You Asked for Perfect(49)

“I haven’t,” I say. Though maybe it’s a good idea to talk to someone. Doing this alone isn’t working, so maybe it’s time to try something new. “I’m sure she’ll be really nice. Besides, Mom and Dad are awesome. They won’t make you keep going if you don’t like it.”

“I looked it up,” Rachel says.

“Psychology?”

“Psychosomatic response.” She pronounces the words deliberately, like she’s still getting used to them. “It’s kind of scary your head can make you sick. How am I supposed to get my homework done if working can hurt me?”

I stay silent, thinking about all the times I told myself skipping sleep was fine, skipping lunch was fine, all to get the work done. “I wish I knew. I wish I could tell you to stop, but I’m not sure how we can stop school. Maybe the psychologist can help.”

“Maybe.”

How do you avoid school stress when you can’t avoid school?

Ezekiel crawls over to my lap, resting his head on my thigh. My stomach twists with guilt. How can I tell Rachel school doesn’t matter when it does? She has so many years of it ahead of her. What if these classes keep tearing her apart from the inside out? I’ve never wanted the right answers more.

“I love you, Ra-chell,” I say.

“Love you too.”

“I’m always right here.” I bang the wall between our rooms. “You know that, right?”

“I know.” She shifts under her covers. “I think I’m gonna nap more. I’m tired. Can Ezekiel stay with me?”

“Sure, I’ll take him back later.”

Rachel snuggles more deeply into bed. I stand and walk into the hallway, but I leave the door cracked open. That way I can keep an eye on her.





Fifteen


Sook avoids eye contact with me as she walks into our English class. On Sunday, she brought over Rachel’s favorite chocolate chip oatmeal cookies and made light small talk, but only for my sister’s sake. I wanted to know how the gig went but was too nervous to bring it up myself. Did they play without me? Was an agent there? And the question I keep trying to push away: Did I ruin her chance at her dream?

Now it’s Friday, and we haven’t spoken all week. I’ve barely spoken to anyone all week, drifting from class to class, turning in work and taking tests, but feeling like I’m watching an avatar of myself go through the motions.

My apologies to Sook sit on our text thread unanswered. I’ve never messed up like this before. I want to fix it. I need to fix it. But I don’t know how.

“Hey,” I say.

She puts in headphones and opens her leather planner.

Hey isn’t going to cut it.

Things are also strained with Amir. I apologized again at school, and he said it’s fine, which historically and universally means it’s not fine. But I don’t know how to make it right with him, either. I fractured two of the most important relationships in my life, and they both need time and attention to repair.

But I’m tired.

Part of me wants to put my head down, finish the school year, and dedicate any spare time to Rachel. She had her first appointment with the psychologist earlier this week, and she said it went well, but she’s been quieter than usual.

Mom and Dad went into her school and had a talk with her teachers. They apologized profusely and said they had no idea Rachel was putting so much pressure on herself. They said she could stop working on her pirate project, but that’s only one assignment of one class of one grade. Mom and Dad can’t run into school every time Rachel has a project. I’ve heard them talking about putting her in a private school next year, one with a more creative learning structure, but Rachel doesn’t want to leave her friends.

She needs me. That’s where all my free time should go. But I need my friends back. They’re my people. I can’t be there for my sister if I’m falling apart.

“Sook—” I start again.

Mrs. Rainer enters the room. “All right, class, time for our morning writing prompt.”

Sook turns toward the board, away from me. I sigh, then pull out my notebook and #2 pencil and begin to write.

*

The front doors of the synagogue are locked. We only keep them unlocked during Shabbat services because there are so many people coming in and out, and an officer guards the parking lot.

I press the buzzer. “Ariel Stone. I have a meeting with the rabbi.”

“Afternoon, Ariel.” The lock clicks. “Come on in.”

I open the door. Someone else is coming up behind me, a delivery woman with a small box. Instinct tells me to keep the door open for her, but the security protocol kicks in. I let the door close and send her a sheepish smile. She smiles back. She gets it. Rabbi Solomon wanted to meet at four, so it made sense to come straight after school. But now I’m early, so I guess I’ll wander around for a bit.

The sanctuary sits in the middle of the shul. It has giant wooden doors and stained-glass paneling. A rack of tallit and kippahs sit outside it. I place my hand against the lacquered wood and step closer. Even though the sanctuary is empty, I can close my eyes and hear the chorus of prayer. I breathe in gently, once, twice. Calm washes over me.

Eventually, I step away and trail down the hall, passing photos of synagogue presidents and Hebrew school graduating classes. I spot my seventh-grade photo from my bar mitzvah year. I stand in the second row. Red, chubby cheeks. Khakis already half an inch too short. Isaac sits in front of me, glasses perched on his nose.