The Rehearsal

absently. Last week she bought a number of different reeds from different manufacturers to test, numbering each one with a tiny red numeral to remind her which is which. She removes one from its plastic sheath and checks the tiny inked number before screwing it tight. The reed is harder than she has been used to, and probably her tongue will bleed.
    “My gypsy girl,” says second trumpet. “That’s what he called her. My gypsy girl.”
    The bell rings. There is a vague flurry of chair-scraping and shuffling and they all aim their half-eaten sandwiches at the wastepaper bin and then settle into their concentric half-circle, ready for the conductor to arrive.
    “They got her to admit that it had been going on since last year,” says tenor sax. “She had to give a statement to the police and everything.”
    And then they are silent for a while, dwelling separately on the unhappy realization that they, above all others, are the ones who have been deceived.
    Wednesday
    “If you imagined yourself in French plaits and a pressed school kilt, playing ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’ on tenor sax at the seventh-form prize-giving and standing coyly in a pool of yellow light, then I’m afraid you made the wrong choice.” The saxophone teacher’s fingernails are blood-red today, and gently tapping. “The saxophone does not speak that language. The saxophone speaks the language of the underground, the jaded melancholy language of the half-light—grimy and sexy and sweaty and hard. It is the language of orphans and bastards and whores.”
    Bridget stands with her sax limp in her hands like a wilted flower.
    “The saxophone is the cocaine of the woodwind family,” the sax teacher continues. “Saxophonists are admired because they are dangerous, because they have explored a darker, more sinister side of themselves. In your performance, Bridget, I see nothing grimy or sexy or sweaty or hard. Everything I see is scrubbed shiny pink and white, sedated and sanitized like a poodle at a fair.”
    “Okay,” Bridget says unhappily.
    Tap-tap goes the bloody fingernail on the side of the mug.
    “What do you think makes a good teacher, Bridget?”
    Bridget draws her lips in between her teeth as she thinks. “I guess talent,” she says lamely. “Being good at what you’re teaching.”
    “What else?”
    “I guess being patient.”
    “Shall I tell you what makes a good teacher?”
    “Okay.”
    “A good teacher,” the saxophone teacher says, “is somebody who awakes in you something that did not exist before. A good teacher changes you in a way that means you cannot go back even if you might want to. Now you can practice and learn the pattern of the notes and have good control over your instrument and you will be able to play that piece very competently, but until you and I can work together to challenge and awaken and change some part of you, competent is all that piece will ever be.”
    “I was just trying it out how Mrs. Critchley said,” Bridget blurts out. “She’s Mr. Saladin’s replacement. We had jazz band today.”
    The sax teacher narrows her eyes briefly, but all she says is, “Is that Jean Critchley?”
    “She’s Mr. Saladin’s replacement,” Bridget says again.
    “I’ve seen her play live. She plays trumpet.” The saxophone teacher is suddenly withdrawn, her voice cold and calm and careful, looking Bridget up and down as if she is seeking visible signs of treachery.
    “Why didn’t you apply?” says Bridget, her eyes widening with the thought.
    “I don’t like high schools,” says the saxophone teacher.
    “She doesn’t look like a Mrs. Jean Critchley. She has red glasses and she wears baggy tee-shirts with leggings and sneakers. First thing she said,” Bridget says, brightening now, “first thing she said was, All right, shut up so I can talk about myself. I’m the teacher who comes after the teacher who had the affair. Let’s blow it all out of the water now so we can get on and make some music and have some fun. And you can all relax right away. They made me promise not to have an affair with any of you.”
    Bridget blinks innocently at the saxophone teacher. She is good at voices.
    “Did anyone laugh?” the saxophone teacher says.
    “Oh, yeah,” says Bridget. “Yeah, everyone likes her a lot.”
    “So they laughed. They laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it. The prospect that Mrs. Jean Critchley might seduce one of you, might draw any one of you toward her by subtle and