You Asked for Perfect(14)

I close my notebook. Definitely not. My unpolished writing is embarrassing, especially because half the people in this class can basically craft the opening of a novel in, like, five minutes. Ellen Cho raises her hand and reads off her story about an apple pie baking contest. After compliment and critique, Mrs. Rainer turns on the smart board and clicks away at her computer.

“All right, class,” she says. “Today, I thought we’d go over a college essay. Keep in mind, our Crime and Punishment essay test is coming up at the end of next week. We’ll begin to go over the text tomorrow, all right? Now! This is from a student of mine a couple of years ago. He got into Princeton.”

I slump down into my seat, stomach twisting. I still haven’t started my college essay. More likely than not, I’ll write about playing violin, but thousands and thousands of applicants are in orchestra. There’s nothing special about it. It’s not a true passion. Maybe I could lie and say I compose my own music, but an admissions counselor could probably fact-check that.

I wish I had a real passion like everyone else. Sook has her band. Amir has his camera. Everyone has something that makes them stand out. Everyone except me.

When I signed up for classes freshman year, no one told me that straight As, volunteer hours, and time in the arts aren’t enough. No one told me I’d have to know every answer to every test and also be a “unique individual” following my life’s calling at seventeen.

“Want to come over after the animal shelter?” Sook whispers as Mrs. Rainer searches her computer. “We can eat shrimp snacks and work on our essays.”

I stare down at my blank page.

“Yeah,” I say. “That would be good.”

*

I text Amir: I’m here

A minute later, I’m walking up to the door as it opens. Amir stands in front of me, wearing gray sweatpants and a plain white V-neck. His stubble is dark and runs over his cheeks and along the curve of his sharp jaw. My eyes scan him a moment too long, and the word want surfaces in my thoughts.

He cracks a crooked smile. “Hey.”

“Hey. So—”

“So—”

We both laugh. Amir scratches the back of his neck, still grinning. “So, okay. Come on in. I’m set up in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

His house is familiar. Art hangs on the walls, from prints of famous artists to Amir’s photography to Rasha’s watercolors. Sara has her own nook, shelves full of pottery and photos from ballet and soccer. We head down the hall to the kitchen. The table sits by a giant bay window overlooking the backyard.

Amir mentioned his family is out watching Sara’s play. He already went to opening night. “Would you like a drink?” he asks. He opens the fridge and leans over it, one arm pressed against the frame. I try and fail not to stare at his bicep. “We have Coke, iced tea, water…”

“Tea works,” I say.

Amir pours us both a cup, then grabs a bag of chips and some grapes. I pull out sour gummy worms and Haribo Fizzy Cola bottles from my backpack. He laughs when he sees them and asks, “Sour candy fan?”

“Understatement of the year,” I respond. Honestly, I don’t know how I’d get anything done without sour candy.

We go to settle at the table, but there are a bunch of photos spread out over it. “Sorry,” Amir says, sliding them into a pile. I catch a glimpse of Rasha in a library and a photo of their parents laughing in the kitchen.

“Can I see that one?” I ask, reaching for it.

“Sure.”

Amir hands it to me. It’s an evocative shot, within a private moment. It feels as if they’re alone in the room. Intimacy caught on film.

Something stirs in me. “It’s really good.”

“Do you think so? I can’t figure out which ones to use.”

“Use for what?”

“A competition for high school photographers. If you win, your work gets shown in this new art gallery. It’s not the best space, but still, I’d have my photographs on an actual gallery wall.” His eyes light up. “And they’re giving scholarship money. I can only pick five pieces for my application, so I’ve narrowed it down to shots of the family, but…” He stacks the photos. There must be at least two hundred of them. “I have a few of those.” He raises his eyebrows, looking a little overwhelmed.

I nod. “Quite a few.”

“They’re good subjects. There’s something familiar and unfamiliar about looking at your family through a lens, seeing your parents as actual people.” His fingers trace the photo of them. “Capturing a moment I wouldn’t linger on otherwise.”

“Like Sunday mornings,” I say, half to myself.

“Hmm?” Amir glances at me.

I clear my throat, a bit embarrassed. “Sunday mornings at my house. My parents run around nonstop all week, but they have a date at home every Sunday morning. They stay in their pajamas and read the newspaper and sip coffee for hours. And they talk about politics and movies and their friends. It’s always weird seeing them like that, like an out-of-body experience, because suddenly they’re not Mom and Dad—they’re real people.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Amir says. “I remember the first time I really saw my dad.” He leans forward some, and I do, too. My skin tingles. “I was fourteen. He was running late, and his car wouldn’t start, so he got out to check on the engine and spilled coffee on his shirt. And then his boss was calling on the phone, and Sara was cranky and crying, and I thought, He’s really stressed out. It must be tough. Before that, he was Dad. Invincible. After, he was just a guy.”