You Asked for Perfect(11)

Am I Harvard material? Or am I only good at signing up for the right classes? Pari is smarter. I’m just better at working the system. Soon that might not be enough. And the more people my parents tell about Harvard, the more people will know I’m a fraud when I don’t get in.

I stroll down the sideline until I’m a few dozen feet past the field and alone. I click open my phone and pull up the CalcU app, looking at practice problems I’ve already gone through multiple times. Last night, I was three pages deep into Google results searching for extra problems.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Damn it.

I used to like school. That burst of satisfaction when new material clicks. The competitive gratification of finishing a test first, knowing you got everything right. But there’s nothing to enjoy when a failing grade is staring you in the face. Maybe Ms. Hayes is right. Maybe I should get a tutor.

I’m about to turn on my Crime and Punishment audiobook when I hear someone walk up behind me. Spearmint and basil. Instinctively, I inhale.

I turn to find Amir. He’s wearing a T-shirt with the Ravenclaw house sigil on it. He would identify as Ravenclaw, the most pretentious of the Hogwarts houses.

“Hey,” I say. “Do my parents need something?”

“Uh, no.” He looks awkward. Amir Naeem actually looks awkward. “Sorry, I was coming to…hang out.”

Hang out? We don’t hang out.

“Never mind.” He shakes his head. “I’ll go over there.”

“It’s okay,” I say, surprising myself. “We can hang.”

“All right.” He rocks on his heels. “I hate the college talk.”

“Yeah, same. That’s why I left.”

Amir smiles. “Great minds think alike and all that. It’s incessant. If I have to hear one more overt hint that I should go to some liberal arts school—”

“Don’t you want to? Or wait, do you want to skip college and, like, move to Brooklyn and live in a loft?”

Amir raises his eyebrow. “Hmm.”

“Erm, sorry,” I say. “That sounded judgy, didn’t it?”

Amir laughs. “Little bit. But it’s okay.” He shrugs. “College isn’t for everyone, but I’m definitely going. I want to be a doctor, and I’m almost positive doctors have to go to medical school.”

“A doctor? Not a photographer?”

“Ariel, you sound like my parents.” My stomach flips when he says my name. A slight smile plays on his lips. “Photography is a hobby. I’m also passionate about medicine, but it’s not like I can carry around a scalpel and fix aortic dissections on frogs.”

“Well, I guess you could,” I say. “But it probably wouldn’t end well.”

I laugh, and so does Amir. His brown eyes are warm, and when they meet with mine, my stomach doesn’t just flip again, it does full-fledged Olympic-level gymnastics.

I look down for a moment, my skin hot. “So why a doctor?”

Amir hesitates. “I don’t want to say.”

“C’mon. What?”

“It’s going to sound silly. Cheesy.” He runs a hand through his dark hair. The silk strands glint in the sun.

“Try me.”

“Fine, okay.” He takes a breath. “I can go to school and learn how to save lives. I can get a degree in saving lives. How wild is that? Medicine is a miracle, and I want to be a part of it.”

I can feel it, the passion he has, the optimism. It radiates from him. For years, I’ve had one goal in mind. Get into Harvard. I’ve been focused on acceptance, not what I’ll actually study there. But for Amir, acceptance isn’t the end goal—it’s just a step toward something greater.

“I think it’s amazing,” I say. “Of course, it’s amazing.”

“Thanks,” Amir responds. He scratches his stubble. “Hey, can I show you a picture?”

“Uh, sure.”

He steps forward and turns so we’re standing side by side. We’re about the same height. He maybe has an inch on me. His broad shoulders brush against mine, and my cheeks heat as I wonder what he’d look like without his Ravenclaw shirt on.

I clear my throat and concentrate on his Nikon camera. “I think this is a nice shot of the girls,” Amir says, voice calm, unaffected by our closeness.

Sara is kicking the ball into the goal, and Rachel is rushing forward, screaming something, probably “applesauce,” which she thinks is hilarious because it always confuses the defense.

“Awesome photo,” I say. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“I know,” Amir says with a small smile. It’s not a brag, simply confidence. He’s sure of his talent. I know that feeling, like when I’m on a roll with classes, and all the assignments churn out one after another, and I know I’m earning As. It’s an assuredness, a certainty, I miss. “I can print a copy for your family if you want.”

“I’m sure Rachel would love that. A small one, though—her ego is big enough.”

Amir grins. “Noted.”

“It’s nice of you,” I say, “photographing all the games.”

“Happy to do it. They’re good memories to have. Our sisters are pretty awesome.”