Pushing Perfect

Ever since everything went down with Becca and Isabel, I’d buried myself in schoolwork, spending all my time writing papers and studying for tests and making sure I did as well as I possibly could. It was all I had left. I was still hiding my face with makeup, but sometimes it felt like I was hiding my whole self, too. Or that I didn’t have much self left to hide. By my count, it had been over a year since I’d talked to anyone about anything except school. Even at home, all my parents talked about was how well I was doing, how proud they were of my hard work; they didn’t seem concerned that I was always alone. Sure, Mom had asked about Becca and Isabel at first, but I’d mumbled something about people changing in high school and she’d let it go. I’d convinced myself that everything would be different if I went to the right college.

But I could only do that if I killed it on the SAT.

I’d always been good at taking tests, but the SAT was different. I don’t know if it was just the pressure of how much was riding on it, or if some secret part of me was convinced that standardized tests would somehow reveal how very not perfect I was, but I’d had a full-on panic attack when I took the PSAT—I hadn’t even finished it. I’d left the room before people could see me freaking out. I was so spooked by the thought of the SAT that I’d put it off until this year, rather than taking it as a junior like everyone else in my classes.

The Brain Trust was a group of kids I’d met in the Gifted and Talented Program back in grade school. We weren’t friends, exactly, but we had all our classes together, and we all shared the common goal of wanting to go to college on the East Coast. Harvard, specifically. Arthur Cho was a classical violinist whose parents didn’t want him to go to Juilliard because they thought it would limit his options; David Singer dreamed of being an entrepreneur like Mark Zuckerberg, even though I kept telling him what my parents told me, which was that Silicon Valley was full of Stanford grads who looked down on people from Harvard. Julia Jackson, my nemesis, was gunning for a particular science scholarship and wanted to go straight from undergrad to Harvard Med.

As for me, I just wanted to get as far away from Marbella as possible. I liked the idea of Harvard because it seemed like the kind of place I could start over, where everything might be different. No one would know me as Perfect Kara there; at a place like Harvard, it would be normal to love math and to care about academics more than anything else. It didn’t necessarily have to be Harvard; any good school out east would do. My last name was Winter and I’d only ever seen snow in Tahoe. I wanted red and orange leaves in the fall, tulips in spring, baking heat in summer. I wanted change.

“The National Merit Semifinalist list came out today,” Julia said, her voice all sugary. “Didn’t see your name on there.” Julia and I had been in classes together since kindergarten and teachers had been pitting us against each other the whole time. Handwriting competitions in first grade, speed-reading contests in second, multiplication table races in third—by then it had gotten old for me, but it never had for her. Now I was first in the class, but she was right on my heels, and I knew she’d made it her mission to pass me by.

“Nope,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “I assume congratulations are in order?”

Julia nodded, as did the other two. Great. So I was the only one. “Well, I’m really happy for you guys.” And I was, but I could also feel the anxiety kicking in. It had become a familiar feeling—I’d get this wave of nausea, then a weird thumping in my head, and then my pulse would start to race. I’d feel cold but get sweaty, which was usually the point when I’d take a walk or something to calm myself down. They were sort of my friends, but they were also my competition, as my guidance counselor kept reminding me. The problem was that they each knew exactly what they wanted, and everything they did was in service of their goals. I had no idea what I wanted, other than knowing it had something to do with math, and that put me at a disadvantage. The only way to make myself stand out—the only way to have a real chance at a new life—was to be valedictorian at one of the most competitive public high schools in the country, which Marbella High was. And to nail the SATs.

Basically, I had to be perfect.

I had to put the SATs out of my head if I wanted to avoid an actual panic attack, though, so I turned to the immediate task, which was staying at the top of the class. Which meant acing next week’s calc and econ exams. “We should get out of here,” I said. “I don’t want to be late for class.”

We all had calculus next, which was my favorite class, with Ms. Davenport, who was my favorite teacher. Today was a review session for a test we had coming up, and I was actually looking forward to it.

The thing I loved about math was that you could usually tell when you got the right answer. Like the logic puzzles I used to do with my mom that I now did on my own, for fun: if seven girls go to a birthday sleepover and each one brings different gifts and snacks and has to leave at a different time the next morning, how do you figure out which is which, given a list of clues? There was something so satisfying about creating a chart, with little boxes for Xs and check marks, and drawing inferences from the clues that let you put all the pieces together. Calculus, with its graphs and equations, was similar enough to be fun.

I finished the practice test quickly, secure in the knowledge that I’d gotten all the answers right. It took another ten minutes or so for everyone else to get done, and then Ms. Davenport started going over the answers. She was such a great teacher—she walked through everything so carefully, I couldn’t imagine how anyone didn’t get it after that. She’d been the same way when I had her for geometry as a freshman, a class I found much harder than calculus. And she was cool, too—she dyed her hair auburn and wore it in fancy rolls like she was from the twenties, with vintage dresses and cowboy boots. She seemed so much younger than the other teachers, though I knew she couldn’t be as young as I thought she was, given how long she’d been teaching.

“Ready for the test?” she asked me, on my way out of class.

“Ready enough, I hope,” I said.

“I’m so not,” a voice said from behind me. “Ready, that is.”

I turned to see Alex Nguyen, a girl who was in my calculus and econ classes. I didn’t know her very well; she didn’t talk much in class unless Ms. Davenport made her, and we’d never done more than say hi in the hallway once in a while. Last year she used to fall asleep in class a lot but this year she’d gotten it together.

“It won’t be so bad,” I said.

“Oh, you’re just humoring me. This stuff is totally easy for you.”

I hated when people said things like that. They had no idea how hard I worked, how much pressure I was under. Sometimes it felt like I was treading water all the time, working as hard as I could to stay afloat. I just wanted to swim. Alex didn’t seem to mean anything by it, though. “I’m going to have to study all weekend,” I said.

“Want to study together? You can come to my house. I can even bribe you with food—my dad is a really good cook.”

My first instinct was to say no; my study habits were pretty set, and it wasn’t likely that working with her would help me. But then I remembered how my dad would make me teach the class materials back to him when he helped me study, and how much better I understood things once I could explain them. Maybe it would be good for both of us. And then I remembered something else.

“How are you doing in econ?” I asked.

“Oh, econ,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “Nothing to it.”

“Can we study for that too?”

“Really? You want my help?” Alex clapped her hands. “Totally! It’ll be fun. How about tomorrow?”

I had nothing but time. “Sure.”

“Give me your number and I’ll text you the address.”

We traded info as we walked to econ. I couldn’t help but feel kind of excited—the thought of going over to Alex’s to study actually sounded fun. I hadn’t gone over to anyone’s house in more than a year, and it had been even longer than that since I’d studied with someone else. Maybe we’d even talk about something other than classes, though the thought of it made me a little nervous. What did I have to talk about these days? I only hung out with the Brain Trust, and almost always at school—I hardly ever saw them outside it. Once in a while I went to the movies or the mall with Julia, but we both knew it was because we didn’t have anyone else to go with. Every time I swore I’d never hang out with her again; all she wanted to talk about was school, even after she and David started hooking up. I refused to ever study with her. The only person I’d ever had fun studying with besides my dad was Becca, and that was way back in middle school, before we got put in all different classes.

Of course, the minute I thought of Becca, there she was. It had been over a year since we’d last spoken, but I still missed her all the time. Isabel too, though not in the same way. Becca looked striking, like she always did; she wore smoky makeup around her green eyes and her dark skin was as clear and perfect as ever. She’d started to let her hair grow back, but just barely, so her head was covered in tight little black curls.

I still remembered the day she’d cut off her braids. I’d just gotten back from Tahoe, and as promised, she’d made us appointments at the same time. When she first suggested the haircuts, I thought it was a great idea; I liked the idea of us doing something together, something that would publicly mark us as friends. And it wasn’t like my long hair was so fabulous; it was a washed-out brown and not particularly thick, and I never wore it down anyway.

But then there was the skin. When things got bad over the summer, I got in the habit of taking down my bun and wearing my hair over my face. There was something comforting about it, like I was doing a better job of hiding the problem even just by virtue of covering myself a little more. Mom had gently suggested that if I was going to wear it down, I might want to brighten it up a bit, so I’d gotten a trim and some super subtle highlights and started paying more attention to how I styled it. Becca hadn’t seen it yet. She hadn’t seen my new clothes, either, or how much makeup I was wearing regularly now. Mom said I looked like a new person, all grown up and ready for school. I was just happy not to look like myself, now that looking like myself had become so scary.

The appointment was scheduled for the day after I got back into town. “We need to do this like ripping off a Band-Aid,” she said. “No chickening out.”

I should have just told her then. Instead, I showed up at the hairdresser late. Becca was sitting in the chair covered in an apron, her braids already half gone. Even before the haircut was over, it was clear she could pull it off; she had a really great-shaped head.

“You’re back!” she said, as I approached the chair. “I’d get up and hug you, but you see what’s happening here.” She pointed at the hairdresser, who held up a big pair of scissors.

“I sure do,” I said. “You’re really going for it.”

“We’re really going for it,” she corrected. Then she paused and looked at me. “Come here.”

I came closer. She reached out and touched my hair. “You got highlights,” she said. “And layers.”

I nodded.

“You’re not going for it.”

“No,” I said, quietly.

“You’re kidding. What happened? We had a plan.”

The hairdresser moved the scissors away from Becca’s head. “I’m going to give you girls a minute,” she said, and went into the back.

“I know we did, and I’m really sorry,” I said. “But you know I’ve never had the same trouble with the swim cap thing as you, and I did that thing where you upload a picture and try out different hairstyles online, and I look awful with short hair.” That was only kind of a lie—I’d done it, and I didn’t look great with short hair, but that wasn’t the real reason. It was time for me to just tell her the truth. I hated keeping secrets, especially from Becca; I never had before. I opened my mouth to say more, but I thought about having to tell Isabel, and I wondered whether I could ask Becca to keep my secret for me. Was that too much to ask her? I wasn’t sure what to do.

I didn’t have to decide what to say next, though, because Becca had already made up her mind. “You should go,” she said. Her voice was cold, and I knew she was furious. Becca wasn’t like Isabel, who yelled and screamed whenever she was pissed off. When Becca was mad, she got very, very quiet. “If you’re not keeping your appointment, you don’t need to be here.”

That was the moment I should have said something. But I didn’t. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” That was kind of a lie too, since I had no idea how, but I didn’t know what else to say. And I didn’t want to ask her to forgive me, because I was afraid she’d say no. So I just left.

We’d gotten over that eventually, just as we’d gotten over other things in the past. We hadn’t yet reached our limits; it would take nearly two years and a lot more than a haircut for our friendship to end. But eventually, it did. So when Becca and I made eye contact in the hall, I saw the flash of emotions that passed over her face whenever she saw me: sadness, confusion, a little bit of anger, resignation. I imagined mine probably weren’t all that different.

And then we both looked away.

3.

Alex lived in a subdivision not too far from mine. The only way to tell it was different was the style of the homes—in my neighborhood it was all ranch houses, but in hers there was a little bit of variation, though not much. Marbella didn’t have a lot of architectural range. Alex’s house was almost identical in layout to Becca’s; it felt familiar, which made me nostalgic.

Alex’s mom opened the door and welcomed me in. She wore the local mom uniform of yoga pants and a zipped-up track jacket, her thick black hair pulled into a high ponytail. “You must be Kara,” she said. “Come on in—Alex is inside and my foolish husband is slaving over the hot stove.”

She led me into the kitchen, where a short man in khakis, a denim shirt, and an apron that read TROPHY HUSBAND was frowning over a cookbook as several pans bubbled on the stove. “Hi, I’m Kara,” I said. “It smells amazing in here.” I meant it, too; the air was full of ginger and garlic and other spices I didn’t recognize.

“Oh, it’s a disaster,” he said, cheerfully. “I’ve been taking classes and reading these cookbooks to try to reconstruct all these old recipes my mom used to make, but she took her secrets to the grave.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, though he hadn’t sounded sad about it.

“I’m just sorry she didn’t teach me how to cook. You can be sure I won’t make the same mistake with Alex. Hi, honey! Come over here and give me a hand.”

I turned around to see that Alex had just come into the kitchen. “You don’t really want my help,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of the fun you’re having.” She said it with a completely straight face, so it took me a second to realize she was kidding.

But her dad understood right away and stuck his tongue out at her. She stuck hers out right back. “Stop screwing around and help me,” he said. This was obviously not the first time they’d done this bit.

“What do you need?” She gave me a nod to acknowledge she knew I was there and then went to read the cookbook over her dad’s shoulder. “I thought you were just going to do pho. You can make that in your sleep.”

“I got ambitious,” he said, looking a little embarrassed. “Shaking beef with red rice … it’s been a while since you had company.”

Now it was Alex’s turn to look embarrassed. “I told you, this is not a big deal!” She glanced over at me. “No offense.”

“None taken.” It was all pretty amusing. “Can I help?”

“No!” they both yelled at the same time.

Alex’s mom laughed. “Let me get you something to drink, and then we can sit at the table and watch the show. It’s usually entertaining, if messy. Last time they made shaking beef, I had to renovate the kitchen afterward.”

I wondered whether she was joking. It was a really nice kitchen, with shiny sea-green tile that looked like little bricks lining the walls behind enormous stainless steel appliances. Even if she was serious, though, it didn’t sound like she minded. Though she was wearing the Marbella uniform, she didn’t seem as high-strung as some of the other moms. Mine included.

She handed me a glass of iced tea and we sat at the table and watched Alex and her dad prepare the food. They worked well together, only talking occasionally, trading ingredients and utensils back and forth like people who did this all the time, which they clearly did. I couldn’t even imagine having that kind of a routine with my dad; he was so caught up in work that even my earliest memories were of him on his cell phone. The only time we’d really spent alone together was when he helped me study—he was really good at English and all the nonmath stuff that I wasn’t so into—but that hadn’t happened in a long time.

“Almost there,” Alex said.

Once they were done, they stuck big spoons right in the pots and handed out bowls so we could all serve ourselves. Then we sat at the kitchen table and completely pigged out. I liked how casual it all was, but that they all ate together. In my house we mostly fended for ourselves or ate in front of the television; we only ate at the dining room table when my parents were having people over. Which happened almost never.

“This food tastes even better than it smells,” I said, fighting the urge to talk with my mouth full so I could keep eating.

“He’s a better cook than his mother was,” Mrs. Nguyen said. “And he knows it, too.”

“Don’t be silly.” Mr. Nguyen waved her off, but he looked pleased. “Cooking is just a hobby.”

“A likely story,” Alex said. “I keep waiting for you to tell us you’re ditching work to open a restaurant.”

“It’s a great idea. Your mom can quit her job and take care of the books, and you can quit school to waitress.”

Mrs. Nguyen laughed. “You’re welcome to trade software for soft-shell crabs, but you’d have to carry me out of the office bound and gagged. And don’t even joke about Alex dropping out of school.”

There it was—that Marbella-mom edge to her voice. I wasn’t the only one at this table with high-pressure parents, then.

“Speaking of school, we should probably get to work,” Alex said.

I thanked her parents for dinner and then followed Alex to her room. Just as I’d expected, she had the same enormous bedroom setup that Becca had, though she’d done something completely different with the space. Her bed was in the same place, but instead of a lounge area she had a huge desk that ran the length of the entire back wall and then turned and tracked half of the rest of the room. That was where the computer monitors were. Three of them: one in the center and two at forty-five-degree angles on either side. Also huge.

“Are you an air traffic controller or something?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I guess you could say I’m a programmer.” She sat down in a big fancy-looking desk chair and motioned to a smaller chair next to it for me.

I sat down. “What kind of programming do you do?”

She gave me a little smirk, like I’d caught her doing something she wasn’t supposed to. “Well, maybe I exaggerated a little. I told my parents I needed all this stuff for programming. Can you keep a secret?”

If only she knew. “Sure.”

“I need the screens for poker. I play online. Like, a lot.”

“Isn’t it illegal? I mean, not to sound like a goody-goody or anything …”

She shrugged. “It’s, like, dubious. The playing part isn’t so much illegal, but the money part isn’t something I want people to find out about, if you know what I’m saying.”

“You make money? You must be good.”

“Yeah, I am,” she said, but she didn’t sound arrogant. Just proud. “But that’s also where the programming comes in. I wrote a bunch of tracking programs to help with my game, to run statistics, that sort of thing. It gives me a real advantage over some of the idiots who play online.”

I was impressed. I’d thought she was just this random girl in some classes with me; it turned out she had this totally other secret life. My secrets weren’t nearly as interesting as hers. “Why do you need so many screens?”

“Because I usually play about five or six games at a time. That’s the nice thing about being online—you don’t have to sit at just one table. Your avatar can be in lots of places at once.” She clicked and her screen lit up with the image of a poker table covered in felt; she clicked again and I saw an image of a boy’s face, with short dark hair.

“That’s your avatar?”

“That’s virtual me. I pretend I’m a boy so they’ll take me more seriously. Sad, but poker’s pretty sexist. It’s weirdly not as racist, though—there are a lot of famous players with the same last name as me, so being Alex Nguyen is actually kind of helpful. Not that I use my real name, but some people I play with a lot know it. And they know my uncle, too—he was a professional poker player, a really famous one. Taught me everything I know.”

“When do you have time to do all this?

“At night. I don’t need much sleep.”

I knew that couldn’t be true; I remembered last year, when she used to fall asleep in class every day. “Don’t you need a lot of math for programming? Do you really need my help? It sounds like you could help me more than I could help you—I’m way behind in AP Statistics, too.” I’d loaded up my schedule with math electives, mostly to avoid having to take more science classes.

“Well …” She got that look again, like I’d busted her, and then started talking really fast. “I mean, yeah, calculus isn’t my best subject, but I get by. It’s just … most of my friends are guys, and you and I have been in classes together forever but we’ve never hung out, and I only see you with those Brain Trust kids, and in class you seem smart and funny and they’re smart but not even a little bit funny, and they can’t be a whole lot of fun, and you seem like someone who should maybe be having more fun than you are, and I thought maybe we should be friends.”

She took a deep breath. I stared at her.

“Well, are you going to say something? Did I just totally humiliate myself? We can just study. No problem. I’ve got stats down cold. Took it sophomore year.”

“No, wait,” I said. “You just talk way faster than I can think. You’re right.”

“Right about which part?”

“Right about all of it. I do pretty much only hang out with Julia and those guys, and only at school, because they’re not fun.”

“I’m totally fun. We’re going to start getting you out more.”

I’d never met anyone so direct. It was kind of amazing. “That would be great,” I said. I wanted to tell her that I used to have friends, that it wasn’t always like this, but that wouldn’t change anything.

“Oh, that is so excellent. I have such a good feeling about you, you know? And we’re like twins.” She pointed to our outfits, which were both variations on the hoodie/tank top/jeans/tennis shoes combo.

I raised my eyebrows at her. One minute into our friendship was too early to state the obvious.

“Oh, yeah, except for the Asian thing,” she said.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Even better.

Alex started her fast talking again. “Isn’t it weird, how hard it is to make new girlfriends? It’s like you hang out with the same people forever, and at a certain point that’s all there is. Boys are so much easier. You can just go right up to them and say whatever you want, and either they’ll be friends with you or they won’t. Girls are so much more complicated.”

“Is it really that easy?” I asked. “With boys, I mean?”

“It has been so far. Except for if they get a thing for you. Then it gets complicated. But I bet you know how to deal with that, pretty as you are. God, it’s so great to have someone to talk to about this stuff! We should tell each other everything!” She must have seen the look on my face. “Uh-oh. Is this not a good topic? Are you not into guys? Girls are good too. I mean, I’ve only made out with a couple, just to see if it was my thing, but …”