You Asked for Perfect(10)

My family is already at the field. They came early to set up the tent and food because the parents in this area like to tailgate elementary school soccer games like it’s college football. I peer down on the scene from the top of the hill.

The fields back up to the same trails as my synagogue, all of Tinder Hill Park. I’d love to spend the day watching Rachel’s game, then walking the trails with Sook, but I brought my own car so I could come late and peace out early to study. The final hours of the weekend are ticking down, and I’m nowhere near ready for this test next Friday.

I glance at my phone. 11:27. Only twelve hours left in the day, fifteen if I make it a late night.

I head down the hill toward my parents, who are congregated with Amir’s family. We sit together every game. Rasha, Amir’s older sister, laughs loudly at some joke my dad must have cracked. She’s wearing a black blouse and a lavender hijab. Her parents are next to her, digging into the food with my mom, piling plates high with pasta salad, cold chicken tikka, and cut-up fruit.

Amir is off on his own, down the sideline, taking pictures as everyone warms up for the game. He’s on one knee, back bent at an odd angle, neck craned. I wonder if the exaggerated pose is contrived, like he’s paying more attention to what he looks like than what the photo looks like.

Mrs. Naeem calls my name and waves me over. She doesn’t look a day over thirty, even though she has a twenty-year-old daughter. Unlike Rasha, she doesn’t wear a hijab, so her dark hair is loose around her shoulders.

“Hi, Mrs. Naeem.” I say.

“Beta, come here!” She gives me a hug. Then I shake Mr. Naeem’s hand and wave at Rasha, who cuts off conversation with my dad to come over and say hi.

“How’s college going?” I ask her.

“Slow. The start of the semester is boring. Too many people dropping and adding classes to get anything done. Total waste of time.” Rasha yawns. “God, it’s early.”

“It’s eleven thirty,” Mrs. Naeem says. “You’re not a teenager anymore—no more sleeping until two in the afternoon.”

“I take late classes,” Rasha says.

Mrs. Naeem tsks, and Rasha rolls her eyes.

Even though she’s in college, she still lives at home. She lived on campus in the dorms freshman year, but said she missed being around her family. Especially Sara. She wants to be there while her little sister grows up.

“Ariel’s always been a morning person,” Mom says. Actually, this is not true. I force myself to be a morning person. I can’t remember the last time I woke up without an alarm. Even this summer, I woke up early to study for the SATs. I’d already scored a 1560, but I wanted that perfect 1600.

And I got it.

“I’m jealous,” Mrs. Naeem responds.

“Don’t be. If they’re asleep, they can’t beg you to make them breakfast on the weekends.”

I nudge Mom’s shoulder and grin. “I’m very sorry you have to feed your child.”

She nudges back. “You’re seventeen. You can make your own breakfast when I want to sleep in on a Saturday.”

“But you do it so well,” I respond. Still, I feel a twinge of guilt. Mom works hard all week. I don’t like bothering her with homework woes, and I shouldn’t bother her to make me scrambled eggs, either.

“Come here,” she says. “You have some schmutz.”

Before I have a chance to get away, she licks her finger and rubs my cheek. “Mom.”

“Oh, hush, tatala.”

The ref blows his whistle, and we all turn toward the field. Rachel and Sara both play forward, center and right. The wind picks up, whistling through the trees, and clouds move in and dampen the sun.

My phone buzzes. Sook: Want to hang after Rachel’s game?

Maybe I could walk around Tinder Hill for an hour. I’m about to text back when my parents yell, “Go, go, go!”

My gaze snaps to the field. Rachel passes the ball to Sara, and they both sprint forward, eluding the other team’s defense. Adrenaline rushes through me. I feel transported onto the field, like I’m the one dribbling the ball and tearing past the players. I clench my fist and lean forward. “C’mon,” I murmur. “C’mon.”

Sara rushes the goal, strikes the ball, and—

“GOAL!” I shout as the ball sails cleanly into the net. Everyone erupts in cheers, and I pump my fist into the air.

But the adrenaline drains fast, as I remember my own days of playing are over. My place is on the sidelines now.

The remainder of the first half goes by in a blur. The other team is one of the best in the area, so they actually give our girls a challenge, keeping the game interesting. At halftime, we all turn to the food. I’m piling my plate high with chicken and fruit when Mrs. Naeem asks, “So, Ariel, how are college applications going? Where are you applying again?”

I scratch the back of my neck, my shoulders tense.

“Harvard,” Dad says, patting me on the back. “Smart kid. I’m sure he’ll get in.”

“I don’t know, Dad,” I say.

“That’s wonderful, Ariel!”

I force a smile and say thanks, but then quickly bow out of the conversation. I used to talk about applying to Harvard as if it were inevitable, the next logical step in my education. But classes have gotten more difficult. I’m barely scraping As, and now with that failed quiz…