a head for the abstractions of calculus and beyond.
Somehow or another, though, music had accessed the mathematical part of his brain. Bach spoke to him in a way that linear algebra never would. But music existed ; a guitar was a machine you used to make music, and music was real in a way that math…wasn’t. You added math to math and it made more math. But music made sense, he could follow it, you could hear it .
He’d been in love with classical guitar since he’d first walked into a café with some other kids one night, and a man was playing Bach on an acoustic guitar. Matt was hypnotized by the cascade of perfect notes, the blazingly apparent difficulty of the piece, and the way the dude made it look easy. He’d talked to the guy during his break – grilled him, really – on what he needed to do if he wanted to learn to play. He had a credit card “for emergencies” and used it the next day to buy his first instrument.
That had started a war with Mom – not because he’d spent unauthorized money, but because he’d made a decision that could Impact His Career without consulting her.
“I hear the new admissions officer at Harvard just loves the cello,” Mom said to Lydia, the admissions counselor at Worthington, as the two of them planned Matt’s future as if he wasn’t even sitting there. The whole idea of a junior high school with a college admissions counselor was so crazy to Matt that he didn’t know what he’d say anyway.
“So this whole guitar thing, you know…” She flailed her hands as if Matt had chosen a life of juvenile delinquency.
“Well,” Lydia said hesitantly, “that’s true, she does love the cello. But, you know, there has to be one thing on his resume that stands out…”
“What do you mean ‘stands out’?” Mom said, her ire rising. “Matt IS outstanding!”
“Of course,” Lydia said quickly, knowing all too well how outstandingly outstanding every little genius was at Worthington, even kids like Matt who clearly didn’t have their hearts in the fast track. “I just mean there should be something on his application that…you know. Makes him stand out from the crowd.”
Matt looked up from his Gameboy, made eye contact with Lydia. I’m trying , she pled with her eyes.
I know , Matt’s eyes replied.
“Just something that…shows his individuality. That he’s not just…checking off boxes, doing what’s expected.”
Matt knew what she meant. All the kids around him were eagerly reshaping themselves. They had no desire to break the mold when fitting into it was what would get them into a good school , the golden ticket to the meritocracy. And so every day all of these racially, ethnically, sexually diverse kids were shedding their real diversity, their internal diversity, to become the same cookies from the same cookie cutter, only with a different colored frosting on top. They all spoke three languages and invented a great website and saved sixty homeless people last week. And most of them would get in to the school of their choice.
“Oh, individuality! He’s got that!” Mom said scornfully. “This guitar thing could have got him into Mayer Academy, but no, he had to express his individuality! ”
Matt knew it was true. He’d met with the elite private high school’s admissions guy, who’d looked up with delight after seeing that Matt played, or at least was learning to play.
“Who’s your favorite performer? I love Segovia,” the little man sighed.
“He’s good,” Matt said. “My favorite is Paul Galbraith.”
The man’s smile faded. “Really,” he said coldly. “Why do you think he’s better than Segovia?”
“I didn’t say better. I said he’s my favorite. Segovia’s really emotional, but Galbraith is more…” he shrugged. Fuck, he was fourteen! He didn’t know why Galbraith was better! He just was! Years later he’d put his finger on the appeal –
Somehow or another, though, music had accessed the mathematical part of his brain. Bach spoke to him in a way that linear algebra never would. But music existed ; a guitar was a machine you used to make music, and music was real in a way that math…wasn’t. You added math to math and it made more math. But music made sense, he could follow it, you could hear it .
He’d been in love with classical guitar since he’d first walked into a café with some other kids one night, and a man was playing Bach on an acoustic guitar. Matt was hypnotized by the cascade of perfect notes, the blazingly apparent difficulty of the piece, and the way the dude made it look easy. He’d talked to the guy during his break – grilled him, really – on what he needed to do if he wanted to learn to play. He had a credit card “for emergencies” and used it the next day to buy his first instrument.
That had started a war with Mom – not because he’d spent unauthorized money, but because he’d made a decision that could Impact His Career without consulting her.
“I hear the new admissions officer at Harvard just loves the cello,” Mom said to Lydia, the admissions counselor at Worthington, as the two of them planned Matt’s future as if he wasn’t even sitting there. The whole idea of a junior high school with a college admissions counselor was so crazy to Matt that he didn’t know what he’d say anyway.
“So this whole guitar thing, you know…” She flailed her hands as if Matt had chosen a life of juvenile delinquency.
“Well,” Lydia said hesitantly, “that’s true, she does love the cello. But, you know, there has to be one thing on his resume that stands out…”
“What do you mean ‘stands out’?” Mom said, her ire rising. “Matt IS outstanding!”
“Of course,” Lydia said quickly, knowing all too well how outstandingly outstanding every little genius was at Worthington, even kids like Matt who clearly didn’t have their hearts in the fast track. “I just mean there should be something on his application that…you know. Makes him stand out from the crowd.”
Matt looked up from his Gameboy, made eye contact with Lydia. I’m trying , she pled with her eyes.
I know , Matt’s eyes replied.
“Just something that…shows his individuality. That he’s not just…checking off boxes, doing what’s expected.”
Matt knew what she meant. All the kids around him were eagerly reshaping themselves. They had no desire to break the mold when fitting into it was what would get them into a good school , the golden ticket to the meritocracy. And so every day all of these racially, ethnically, sexually diverse kids were shedding their real diversity, their internal diversity, to become the same cookies from the same cookie cutter, only with a different colored frosting on top. They all spoke three languages and invented a great website and saved sixty homeless people last week. And most of them would get in to the school of their choice.
“Oh, individuality! He’s got that!” Mom said scornfully. “This guitar thing could have got him into Mayer Academy, but no, he had to express his individuality! ”
Matt knew it was true. He’d met with the elite private high school’s admissions guy, who’d looked up with delight after seeing that Matt played, or at least was learning to play.
“Who’s your favorite performer? I love Segovia,” the little man sighed.
“He’s good,” Matt said. “My favorite is Paul Galbraith.”
The man’s smile faded. “Really,” he said coldly. “Why do you think he’s better than Segovia?”
“I didn’t say better. I said he’s my favorite. Segovia’s really emotional, but Galbraith is more…” he shrugged. Fuck, he was fourteen! He didn’t know why Galbraith was better! He just was! Years later he’d put his finger on the appeal –
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