You Asked for Perfect(33)

But I don’t have time for nerves because Sook is counting us off, and then she leads in with Malka. It’s the new song, the one I loved last session, the one where I could hear the opening for a violin. When my time approaches, I set my violin, tuck my chin, and bring the bow to the string.

The first note wavers, hesitant. But then I pull the next ones out, one by one. The violin is both sweet and growling like the rest of the song.

The music drifts around the room, atmospheric and entrancing. We get through the song, and I play vibrato on the final, ringing note. My body hums. I can’t remember the last time I fell into a piece of music like this.

“Not bad,” Malka says, smiling.

“Could be better.” Sook grins.

“Can we play it again?” I ask.

Sook winks. “On the count.”

*

Later that night, I’m home alone and practicing in my room. The rest of the family is at a friend’s house for dinner, but I begged off earlier today, mentioning practice might run late. And it did run late. After a few run-throughs, my classic rock background had an itch, and I suggested a couple of harder riffs for the transitions. Sook approved the idea, and it worked great. I felt that burst of satisfaction, like when I get a perfect score.

But blisters have formed, both on my fingers from the press of the metal strings and my neck from holding the violin in place. I’ve got to push through and take advantage of my long weekend to practice this orchestra solo. Acing that calculus test has relieved a lot of pressure, but my college applications still feel bare without soccer. Maybe I should’ve signed up for debate or ran for student government. I’ve got to keep orchestra to look well-rounded, and I’ve got to keep first chair to stand out from all the other well-rounded students.

I adjust the sheet music. Then I take a small brick of rosin and slide it across my bow’s horsehair. It’s ritual, all the little steps that go into playing. The tuning, the rosin, the tock of the metronome.

Once done, I lift my violin and focus on the page. I can do this. I take a breath and imagine the prelude. Cellos plucking. Violas singing. All leading up to my solo, and then I hear the oboe play its final notes, and I begin, blistered fingers against metal strings, playing painful, perfect notes.

The solo picks up, fast yet airy, and I can hear the accompaniment join me. We build and play through the piece together.

And then, when it’s over, I relax my stance and breathe.

It wasn’t good enough.

Dr. Whitmore’s voice echoes in my head: “Again.”

I play the Scheherazade solo over and over. Each time I hit the notes a bit more precisely, each time my bow swipes across the strings with more control, each time my fingers burn with more pain, but it’s a distant feeling. Unimportant. This is how it’s supposed to be. This is how first chair practices. Gives it everything, body and soul. I’m about to bear down on the solo once more when there’s a knock on my bedroom door.

I startle.

Are my parents home already?

“Mom?” I call cautiously.

“No, it’s me.”

Amir? I rub my eyes. How did I forget he was coming over?

“Ariel?”

“Coming!” I open the door, and there he is, Amir, outside my bedroom. He’s wearing black sweatpants. They sling low on his hips. I swallow hard.

“Sorry, the garage was open, and you weren’t picking up your phone. I heard you playing from downstairs. You sound good.” He holds up his textbook. “Still want to study?”

I’m home alone with Amir. Amir who is wearing those sweatpants. “Um, yeah. Let’s study. Come in.” I let him into my room. The silence makes my thudding pulse too loud, so I tap my phone and play Scheherazade. The strings fill the room.

I scratch my ear. “So, do you—”

“You’re bleeding,” Amir says.

“What?”

He steps closer to me, gaze on my neck. And then his fingers are there, tracing the delicate skin. I shiver. His fingers travel down my arm, then to my fingers. Also bleeding. Only a few drops. I’ve seen worse. He lifts his hand, as if to show proof.

“Oh,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says.

He’s standing close to me, eyes not breaking contact.

And then the music lifts and we’re kissing. I’m not sure who leans in first. Maybe both of us, but his lips are on mine, and I’m inhaling him, spearmint and basil.

It’s hungrier than our first kiss.

My arms wrap around his back, feeling his broad shoulders. And I draw him close to me. His lips leave mine and run down my jaw and neck before finding my mouth once more. We step back together, then back again, until his legs press against the edge of my bed. Scheherazade delves deeper into the first movement. My pulse races to catch up with the tempo.

I pull back for a second, breathing hard.

“You okay?” Amir asks.

My hands tangle with his, like I’m unable to break complete contact. “I’m okay, but uh—” I clear my throat, glancing back at my bed. “I don’t want to have sex or anything. I mean, I do, like one day, but I don’t want to have sex right now.”

“Me neither,” Amir says. I exhale. He scratches his neck, self-conscious for a rare moment. “Pants stay on?”

“Pants stay on,” I agree.