The Secret Songs of D.C. Silverenn

| 33

Emi and I are out of breath when we finally climb all five flights to our apartment. We spent more than three hours smiling into cameras and answering questions. They wanted to know everything from day one of stepping foot in the creepy mobster's shop, which is locked until the police get a warrant, to the moment we found Silverenn's "treasure."

I drop my instrument by the front door as soon as we walk in, kicking off my shoes beside the case. Emi flops onto the couch, eyes half closed.

"I've never been so drained in all my life," she says, the words caught in a tired whoosh of air. She coughs. "Water."

My throat feels scratchy, too. "I'll get you some." I grab two plastic bottles from our fridge, opening both and handing one to Emi.

"Thanks."

Nothing like the sweet taste of iced water after dealing with reporters. I stand between the kitchen and living room, processing what just happened as I regain the ability to speak.

"Cerise," Emi says quietly. Then she leaps up from her seat, fluttering her arm up and down while shouting, "Cerise, Cerise, Cerise!"

"Calm down. What is it?" I cross the room to look at Instagram on her phone screen.

"I just gained more than a thousand followers!"

"You don't strike me as the type to care," I say, taking another sip of water.

"It's been three flipping hours. Of course I care! It was like —" She glances at her phone screen — "Noon when I last checked my messages at the police station."

"Okay." I recline in my chair, and she sits as well, though she opts for the edge of her seat. "So what does this mean?"

"I — I don't know." Her smile shrinks, lost to thought.

A grin breaks onto my face. "Emi, this means you're famous."

Emi laughs. "I can't believe it. I literally had less than fifty this morning."

"What's even on your Insta?" I ask. Weirdly enough, I don't have one. When Facebook went out of style, so did my use of social media. I always thought about getting Twitter to release my chaotic, shopping-spree energy — Emi agreed on multiple occasions — but I'm too lazy to set up and maintain an account.

"Just some digital art and videos of me playing." Emi's jaw gapes. "Wait, do you think people will see those?"

"Probably someone will."

"Do...do you think people will think they're good?"

What I want to say is, 'duh, you practice twenty-four seven.' What comes out is: "Check the comments."

That sends Emi on a mission. Her brow furrows in concentration as she scrolls through her feed. "There's some criticism, of course. But my posts are getting likes like crazy."

I snicker. What a millennial thing to say two "likes" in a row. I'm sure I've done the same.

"Listen to this: 'I've never heard such beautiful, expressive violin playing in my life. Fabulous work!' And another one: 'Can't believe how underrated your profile is. Such talent deserves way more recognition.' Multiple clapping emojis." Emi looks at me, tears brimming in her brown eyes. "Cerise, this is a game changer."

I reach my arm over her shoulder. It's an awkward hug, separated by two chairs, but a hug nonetheless. "I think we might've done it."

"Yes," Emi laughs. A grimace displaces her smiles. "Oh my gosh, my dms. How am I going to go through these? You know the horror stories."