Disclaimer: I do not own the concept of concert band, nor do I own the design ideas of the bassoon, trumpet, tenor saxophone, oboe or any other band instrument. I do however own Rhiannon, Harley, Chris, Haydn and all other instrumentalists mentioned in this fic. And while there may be a Green Hills High School somewhere out there, I assure you this is based entirely on the dramas in my head, and the names of places and people were simply pulled out of the wackiness of my diminishing brain cells. Finally, I must say that I am not a bassoon, trumpet, or tenor sax expert. I play flute and oboe, so please excuse any discrepancies. Feel free to report them in a review.

Rhiannon concentrated on her music, dropping her jaw as she heard her pitch creeping up. Blasted double reed, she thought. A high squeak interrupted the smooth flow of Overture in B flat, higher than you would expect from a bassoon. Her friend, an oboist, winced at the same time she did at the squeak. Rhiannon shook her head and furrowed her brow as a tricky fingering passage occurred in the music.

This was the daily struggle of a bassoon-player in Green Hills High School concert band. After the director, Mr. Engalls, released them to put away their instruments, Rhiannon, affectionately known as Rhia to her best friend, oboist Harley, breathed a sigh of relief and headed towards the back of the room to put away her chunky instrument. She had just closed her case when a cheery voice called out to her.

"Nice squeaking there, Rhia."

Rhiannon rolled her eyes. "Nice double-tonguing there, Harley." Harley blushed. She absolutely could not double-tongue at all, no matter how hard she tried, and complained about it constantly and she was too busy to take private lessons on oboe.

"Okay, you got me there. So hey, can you come over tonight so we can work on our duet?"

Rhiannon grimaced and her stomach began to churn. "Um…I can't. Chris wants me to spend tonight with him."

Harley snorted. "Figures. Rhia, girl, when are you going to dump that loser?"

"I love him, Harley!" She snapped, knowing full well that it wasn't true. She couldn't love a womanizing, controlling jerk like Chris, but she was stuck with him. A slight tremble ran through her at the thought of what might happen if she blew Chris off for Harley.

"Rhi—" Harley began to ask what was wrong when Chris, brown and blond hair looking extremely greasy, appeared, placing his arm around Rhiannon.

"Hey slut!" he said in a friendly way that suggested he was joking. He wasn't. He hated other guys looking at Rhiannon, even though he got into a different girl's pants every weekend. Harley made a face of disgust and left with a muttered good-bye. Chris turned to Rhiannon and said, "Okay, now that the bitch is gone, we can get out of this hell-hole and go to my house."

Rhiannon sputtered, "Chris, we have class next—" She was interrupted by Chris's fingers tightening painfully on her arm. She stopped and bit back the pain. Chris only gave a strained smile and then released her. Rhiannon could feel a small trickle of blood from where his fingernails had dug deep into her soft flesh. If anyone asks, she'd say she ran into a cabinet in the band room and a loose nail had scraped her.

"Let's go." He half-dragged her towards the exit of the band room and to his car, a black '72 Mustang. He turned the key and sped off to his house to ditch class, Rhiannon in tow.