“He once baked dirt into a brownie she had to eat on stage,” Lizzie says. She’s heard all of the stories. “She took a bite and she had to keep chewing—” “—and it was dry and weird and gritty, and I so wanted to spit it out,” I say. “Though to be fair, I did put a remote-control squeaking mouse cat toy in his piano right before his freshman recital. And I made it scrabble around while he played Chopin’s Nocturne in E flat. A sweet, quiet piece.” I snicker, remembering. “Of course he didn’t react. Nothing fazes Max. He has a protective titanium exoskeleton.”
