The Rehearsal by Eleanor Catton Page A

You okay? in a hot pitying whisper. Isolde squirms away from the girl’s
     hands, nodding, and says something in reply that Julia can’t quite hear. The girl shakes her head, gives Isolde a pat and
     retreats with a motherly sigh. She turns immediately to pluck at the sleeve of the girl on her left, who is already leaning
     in to listen.
    Julia watches the breathy whispers gather and spread up and down the row behind Isolde, and studies the hard impassive look
     on Isolde’s face.
    “Would you jump off a bridge just because your friends were jumping off bridges?” the counselor is saying. It’s his favorite
     question and he asks it routinely, his voice ringing and triumphant as if he has just performed a marvelous checkmate.
    Julia watches Isolde shift slightly in her chair. She is staring at the counselor dully, frowning but not really listening,
     her lips slack and slightly pouted. She has the same round cheekbones and innocent round eyes as her sister, but while Victoria’s
     roundness is a fullness, unapologetic and open and challenging, on Isolde it gives her the plump candied expression of a spoiled
     child. Isolde wears her own face like it is a fashion accessory that she knows looks better on everybody else.
    “For some people,” the counselor is saying, “seduction is ameans of gaining attention. Seduction is a cry for help, a last
     and desperate attempt to make a real connection with another human being.” He wags his plump finger at them all, ranged around
     him in a tartan half-circle with their neckties loose and their smooth velvet legs crossed at the knee. “These lonely and
     damaged people,” he says, “may seek out physical and sexual connections that they do not truly want but they cannot live without.
     These are the people you must beware of.” He pauses for effect. “Mr. Saladin was one of these people.”
    Julia looks over at Isolde but she is still staring at the counselor in the same blank way. Julia wonders if it is an act.
     She tries to think what it would be like to be Isolde, coming home from school each day like an envoy from a forbidden place,
     stepping around her sister, watching her across the dinner table as she mashes her potato into a glum paste, walking past
     the closed door of her bedroom, still with its faded peeling stickers and strip of stolen security tape, passing her toweled
     and dripping in the hall. Julia imagines a pinched weeping mother and a father picking at his tie as if it’s strangling him.
     She imagines urgent phone calls and people shouting in whispers and a damp shifting silence. She imagines Isolde in the middle
     of it all, trying to watch television or polish her school shoes or pick through the funny parts of the newspaper, alone and
     insulated by a patch of dead air like a ship in the eye of a storm.
    Julia watches as Isolde examines her fingernails serenely and nibbles at a cuticle.
    “This terrible case of child abuse,” the counselor is saying, “is a classic case of how seduction can be wielded as a means
     of gaining control. In preying upon this girl Mr. Saladin destroyed her right to the ownership of her own body. He abused
     his position of power as a teacher. He wielded his position of power to
gain control
.”
    He has moved the lectern aside, and leans casually against a desk edge, one hand in his pocket balled into a fist so it stretchesthe fabric across his pelvis and tugs gently at the zipper of his fly. With his other hand he plucks at the air as if he is
     conducting a piece that is very modern and very moving.
    “My goal for today,” he says smoothly, “is to talk about the ways in which I can help you guys to learn to
take
control. Does anybody want to say anything before we kick off?”
    They all shake their heads and smile at him, shifting in their seats like roosting hens. Then Julia says, “I do.”
    Everyone except Isolde turns to look at her in a rustling swoop. Julia blinks calmly and says, “I don’t agree