You Asked for Perfect(13)
“Right, okay,” I manage to say. “Thanks.”
“Glad to help.”
He’s already bent back over his papers. I escape the classroom, rubbing my eyes before any tears can escape.
*
“Want some?” Sook asks.
She pulls lotion out of her purse. It’s one of those expensive kinds in an aluminum tube. We’re sitting on top of our desks in AP Lit, waiting for the bell to ring. Crime and Punishment is open in front of me, but I’m not actually reading it. I no longer feel tense. Instead, I’m drained, exhausted.
There’s no extra credit. Studying on my own didn’t work. If tutoring with Amir doesn’t help, I don’t know what I’ll do.
“Ariel?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say. She squeezes a drop onto my hands. I rub them together and inhale. Lavender and the slightest scent of basil. My cheeks warm.
“You didn’t text me back yesterday,” she says, crossing her legs. She’s wearing a long off-white blouse and expensive tan leggings that look more suitable for dressage than school.
“I didn’t? Crap, sorry. What was it again?”
“I wanted to hang out with my best friend. I’m starting to forget what his face looks like.”
“Sook, we drive to school together every morning and have two classes together.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t count. And you’re on your phone like ninety-five percent of the drive. Come over tonight. I have something exciting to tell you!”
“You could tell me now.”
“Boo, no. The fluorescent lights will kill the joy of it. C’mon. We can watch the new Marvel movie and eat peanut butter fudge cupcakes.”
“Damn, that sounds nice.”
This past summer I upped my hours at the animal shelter and also helped out at the Jewish Community Center day camp, but all my free time was spent with Sook. We walked the trails in Tinder Hill Park, listening to music and smoking the occasional joint. We had a Great British Bake Off bake-a-thon, where for two weeks straight we binged the show and tried to copy their recipes. And we went to concerts all over Atlanta: a cover band of the Beatles at a tiny venue, an orchestra concert at the Atlanta Symphony, and a punk show at some dark, dingy basement that made me want a tetanus shot. But since school started, I’ve barely seen her outside of it.
“C’mon,” Sook says. “I have shrimp snacks.”
I inhale. “Really?”
She nods. “Really.”
Shrimp snacks are crunchy chips with delicious seasoning that taste like getting into Heaven. Sook gets them and more of her favorite Korean snacks whenever her parents drive to Buford Highway.
“I’m sorry. I can’t. I have plans already.”
Her eyes narrow. “Plans with who?”
“Uh, nothing. No one. An extra shift at the animal shelter.”
The lie slides out with ease, then a twinge of guilt. I don’t lie to Sook. I don’t lie much in general. But if I tell my best friend I’m failing, she’ll be concerned and ask questions and try to help, and this fa?ade of having my shit together will collapse.
I’ll study with Amir, bring up my grade, and no one has to know I slipped.
The bell rings.
We both take our seats. I pull out my Ticonderoga #2 pencil from behind my ear and flip to a fresh page of my spiral notebook.
I’m probably the least-organized valedictorian in history, using the same jumbo notebook for all my classes until it runs out of space and I have to start a new one. It’s easier that way, less stuff to bring home. All my notes from the week are in one place, and when finals come around, I shrug sheepishly and ask Sook if I can photocopy her notes because mine are a hot mess. It’s best friend symbiosis because she always copies forgotten homework assignments from me.
Mrs. Rainer strides into the room. She’s awesome, and Sharon Mo, last year’s valedictorian, swore her class was an easy A. Mrs. Rainer’s white hair is streaked with pink, and glasses dangle from a chain around her neck.
“Morning, class.” She unzips her black fanny pack, which is covered in glitter and gemstones, and takes out a dry-erase marker. Got to keep them close, she said on the first day of class, these things always seem to disappear to other classrooms.
The top left of the board reads Daily Writing Prompt in permanent marker. We do a quick-write for five minutes every morning. Mrs. Rainer says creativity needs a warm-up like our muscles.
“Hmm,” she says, then writes: Apple pie with vanilla ice cream.
A couple kids laugh, and Mrs. Rainer gives us a look. “What? I’m hungry, okay? All right, all right. Simmer down. Five minutes. Let’s go.”
I crack my neck, titling my head to the left then right. The classroom is silent, save the light scratching of pens and pencils. With no grade attached, the words flow out easily.
Rebecca kneaded the piecrust dough while her mom peeled apples. “We should put chili powder in!” Rebecca said.
“Ew, Rebecca no!”
“What about oregano?”
“Definitely not.”
“Pepper?”
“Honestly, who taught you how to bake?”
“You did!”
“Please don’t tell people that.”
Before I know it, Mrs. Rainer calls, “Time! Pencils down! Okay, who wants to read their story out loud?”