my life, and they both need time and attention to repair.

  But I’m tired.

  Part of me wants to put my head down, finish the school year, and dedicate any spare time to Rachel. She had her first appointment with the psychologist earlier this week, and she said it went well, but she’s been quieter than usual.

  Mom and Dad went into her school and had a talk with her teachers. They apologized profusely and said they had no idea Rachel was putting so much pressure on herself. They said she could stop working on her pirate project, but that’s only one assignment of one class of one grade. Mom and Dad can’t run into school every time Rachel has a project. I’ve heard them talking about putting her in a private school next year, one with a more creative learning structure, but Rachel doesn’t want to leave her friends.

  She needs me. That’s where all my free time should go. But I need my friends back. They’re my people. I can’t be there for my sister if I’m falling apart.

  “Sook—” I start again.

  Mrs. Rainer enters the room. “All right, class, time for our morning writing prompt.”

  Sook turns toward the board, away from me. I sigh, then pull out my notebook and #2 pencil and begin to write.

  * * *

  The front doors of the synagogue are locked. We only keep them unlocked during Shabbat services because there are so many people coming in and out, and an officer guards the parking lot.

  I press the buzzer. “Ariel Stone. I have a meeting with the rabbi.”

  “Afternoon, Ariel.” The lock clicks. “Come on in.”

  I open the door. Someone else is coming up behind me, a delivery woman with a small box. Instinct tells me to keep the door open for her, but the security protocol kicks in. I let the door close and send her a sheepish smile. She smiles back. She gets it. Rabbi Solomon wanted to meet at four, so it made sense to come straight after school. But now I’m early, so I guess I’ll wander around for a bit.

  The sanctuary sits in the middle of the shul. It has giant wooden doors and stained-glass paneling. A rack of tallit and kippahs sit outside it. I place my hand against the lacquered wood and step closer. Even though the sanctuary is empty, I can close my eyes and hear the chorus of prayer. I breathe in gently, once, twice. Calm washes over me.

  Eventually, I step away and trail down the hall, passing photos of synagogue presidents and Hebrew school graduating classes. I spot my seventh-grade photo from my bar mitzvah year. I stand in the second row. Red, chubby cheeks. Khakis already half an inch too short. Isaac sits in front of me, glasses perched on his nose.

  I spent four days a week with everyone in that picture. Sunday school, plus after-school classes on Tuesday and Thursday, plus services on Saturday and the bar and bat mitzvah parties to go along with them. We all knew each other well, despite being in different social groups at school. I only talk to a few of them now, mostly the kids in my AP classes like Isaac. My social circle has grown small over the years. And now, the few people I still hang out with aren’t talking to me.

  My alarm buzzes in my pocket. Time for my meeting. I walk down to Rabbi Solomon’s office and knock.

  She calls out, “Come in.”

  As I head inside, it hits me that this is the third time I’ve been here in a month.

  “Have a seat, Ariel. Would you like some tea?”

  I almost say no. But it’s a Friday afternoon, and I’m relatively caught up on my work. Turns out your friends not speaking to you frees up time. My Harvard interview is tomorrow, but I’m ready for that since I’ve been preparing since it was scheduled. So, strangely, I have an empty evening ahead of me. “Sure, thanks.”

  “I have some more mandel bread, too.” Rabbi Solomon winks, then flicks on the electric kettle next to her desk.

  A few minutes later, we each have a steaming mug of Israeli tea and a hunk of mandel bread. I dip mine into the tea, then take a bite.

  “So, Ariel. How did your reading go?”

  Earlier in the week, when we made the appointment, she asked me to read a story from the Talmud. It was short, only a page. And it was nice to read something and know that I didn’t have to write an essay about it.

  “I liked it,” I reply.

  And I did. We discuss the story. It’s called “The Fox in the Vineyard.” A fox spies luscious grapes in a vineyard, but the hole in
the fence is too small. He can’t get through. So he starves himself for three days until he can slip through and gorge on the grapes. But once he’s eaten all the grapes, he can’t get back through the fence. He must fast for three more days and leaves as unsatisfied as he came.

  “How do you interpret the story?” Rabbi Solomon asks.

  “Well, my first thought was his eyes are bigger than his stomach, but I think it’s more than that. It’s like he was chasing something pointless. He starved himself for six days for nothing. He thought the grapes would make him happy, but in the end, it was a waste of time.”

  “So it’s about fruitless activities?” Rabbi Solomon grins and holds up her hands. “Pun not intended, I promise.”

  “Ha, yeah, I don’t know. It’s confusing. How do you know if a goal is worth it until you get it? We work hard for a lot of stuff. Should we not put in effort because the reward might not be what we thought?”

  “Those are big questions, Ariel.”

  “I guess.” I scratch my ear. “So do you have any answers?”

  “It’s not so much about the answers. Answers end a conversation. Questions keep a conversation going. We’re here to discuss and explore. Why cut off a journey before we get started?”

  “But why ask questions if you’re never going to get the answers?”

  Rabbi Solomon grins. “See, you’re already in the habit. Answer a question with a question. That’s rabbinical method.”

  Rabbi Solomon stirs her tea. “What other questions do you have, Ariel? What’s been on your mind?” Her face softens. “I heard about your sister. Would you like to talk about it?”

  “I guess it’s kind of like the story. Rachel and I both want to do well in school. If you do well, you get into a good college and get a good job and make good money…” I glance down at my hands. “But what if we do all of that, and we’re too tired to enjoy the reward?”

  “What if you get the grapes but you’re too full to appreciate them?”

  “Something like that,” I say. “But I can’t just stop. It’s school. I can’t drop out. How are we supposed to do everything right without burning out?”

  Rabbi Solomon’s eyes flicker with something—with sadness. “That’s a tough question, Ariel.”