You Asked for Perfect(27)

“I’m learning from the best.”

“Come for the calculus, stay for the Potter trivia.”

“That should be your slogan when you start tutoring professionally.” I clear my throat. “Thank you. If I haven’t said that yet.”

“It was my pleasure.”

The word pleasure rolls smoothly from his lips.

I pause. “Why did you agree to help me?”

“You asked,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He takes a half a step forward, and I swallow hard, pulse racing.

The second bell rings.

Amir leans back and scratches his jaw.

“So, to class, I guess,” I say.

“Yep. To class.”

I bite my lip. Amir’s gaze moves to it. He shakes his head with a slight grin. “I’ll see you later, Ariel.”

Yes, he will.

*

“Saul, come see this,” Mom says. “I think our son is possessed.”

I roll my eyes. “Really?”

The microwave beeps, and I take out the now defrosted ground beef. A pot of water boils on the stove, waiting for pasta, and there’s chopped onion and broccoli on the counter.

“You’re cooking,” she says.

Dad appears in the doorway. “He’s cooking, Miriam.”

Mom looks at him. “Is this a fever dream?”

“I cook sometimes,” I say. Though I’m not exactly sure what to do with the ground beef now. Do I put it in the pan? Or am I supposed to put oil down first?

Mom laughs. “I’ll take that.” She grabs the ground beef from me. “Come watch.”

As I observe, Dad finishes the rest of the chopping and pulls out another pan for the vegetables. He puts in a splash of olive oil and minced garlic, and soon the kitchen smells delicious. “What’s gotten into you?” Dad asks. “Good day?”

Excellent day. I passed my test.

I passed my test, and Amir…

Heat rises to my cheeks. I clear my throat. “Yeah, pretty good. I’m going into the city tonight for that Dizzy Daisies podcast taping. And I had free time after school, so I thought I’d cook, and we could have an early Shabbat dinner first.”

Free time. The concept is so foreign that when I got home this afternoon, I stared at the TV for ten minutes—without actually turning it on. I stared at the blank screen and tried to compute what one actually does with their time when they don’t have piles of homework.

Today, I aced my calculus test, took my Crime and Punishment essay test, and turned in a paper for AP Spanish Lit. It’s a Friday afternoon, and since Rosh Hashanah services are on Monday and Tuesday, four days with zero school stretch before me. I have to practice the Scheherazade solo, and I have work for some other classes, but four days is more than enough time to get it all done.

So I stared at the TV until my stomach grumbled, and I realized: Oh, people cook in their free time!

My parents have been cooking for me for almost eighteen years. It’d be nice to return the favor. “Bow ties or penne?” I ask, grabbing pasta from the cabinet.

“Hmm…” Mom says.

“Bow ties!” Rachel shouts, skipping into the kitchen and then racing around the counter.

“Easy there!” Mom says. “You have too much energy. I can’t believe they got rid of fifth-grade recess at that school of yours. C’mon.” She passes Rachel a spatula. “Help me season the meat.”

Twenty minutes later, dinner is ready, and the prayers have been said, and we’re all settled around the table, digging into steaming plates of pasta and meat sauce.

“Mmm,” Rachel says. “Who seasoned this? It’s delicious.”

We all laugh.

“Thank you for dinner, Ariel,” Dad says.

“I had some help.”

“But it’s the thought that counts.” Dad takes a bite of garlic bread. “Mmm, and you’re the one who thought to defrost this bread, so the thought counts for a lot.”

“Watch this!” Rachel tosses a piece high in the air and catches it in her mouth. She smiles while chewing.

“Nice.” I grin, leaning back as Mom starts us off on bloopers and highlights.

I’m so ready for high school to be over, but next year, I won’t be here for weekly Shabbat dinner. I’ll likely only have a few breaks a year. I’m ready to graduate, but as I look around the table and listen to my family talk about their week, I can’t help but wish moving away didn’t mean moving away from them.





Eight


“How large is your audience?” Sook asks. She trails around the recording studio and inspects the equipment, a journal and pen in hand.

“Depends on the week,” Rasha answers, fiddling with the microphone, screwing it left then right. I’ve never seen Rasha nervous. Maybe it has something to do with that girl Lois, one of the podcast’s executive producers, not-at-all-subtly watching us from her office. This is the first episode Rasha is producing alone, and it looks like someone isn’t ready to give up control. “There we go!” Her voice brightens as the microphone clicks into place.

“Do you need any help?” Malka offers. We’re sitting on an extra table pressed against the back wall of the room. Malka mentioned Rasha invited her to observe a recording earlier this week, so this is her second time here.