You Asked for Perfect(39)

“Absolutely. Thank you.”

I leave and head straight to the bathroom. It’s the old one, with a broken stall door and cracked mirrors, always empty. I grip the sink and take a shaky breath. My heart beats too hard. The pressure behind my eyes builds.

“Fuck!” I slap the porcelain sink, hands ringing with pain.

Tears release, but only a few. They slide down my cheeks. My stomach constricts, and I take a sharp breath.

Then the warning bell blares.

I splash water on my face and go to my next class.

*

“Ready?” Pari asks me, as we tune our instruments.

Today I’m playing my solo for Dr. Whitmore. I’m already on a precipice with English, so if I also mess this up…

“Ready,” I lie, then lift my violin and pull my bow across the A string.

Dr. Whitmore exits her office and strides to the front of the room. She nods at me. “Afternoon, Ariel,” she says brusquely. “I hope you’ve found the solo agreeable.”

I wonder if she can read the I hate you in my eyes.

Everyone sets their instruments. A harpist and an oboe player are joining us today to play the prelude to my solo. Dr. Whitmore drops her baton, and we begin. My pulse beats quickly, but I keep the tempo and play in tune. The piece now memorized, I even lift my eyes to watch the baton and meet Dr. Whitmore’s cold gaze. I count the time I have left until my solo begins. A few pages. One page. Only lines now.

The oboe plays its prelude into my solo, each note perfectly sung, and then the room goes quiet and—

I begin, bow swiping too fast across the string. But I regain control. I play each note with precision and continue to meet Dr. Whitmore’s eyes. The measures slip by, and then, it’s over.

I hold my breath, waiting for her to say, again.

But Dr. Whitmore keeps tempo, the baton throwing another downbeat, and we continue into the next section. No again. We’re still playing. I did it. Dr. Whitmore glances my way, and for a wild moment I expect possibly even a smile, but my heart drops when I meet her callous stare.

For the rest of class, my shoulders are taut, fingers stiff. When the bell rings, Dr. Whitmore calls me into her office. I head back with trepidation.

“The solo, Ariel, was unsatisfactory,” she says. “There was no feeling. It was mechanical. Continue to work on it. Try to find the heart of the piece. But in the meantime, I’m going to consider an alternate for first chair. You’ll both perform for me in three weeks, and then I’ll make my decision. Now grab Pari for me before she leaves class.”

*

My ears buzz as I stand in the parking lot, like there’s a radio playing on the wrong frequency. A thick knot hardens in my throat. My foot jumps up and down, as my mind races with everything I need to get done.

I’m standing with Sook and Amir while we wait for the parking lot to clear. Most days we hang out for twenty minutes, instead of sitting in a jammed line of cars.

Pari and Isaac head toward us. “L’Shana Tova!” Isaac says. Pari doesn’t meet my eyes. Good.

“Shana Tova,” I reply, mouth dry. I clear my throat. “Have a good New Year?” We grew up going to the same Sunday school classes at our synagogue, but I don’t see him at services often anymore.

“Eh, I went to class instead of shul.” Isaac hitches his bag up onto his shoulder. “Couldn’t miss a full day. But Mom made brisket for dinner, so it’s a good New Year so far.”

“Nice.” I nod.

“Sorry about the solo,” Pari says. “Dr. Whitmore is such a—” She breaks off. “I don’t like saying that word. But anyway, I thought you played it fine. Great!” She corrects herself.

Is Pari sorry? This is the opportunity she’s always wanted. She can take first chair from me. I can already imagine the letter she’ll send to Harvard: Dear Admissions Board, I have an addendum to my earlier application. I am now first chair violin of the Etta Fields Philharmonic Orchestra…

We can’t both be first chair. I’ll have to hold off on my application until we play against each other so I don’t look like I’m lying to Harvard.

“What happened with the solo?” Amir asks. His camera is out, and he’s fiddling with the lens.

Exhaustion presses down on me. “It’s nothing,” I say. “Just a tricky piece.”

I stare Pari down, pleading she’ll drop it. Her brow tenses for a moment, then she shifts back on her feet. “C’mon, Isaac. We should go, start tackling that homework. It never ends, does it?”

“I’m ready to end it,” Sook replies. “I want out now. Hell, I wanted out last year.”

It can’t be that bad, I want to say. You’re only taking four AP classes, and your safety school is freaking Dartmouth.

“We’ll see you guys later.” Isaac waves, and they walk toward his car.

Amir glances at me. “I’m going to leave also. I want to get some film developed. Ariel, want to hang after dinner? We can study.” His smile is shy. “Or not study.”

How do I tell the guy I like that I need to be alone? Sook answers before I have to: “Sorry, lover boy, he’s practicing with the band. We have a gig coming up, which you should come to.”

“Already in my calendar,” Amir replies. “What about tomorrow, Ariel?”