You Asked for Perfect(12)

A lot of my friends think it’s weird to be close to their siblings. They see them as annoying people who share their houses and nothing more. But I love Rachel, and it’s cool Amir gets that.

He glances past me, at the field. “The second half will start soon. Should we head back?”

I hadn’t realized that much time had passed. I’m pretty sure this is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with Amir. I always thought he had no interest in speaking to me, but maybe he thought I had no interest in speaking to him. He’s kind of nice to be around. I guess it’s not so bad he’s the one who graded my quiz.

The quiz he passed with flying colors.

Wait…

Amir is walking back when I call out, “Hey, could you, um, do me a favor?”

“Graduation photos?”

“Uh, no, not that.” I take a short breath. “You did really well on that math quiz.” He seems to be waiting for an actual question, so I blurt out, “Do you think you could tutor me in calc? I can pay you. Well, I can pay you when Hanukkah rolls around.”

“I don’t want your money.”

Oh. Good. I’ve embarrassed myself and still don’t have a tutor.

“Come over tomorrow night and we’ll study together.”

Oh. Oh. “Really?”

He nods. “It’s not a problem. C’mon, let’s go watch our kick-ass sisters.”

As we head back toward our families, relief floods through me. Maybe this will turn out okay. I glance at Amir, and he smiles at me, eyes shining in the light.

Maybe this will turn out more than okay.





Four


“Problems twenty-seven to forty-eight for homework,” Mr. Eller says as the bell rings. Everyone stands and gathers their books. Amir swings his backpack over his shoulder and nods at me. I give a half smile back. I’m not sure why he agreed to help me, but we’re studying together at his place tonight, and hopefully it’ll go well.

It has to go well.

Pari turns to me. “Coming?” she asks.

Isaac stands next to her, his arm draped around her shoulder. Their relationship has always been chaotic, more breakups and reunions than I can count, but they seem solid this year. All my “relationships” have started and ended during summer, quick flirtations before classes gear back up. I’ve never quite had the time to get comfortable with someone.

“Um, y’all go ahead.” I twist my pencil in my hands. “I have to send an email.”

“Okay!” Pari smiles. She leans into Isaac, and he pulls her closer. My heart lurches a bit. I could have that with someone, if I wanted it, if I prioritized it over my grades. But good grades will get me into a good school. And a good school will get me a good job. And a good job will get me a good life.

It does matter. It’s ridiculous to think otherwise.

I pull out my phone while the classroom clears, my leg shaking up and down. I click to the Harvard Admissions page, scrolling through staged photos of happy students and application requirements. I should prepare more for my interview. It’s not the most important part of the application, but still, I need to convince Hannah that Harvard and I are the perfect fit.

When the classroom is empty, I grab my backpack and walk to Mr. Eller’s desk, my pulse racing. He’s flipping through a folder of papers. “Where on earth did I put that…” he mumbles.

Seems like his life is as haphazard as his teaching. Mr. Eller always jumps from one point to another, never going straight through a problem. I wish my teacher from last year taught BC also. I wouldn’t call AB easy, but it was manageable with her as a teacher.

It’s amazing so many kids are doing well in this class. Though, maybe it’s only Amir, and everyone else is faking it along with me. Maybe Pari is bright and cheery because she’s playing my same game.

“Mr. Eller,” I say. “Do you have a moment?”

His eyes are unfocused when he glances up at me. “Mm-hmm, yes, what is it, Ariel?”

“AR-riel,” I correct, with the hard pirate arrr.

He lifts his hand. “All right.”

I grab a strap of my backpack and loop it around my hand again and again until the constriction turns the skin white. “I was wondering,” I say, releasing the strap, “if you would give me partial credit for correcting my quiz answers.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “No.” He leans forward. “If you get the problem wrong, you get it wrong and study harder next time.”

My throat tightens, as pressure builds behind my eyes. I take a breath, but it’s too shallow. He couldn’t care less about my grade, about me. I’ve spent more than three years asking teachers about extra credit and corrections. Sometimes they say yes, and sometimes they say no, but none have felt quite as dismissive as Mr. Eller.

If only he knew how much I need this.

If only he knew that one quiz threatens more than three years of relentless work.

I swallow hard and muster on. “What about extra credit? I could complete some extra practice problems or—”

“Ariel, no.” He says my name wrong again. The pressure keeps building behind my eyes. Don’t cry. It’s only a grade. But the thought just makes it worse.

“The grades you get are the grades you get. I’m simply trying to prepare you kids for the real world. There aren’t do-overs in life. You still have plenty of time to pull up your grade. If you need a tutor, I encourage you to check out the sign-up sheets in the guidance office.”