Free Admission by Jean Hanff Korelitz

like a
     cool place.”
    “It’s very cool,” she agreed.
    “They teach philosophy there? I like philosophy. What about art?”
    “Great Philosophy Department. Great Art Department.” She nodded to his book, still held open where he had left off, as if
     he had no wish to waste time finding his place again. “Tell me about Edie,” she said.
    He lit up. “You know this book? It’s amazing, isn’t it? It’s the first biography I’ve ever read where the narrative form reflects
     the content.”
    She frowned. “I don’t know what that means.”
    “I mean that in this depiction of the sixties, the fragmentation of the experience is mirrored in the use of oral history.
     You feel as if you’re there, because so many impressions are competing for your attention. No single witness can claim to
     understand the subject of the biography, but cumulatively you do come to see who she was. I’m fascinated by the entire Factory
     thing, actually. Warhol—I can’t quite decide if he was utterly talentless or utterly talented. And his passivity. You know,
     how does someone so resoundingly passive wind up with all of these forceful personalities deferring to him? Can anyone do
     that? I mean, can people be trained to be a Rasputin or a Warhol or a Charles Manson? Or is it a sort of chemical thing? Or
     do certain cultural factors have to be lined up just right?”
    “I don’t know.” She laughed uneasily. “I’m afraid you lost me back at the Factory.”
    “I know who Bob Moses was,” said the boy.
    This was a moment of cognitive whiplash. It took her a moment herself to remember who Bob Moses was. “Oh?”
    “He lives in Cambridge now. He’s trying to teach math in a new way. About a year ago, I had this phase where I was reading
     books about mathematicians. He was in one of the books I read.”
    Portia could only nod.
    “You know what’s strange, though? Really good mathematicians talk like poets. They run out of language, so they twist words
     together to explain their ideas. Like poets do. But anyway, the book about Moses made some reference to his civil rights work.
     So then I read something else about what he did in Mississippi.”
    “What’s your name?” she asked him.
    “Portia,” said John, materializing beside her, “thank you for doing that. And I apologize—you must have thought the initial
     reaction very odd. I ought to have prepared you—we tend to encourage that kind of participation. Spirited participation.”
    Rude participation, she thought. “I sort of got that. The culture of the school, yes?”
    “Yes. And that particular student is Deborah’s daughter.”
    “The elusive Deborah Rosengarten?”
    “Yes. Simone’s her only child. She’s been raised to make her opinions known.”
    Portia smiled. Simone Rosengarten. As in de Beauvoir, no doubt. She would write it down tonight.
    “Not your typical information session, I suppose,” he said, watching her.
    “No.” She smiled. “I do feel as if I earned my salary today.”
    “I would have stepped in if I were ever in doubt. You were really remarkable.”
    “Oh, I enjoyed it,” she said, not entirely truthfully. And—” She turned to the boy, the Warhol boy, but he was already halfway
     to the door. “Hey,” she said after him. “Wait a minute.”
    John turned to look after him. “Hey, Jeremiah?”
    The kid stopped, but halfheartedly. “Yes?”
    “I—” But she wasn’t entirely sure. Wanted to ask him something, but what? His last name? Or whether he would really apply?
     Or maybe what it was that kept her here a long moment past the point where it made sense to be looking after him.
    “Jeremiah,” said John, “are you thinking of applying to Princeton?”
    “Yeah, maybe.” He looked utterly nonplussed.
    “Well, I hope you do,” Portia told him. “And if you do, please let me know. Here’s my card,” she said, taking one from her
     wallet. “Let me know if you have any questions. If you want to come