You Asked for Perfect(44)

Just write a twenty-page paper.

I laugh, almost delirious. Dad glances at me, but I stare down at my siddur.

Services go by in a daze. There’s so much standing and sitting, when all I want to do is lie down. It’s the longest service of the year, and doesn’t end until past three. “I’ll see y’all at home,” I tell my parents. “I’m giving Malka a ride.”

“Okay, tatala,” Mom says.

I slip out quickly before most people stand up. I don’t have the energy to schmooze today.

I walk down to the east wing of the synagogue. Malka texts that she’s caught in the Jewish goodbye vortex and will escape as soon as she can. So that means it’ll be at least thirty minutes.

The hallway is blissfully deserted. There’s a couch outside Rabbi Solomon’s office. I sink into it, then curl up on my side. Might as well hang out here and be comfortable until Malka is ready.

I yawn a tiny yawn. It reminds me of Pari. I really should apologize…

“Ariel?”

My eyes blink open.

Rabbi Solomon stands over me, hands on her hips, looking concerned. “Are you all right?”

I clear my throat and slide to a sitting position. Too fast. I hold my head and close my eyes, waiting for the dizzy feeling to go away. I’m a dizzy daisy. I laugh out loud.

“Can you stand? Come into my office.”

“I should…”

She waves off my nonexcuse. “For a minute. Come now.”

I stand slowly then take a short breath and follow her inside. “Sit,” she says. She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a white baker’s box. There are a dozen pieces of mandel bread inside. “Here, eat. I’m going to grab you a cup of water.”

My rabbi is handing me food on Yom Kippur.

“But I’m fasting…”

“Hashem understands. You need nourishment.”

I hesitate, but grab a piece of mandel bread. I’m already starting on my second by the time Rabbi Solomon comes back with a cup of water.

“What’s going on, Ariel?” she asks. “Are you sick? Have you been sleeping well?”

I hesitate. Lying to a rabbi seems real un-kosher.

Rabbi Solomon answers the silence. “Perhaps I should go find your parents. Tell them you’re not feeling well.”

“That’s really not necessary,” I say a bit too loudly. Mom has a filing deadline for a story tomorrow night, and Dad is in court all next week. I don’t need to bother them over nothing. “Really,” I say. “I’m good.”

“How about this then—you call me after the holiday and make a time to come see me. We’ll have a little chat. You’ll be off to college before we know it.”

“And you won’t talk to my parents?”

“If you come here and chat with me, then no, I won’t talk to your parents.”

“Okay, sure,” I reply, head throbbing. One more thing on my list. “I’ll be here.”

*

“Thanks for the ride,” Malka says.

My fingers tap the steering wheel. Why won’t this car in front of me move? Move! The parking lot is gridlocked. I need to get home. I thought I’d be there almost an hour ago, but time is slipping away. I need a plan. Okay, first I’ll start the paper— “Ariel, you can go,” Malka says as the car behind me honks.

I startle and press my foot to the gas. The car jerks forward. “Crap, sorry,” I mutter. I put on my blinker and turn out of the parking lot.

Okay, so first I’ll start the paper, and then I’ll take a break and work through the practice problems for— “Um, Ariel? My house is the other way.”

I glance at Malka, then back at the road. “Right. Sorry.” I was on autopilot thinking about getting home. The light in front of me turns yellow, but the lanes are clear, so I press down on the gas and whip a U-turn to take us back toward Malka’s house.

“Whoa, there,” she says, touching the roof of the car. “Okay, fast and furious.”

“What?”

She gives me a funny look. “Nothing. Speaking of fast, how’s yours going?”

My stomach growls. The mandel bread only made me hungrier. Screw it. I should eat when I get home. If the rabbi says I can eat, then I can eat, right? I’ll get home and have a nosh, and then I’ll start the paper, and then I’ll take a break and work through the practice problems for— “Ariel!” Malka shouts.

A car horn blares behind me as I finish crossing an intersection. I glance in my rearview mirror. A car coming from the cross street is stalled in the middle of the road. Wait, what just happened?

Malka is gripping the oh shit handle. “The light was red,” she says, voice taut. “Slow down. Please slow down.”

My heart can’t slow down. It’s racing a hundred miles an hour, like someone cut the brakes. My mind swims with exhaustion. “Sorry,” I say, but my voice isn’t even a whisper. I clear my throat. “Sorry, sorry.”

“We’re almost there. Please be careful.”

I can feel Malka’s tense muscles, body bracing for an accident.

Shit. Shit.

I place both hands on the wheel and stare at the road. Focus, Ariel. Drive down the street. Take a right into Malka’s neighborhood. Slow, now. Twenty-five miles an hour. Make it twenty. Pull into her driveway. Car in park. You’re on a hill. Emergency brake.