The Secret Songs of D.C. Silverenn

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Start the song that rings the rhyme.

I stand over the kitchen table, shaking a cardboard box of raisin bran so the flakes fall into my bowl. The cacophony of clinks is short-lived as I'm not that hungry. I pour almond milk over them until a small pool of liquid sits at the bottom of the bowl. Then, I sit down and dip my spoon into the cereal. The grains crunch in my teeth, not softened yet, while sugar seeps onto my tongue from raisins.

Click the clock to find the time.

I read D.C. Silverenn's words at least twenty times over last night. They're burned in my brain now, repeating as I fell asleep, when I woke up, and during my half hour practice session this morning. My brain must not think it's total gibberish. It must think meaning lies within the cryptic phrases — meaning that will lead to the treasure. What can I say? At least I acknowledge I'm desperate.

A door closes, and Emi slips into the room. She always looks tiniest when she first wakes up, swallowed by her giant pale-pink sleepshirt. Today, her back slumps, causing her messy black hair to hang in her face.

"Morning," I say.

"Morning." Her voice comes out as a scratchy whisper. She clears her throat and tries again. "Good morning."

I blow out a puff of air. "Not much 'good' today... or yesterday."

"Rejected again." Emi's muffled voice carries from the pantry. "What are we going to do?"

My grip on my spoon tightens, and I shove another bite of cereal into my mouth. It's mildly irritating that she assumes I didn't get into the orchestra. My conclusion was based on her crying, but what did she base her assumption on? I focus on chewing a raisin, the gnawing motion of my jaw, instead of her statement.

She probably assumed you'd be jumping for joy and rubbing it in her face if you got in. Which isn't entirely true. I might've raced to her room to celebrate with her, because if I got in surely she would've as well. But if I found out she didn't get in, I wouldn't rub it in her face. I know how much this job means to her.

Emi puts water on for tea, then joins me at the table. She has a toaster strudel and a bag of trail mix. I reach over automatically for the metallic, blue package, but she stops me, the faintest, saddest smile on her lips.

"It's okay," she says. "I got it this time."

I feel a swell of relief that she's no longer mad at me. I just wish our bonding could've been over success, not more failure.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. The bran flakes in my bowl have gone limp. It's the worst when they turn to mush, but I'm in no hurry to eat. I'm too tired to rush, tired of everything.

Water boils after a few minutes, and Emi pulls it off the stove. "You want any?"

"No, I'm good." I'd need to go caffeine-free for months to make up for the latte money I spent yesterday, but every little bit helps.

"I can't believe it," Emi says as she returns to her seat. She breaks off another blond piece of her pastry, bright red oozing from the sides, and pops it into her mouth. "Actually, I can believe it. Why didn't I see this coming?"

It's always harder on her than me, probably because she tries harder. All I can do is offer a sad, half-smile. She sniffs, sitting a tad straighter.

"So, anything new?"

"My students canceled," I say. "The ones I thought would at least. Haven't checked my email this morning, though, so maybe more dropped out."

"Same," Emi says. "Only one of those who didn't make it quit, but emails may still roll in. Two of my students did get in, though."