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others she had seen taking lessons, she placed the instrument under her neck, grasped the bow, and scraped it across the strings.
    The result was a raucous screech that brought Murielfrom the kitchen to the living room door. There she stopped to observe her daughter without being seen.
    After a few more attempts, Isabel was able to bow an A string, which grew clearer with every stroke. She then began to explore the string with her first finger until she found a B. She did not, of course, know its name, but was satisfied that it sounded right.
    It was not long before her experiments yielded a C-sharp—two steps higher.
    At this point her mother could hide no longer. She entered the room and remarked as casually as she could, “That sounds lovely, dear. Now you can use just those three notes to play ‘Frère Jacques.’ Here, let me show you.”
    Muriel went to the piano and conducted and accompanied Isabel in her melodic debut.
    She was too ecstatic to keep this discovery from Ray. Although he was excited, he was worried that Muriel might now try to seduce the girl into the realm of music.
    “Gosh, that’s fantastic, honey,” he murmured. “Do you realize that she’s not much older than Mozart was when he just picked up the violin and began to play?”
    “I know,” she responded, regretting his allusion.
    “But did you know that he was also a mathematical genius? His father made the crucial decision that someone of his son’s age could never have made.”
    “Which you are now making for Isabel?” she asked.
    “Precisely.”
    “Don’t you think that’s a bit unfair—not to mention presumptuous?” she said, fighting back. “Who’s to say that Isabel couldn’t go further in—”
    Her husband slammed the table and stood up. “I don’t want to hear any more of this,” he thundered. “The girl’s a scientist, and maybe even—yes, I’ll say it—another Einstein.”
    Muriel was incensed. “Did
you
know that Einstein was also a fine violinist?”
    “Yes, darling,” he answered facetiously. “But it was a hobby, a kind of recreation from his God-given task of explaining the universe.”
    “Am I hearing you right?” she asked, barely able to control herself. “Are you implying the Almighty has decreed that our daughter will become a scientist?”
    “I’m not implying anything,” Raymond shot back. “I’m simply saying that I won’t let anything stand in the way of my daughter’s development. That’s it, Muriel, the discussion is closed.”
    August 10
    There are two invisible people haunting our house, and the way my parents talk about them, you’d think they were members of the family.
    One is “Albert Einstein,” who’s come to mean the same as genius (another word I keep hearing and which makes me very nervous).
    I looked him up in the Encyclopedia Britannica and read that his ideas were so extraordinary that at first people refused to believe them. Dad did his best to explain them to me—apologizing that he himself had trouble understanding some of them.
    But I feel very uncomfortable when he predicts that someday I’ll make these kinds of discoveries.
    Frankly—and I’m almost ashamed to admit this—I’d rather be compared to Brooke Shields.
    If I could have my greatest dream come true, it would be to look like her. People say I already have her cheekbones, and now all I need is the rest.
    Then, when I try to take refuge with Mom in the kitchen, she starts to “chat” about the music.
    That’s where the other ghost comes in. His name is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
    He lived in the eighteenth century and was—as people like to call me and make me cringe—a “prodigy.”
    Mom told me he played in a violin trio with grownupswhen he was only my age (which makes me seem slow, thank God).
    Dad goes crazy whenever Mom mentions Mozart. And he must have been listening because about half an hour later, when we were practicing Bach’s Air on a G String, Dad came rushing in, all