The Secret Songs of D.C. Silverenn

| 24

I can smell Salted Cabbage Lake's name the moment I step from the car. A breeze carries a salty whiff from the blue waters into my lungs. Strands of blonde hair blow across my face, over the neat part I drew this morning. I start for the beach, sand shifting under my sneakers. Only a few children race along the beach, squealing as they flick sand and water at each other.

"I remember those carefree days," Emi chuckles. "Do you?" She has a far away look in her eyes, trained on something just past the lake.

"Of course." I just don't think of them often.

"Life was so perfect back then. No job, bills, or taxes."

"Just a mountain of homework when we got home from school." I laugh at how anxious I got over getting a problem wrong or forgetting to turn something in. It's peaches compared to now. No more blissful ignorance; no more days where math was my only worry, recess was a constitutional right, and TV characters were my friends. There are expectations now, things I must complete to survive.

Time turns into a double-edged sword. Either you have none and live in a constant state of restless activity, or you feel guilty about having all the time in the world. I'm more of the latter. No work means no pay, no pay means no money to spend.

We settle several feet from the water. I unlace my sneakers and pull off my socks. My eyes gaze at the blue stretched before us. It's beautiful and glassy, and the beach is clean, sparkling in the sun like tiny nuggets of gold. If we were back in Dewhurst, there's a fifty-percent chance it'd be on the wrong side of town, polluted with trash and ripped plastic bags. Who knows what sorts of toxic pollutants would end up inside it?

"So what are we looking for?" Emi asks. Always one to get down to business. She can only stop and smell the salt for so long.

"Something having to do with the whole-tone scale." I brought the folder with me — it's right beside me — though I'm too lazy to open it at the moment. Emi takes the initiative, rolling onto her stomach as she inspects the page.

"Should've brought your viola after all. It might help us," she says.

"It might also get sand in it."

"Fair point."

Waves rise and collapse in small circles, rolling onto the shore. Sometimes, they almost reach my bare toes. I wriggle them into the sand, closing my eyes toward the sun so it beams on my face.

"Cerise, we aren't exactly here on vacation," Emi says. "We need to figure this out."

"Where would a clue be hidden?" I ask. "Certainly it won't be in the sand. Too easy for it to wash away."

"Maybe on a tree? Or in a tree?"

I crack my eyes open to look at her. "Whole tone scale, remember? And solar and lacquer."

Emi focuses on her phone. A moment later, she holds the bright screen up to my face.

"Read. Lacquer is a shiny finish applied to wood. So a tree might be the answer." She stands, brushing sand off her jumper. Reluctantly, I push myself to my feet, too.

Shifting sand warms the soles of my feet. It's mostly soft, though a few times, something pokes at my skin, probably sharp pieces of broken shell. We reach the first tree near the parking lot and inspect the bark for carved lines. Though rugged, none of the marks or missing sections of bark seem planned. So we move on to the next tree, and the next, until we run out of trees on our side of the lake.

At the edge of the beach, Emi and I stare at a forest clustering around the rest of the lake. Emi shakes her head.

"Nah, uh. No way," Emi says. "We are not checking every single tree in that forest."