You Asked for Perfect(45)

Malka puts her hand on mine. I’m still gripping the wheel. I don’t want to look at her. I can’t look at her.

“Ariel, you want to come in for a little bit? We can take a Yom Kippur catnap.”

I blink. A nap would be nice. But I’m already late. I’ll get home and have a nosh, and then I’ll start the paper— “Ariel?”

I turn to her and force a smile. “Nah, I’m good,” I say. My hand shakes, so I grip the wheel tighter. “I’m not tired.”





Fourteen


“Pizza or mac and cheese?” I ask Rachel.

“Um, mac and cheese?” she responds from the living room floor, where she’s surrounded by puffy paint and poster board and pictures of pirates.

“You got it.”

I made it to the end of the week. I turned in the massive English paper, caught up on my Spanish reading, and snagged another A on a calculus quiz. Our parents are out for Shabbat dinner at a friend’s house, so I’m cooking for Rachel, stirring while reading notes for AP Gov on my phone.

My phone rings. It’s Malka. Calling me. I’ve been brushing off her texts since Yom Kippur, quick responses like “all good” and “awesome.” I’m tempted to ignore her, but I answer the call.

“Hey!” I say, voice too bright.

“Hey,” she says, suspicious of my too-bright voice.

I stir the mac and cheese. “Shabbat Shalom.”

“Shabbat Shalom. So, what are you up to tonight?”

This isn’t normal. We both know this isn’t normal. We don’t call—we text. I shift on my feet before answering. “Making some dinner for Rachel. Parents are out, so we’re going to hang here.” The line buzzes. Should I invite her over? No, I have too much work to do. “What about you?”

“I’m—” She pauses. “Look, Ariel, are you okay? You really freaked me out on Yom Kippur.”

My pulse races. “I’m great. Fine.”

“You were really distracted and—”

“I was fasting,” I say. “I was hungry. It’s all good. I promise.”

The line buzzes again. “Do you maybe want to—”

“Ah! Water’s boiling over. Sorry, got to go!”

I hang up the phone, then turn it on silent. If I can’t hear her calling, then I can’t stress about whether or not to pick up. Running a red light was not good, but I know that. I don’t need her worrying about it. I’ll be better, get more sleep. In fact, after practicing my solo tonight, I’m planning on getting a solid eight hours. It’s fine.

I’m fine.

When the food is ready, I call Rachel to the table. “Can we eat in here?” Rachel asks. “I want to keep working.”

“Sure.” I carry the bowls into the family room and settle on the couch. I can read over more notes while eating, then practice violin for a few hours, and still be asleep by midnight.

Rachel and I both demolish our mac and cheese, then continue to work. Squeaking markers, cutting paper, rustling pages, the sounds are nice ambience as I study. Every now and then Rachel glances back for my opinion. “Do you like that?” she asks, after pasting a close-up of a sword next to a full illustration of her pirate.

“Awesome, good choice.”

I ask if she wants ice cream before I go upstairs, and she says yes and joins me in the kitchen to make it. We go for full sundaes, whipped cream, cherries, and all.

“What are you working on?” She twirls her spoon in the ice cream but doesn’t eat it.

I sigh. “Like, everything. When is your pirate project due?”

“Next week.” She stares at her untouched dessert.

“Aren’t you going to eat any?”

She twists her mouth. “Put it in the freezer for me? My stomach feels kind of funny. Too much mac.”

“Sure,” I say.

She hugs me with one arm, her body warm and close, before retreating to the living room. I put her ice cream in the freezer, but only after stealing a bite.

*

I clean the dishes and check on Rachel before heading upstairs. She’s still at work on her project, but she has the Disney Channel on in the background.

Up in my room, I crack my knuckles, then examine the pads of my fingers, half-callused and half-blistered, already aggravated from doing the dishes. But I have to practice. Less than two weeks until I play the solo against Pari.

I can picture her, playing with intent, hair swept back into a sleek ponytail, fingernails coated with cracked blue polish, conjuring each note with heartfelt perfection. If Harvard has two applicants from Etta Fields High School, will they take first chair or second?

I grab a couple Band-Aids from the bathroom and wrap them around the worst of my fingers. Then I lift my violin and begin to tune it, turning the small metal screws. “Shit!” I gasp, fingers burning, almost dropping the instrument. Tears spring to my eyes.

How am I supposed to do this? I have to practice the solo to keep first chair. I’m nowhere near ready. But the gig with Dizzy Daisies is tomorrow night, and Sook wants a full dress rehearsal beforehand.

My fingers throb. I can’t do this. I physically can’t keep this up. I can push my mind all I want, but my skin will crack and bleed. I wipe away more tears as they come.