Free The Body in the Ivy by Katherine Hall Page Page B

he’d stayed mainly with the violin, but by age ten, it was clear that his real talent was the piano. His hands were the hands of a born pianist, long tapered fingers, strong. When he played, they flew across the keys in a kind of dance, an extension of his swaying body. He was a traditionally romantic-looking musician—dark, curling hair, always a little too long.
    But if, in fact, Max was a prodigy, he never acted like it, nor did his parents treat him like one. He played sports, excelling at basketball, much to the chagrin of a string of music teachers. He broke a leg—stepping off a curb on Amsterdam Avenue directly into a pothole—but never injured his hands. Like his sister, he explored the city with friends, hanging out in the Village, heading to Chinatown for Sunday-morning dim sum breakfasts, and attending as many performances of as many different kinds of music as possible. Both Rachel and Max attended one of New York’s special public schools, the High School of Music and Art. Even though they were a year and a class apart, they shared the same group of friends, all aspiring performers. They were like twins, everyone commented. They had had a special language growing up that had been reduced to a few words and phrases now. Their fights were bitter, passionate, and brief. Their apologies profuse.
    When Max had said he would be going through the same thing in a year, Rachel had been tempted to wake her parents up and tell them she would only go to Pelham if they didn’t make Max try for an Ivy. She felt her anger bubble up all over again. It was four years! A waste of four years! Max was already being hailed as one of the most promising musicians of his generation. The Times had done a story on him last year after a school concert at Carnegie Hall. The headline had read, young max gold doesn’t need to practice to get to carnegie hall, a reference to the old “How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice” joke.
    Her parents had repeated the same arguments for Max they had used with Rachel. “You need a quality, well-rounded liberal arts education. Education is for life. You want to be ignorant?” Rachel had proposed she and Max take classes at NYU or the New School, but her parents wanted them to “have a taste of campus life.” “The city will still be here when you come back,” her father had said. “Campus life”—it sounded like porkpie hats and raccoon coats, the Harvard-Yale game, undergraduates drinking too much, and panty raids. No, thank you.
    Yet here she was and Max would be following. Not Pelham, of course. He was applying early decision to Harvard. She was sure he’d get in. He’d scored two 800s on his SATs; had a 4.5 GPA, because of his AP courses; tutored at a settlement house—and then there was his music. She figured she was at Pelham as a legacy; her grades hadn’t been so hot, although she had decent scores. It never seemed to matter. Only the music mattered. She’d get through the year, and then Max would be at Harvard or someplace else in the Boston area. They’d worked it out. Maybe Brandeis. This was her only consolation: Max close by, especially if he hada car. Maybe she could say she wouldn’t stay at Pelham unless her parents gave Max a car. He’d have to get a license, but that couldn’t be hard. Look at all the idiots who passed the test. A car would mean freedom. They could get rid of it when he graduated and moved back to the city.
    She took her guitar out of its case. The dorm rooms didn’t have locks—in case of fire, supposedly. More likely for random bed checks. Men were allowed in your room on Sundays from 2:00 to 4:00 p.m., with the door ajar ten inches, and three feet on the floor at all times. When she’d read that to Max and their friends from the rulebook, they’d had a great time thinking of all the things you could do and still obey the letter of the law.