You Asked for Perfect(7)

It’s all I can do to play and breathe.

And then, with a final flat note, it’s over, and the entire orchestra raises their instruments to burst back into play. I muster the courage to meet Dr. Whitmore’s eyes.

Disdain.

The movement is supposed to continue. But she drops her baton. We put down our instruments.

Silence.

Dr. Whitmore stares right at me. It takes every ounce of nerve not to bolt from the room.

“Well, that won’t do,” she says, her voice hard. “Ariel, again.”

I swallow, throat thick, eyes stinging. She just handed out the music. What does she expect?

She lifts the baton. We set our instruments. I play it again.

*

“Kids, dinner! Wash your hands!” Dad calls from downstairs.

I peel my face off my pillow and blink. I must have crashed when I got home from school. “Ariel? You okay?”

I clear my throat, then sit up, a little light-headed. My sister, Rachel, stands in my doorway. She’s in fifth grade, but skipped kindergarten. Her teachers wanted her to skip three grades, but my parents said no way. Her hair, dark and curly like the rest of us, is past her shoulders, and she’s wearing her favorite tie-dye dress.

“Yeah, I’m good.” I rub my face. “Long week. I was resting my eyes.”

“Um, yeah, you were definitely snoring. Can we play Scrabble after dinner?”

“Sure.” I smile, but there’s a knot in my stomach. Dr. Whitmore said I need to perfect the Scheherazade solo in two weeks or else.

Literally, she said or else.

I wash up in my bathroom, then check the notes on my phone, scanning through all the work I need to get done this weekend. The never-ending reading for Spanish lit. My homework for AP Physics. Of course, calculus. I have to get an A on the upcoming test, so I need to dedicate every spare minute to studying for it. The violin solo will have to wait until next week, even with Dr. Whitmore’s or else.

“Kids!” Dad calls.

“Coming!” I respond.

There’s a strict no-phones-at-Shabbat dinner policy, so I drop mine on my bed and follow Rachel downstairs. Mom and Dad are in the kitchen, finishing making dinner. Mom pulls a golden-brown challah from the oven, the delicious smell of fresh baked bread wafting through the kitchen. Dad tosses the salad and adds a flourish of crushed almonds. A roasted chicken sits on the counter.

“Smells amazing, guys,” I say. “Need help with anything?”

“Want to grab some dressings?” Dad asks.

“Sure thing.” I walk to the fridge and grab everyone’s favorites.

“No soup?” Rachel whines.

“Sorry, mamaleh, didn’t have time,” Mom says. Some Friday nights we have matzo ball soup with dinner because my parents are superhuman, working hard all week and still providing home-cooked meals.

Mom is wearing her pencil skirt from work, but with a worn AC/DC T-shirt. She heads to the table with the Kiddush cup and a bottle of Manischewitz, a sweet kosher wine that basically tastes like grape juice.

Then she grabs two lace kippahs and passes one to Rachel. They walk over to the sink, where we keep the Shabbat candles on the ledge in front of the window so the world can see them from outside. They light the candles and wave their hands in circles in front of their eyes three times before saying the prayer: “Baruch atah adonai eloheinu melech haolam asher kideshanu bemitzvotav vetzivanu lehadlik ner shel Shabbat.”

“Amen,” Dad and I say.

We all sit, and Dad blesses the wine. We pass the cup around, all drinking some, even Rachel. A lot of Jewish kids are allowed to have a sip of wine on Shabbat from, like, infancy. And in our family, when we turn fifteen, we’re allowed to properly drink for Passover, which means four cups of wine over a four-hour seder. I only got through two and half cups last year before I fell out of my chair laughing and called it quits.

“Ariel, want to do the challah?” Mom asks.

“Sure.” I place my hand over the braided bread, then lead our final prayer. It’s always comforting saying the familiar Hebrew words together. It lightens me in a way that’s hard to explain.

After the prayer, I tear off a giant chunk of bread, then break off bits and throw it around the table so everyone has some.

“So,” Mom says, passing the salad bowl my way. “How was everyone’s week? Bloopers and highlights.”

We’re all so busy during the week—Mom chasing a story, Dad researching cases, Rachel with all her extracurricular activities—that Shabbat is usually the first time we can all sit down together. So Mom likes us to catch up by sharing the best parts, and most epic fails, of our weeks.

Rachel tosses a cherry tomato in the air and catches it with her mouth, then grins wide at all of us. “Well!” she says, because she always wants to go first and none of us mind. “I picked my pirate for High Seas week and guess who I get to be? Guess, guess! Okay, I’ll tell you. I get to be Ching Shih!”

We all exchange baffled looks. “Who?” I ask.

“Ching Shih,” Rachel says, exasperated. “The most feared pirate of all time! She was a prostitute in the 1800s, then married a famous pirate, and when he died, she took over and became super-scary and was in charge of, like, everyone.”

“Prostitute pirate,” Mom says. “That sounds appropriate.”