CHAPTER FOUR — THE WRONG REHEARSAL

I took the anonymous note to rehearsal and kept it inside my bag.
The rehearsal room smelled of old carpet, brass polish, and the lemon cleaner used by the volunteer custodian.
Seven music stands leaned against the north wall.
Our students assembled chairs while I tuned the piano.
Wren came in last, carrying the clarinet case like a fragile animal.
I began with a simple warmup to ease their nerves.
Within minutes, something sounded wrong.
The second violins were playing a different ending from the cellos.
The percussion student, Felix, stopped in the middle of a phrase and raised his sticks.
“We have two versions,” he said.
I collected the printed parts and placed them side by side.
The alterations were small but deliberate.
A changed measure count sent the violins ahead of the brass.


A missing repeat made the cello entrance sound late.
Someone had replaced the rehearsal copies while leaving the cover sheets unchanged.
“Where did these come from?” I asked.
Felix pointed toward the storage cupboard.
“Mrs. Bell put them out before school.”
June entered at that moment carrying a tray of paper cups.
“Are we having problems already?” she asked.
I showed her the conflicting sheets.
She barely looked at them.
“The council sends revisions all the time,” she said.
“These aren’t official revisions.”
“Perhaps you didn’t read your mail.”
Her eyes met mine across the piano.
The room became so quiet that I heard the radiator click.
I asked the students to take a break in the hall.
June set down the cups one by one.
“You’re making everybody nervous,

” she said.
“You gave children incompatible music.”
“I gave them what arrived.”
“Through the post?”
“Through the office.”
I asked to see the outer envelopes and the council’s instructions.
June smiled tightly.
“If you had been handling your responsibilities, you would know where they were.”
I held up the unsigned note from my porch.
“Did you leave this for me?”
Her smile disappeared.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“It appeared after I asked about missing mail.”
“Are you accusing me of stealing?”
“I’m asking a question.”
She moved closer until the piano bench pressed against my knees.
“You need to think about what your suspicions will do to these children,” she said.
“I am thinking about them.”
I pulled the original score from my own binder and directed the students to use it.
June remained near the doorway for the rest of rehearsal.
Every time Wren raised her instrument, her mother watched me rather than listening to the music.
After rehearsal, Felix asked whether the selection panel would penalize them for a messy practice.
“No,” I told him.
“But we’re changing how we receive our parts.”
I gave every student a copy directly and asked them to check their measure numbers at home.
The next morning, the community center director called to say June had reported that I was behaving erratically.