The Secret Songs of D.C. Silverenn

| 7

Cheerful music mixes with the squeals of children racing around the park. The sun shines directly on my music stand, almost blinding in its noon-time brightness. I guess it's a good thing that I'm just playing the same note. My bow brushes back and forth on the C string, switching between my middle and ring fingers every few bars. My eyes wander to the playground, where kids whoosh down a plastic green slide into the wood chips below. I then glance at Emi and Martin. Both of their bows bounce between strings, occasionally holding longer notes that are punctuated with vibrato.

Irritation prickles on the back of my neck, where baby hairs cling to my sweaty skin. It's easy for them to have fun when they're playing than Es and f-sharps. This is the most boring, the most infuriating, the most frustrating, the most...

Arpeggios bounce through the air beside me. Shoot. That's my cue.

My eyes jump to the last three measures. I try to lock into their playing, but my fingers are two beats too slow. I drop the last few beats, landing on a low F-sharp. The final chord lasts for three seconds before we release in sync. Light clapping sounds from the gazebo, where a few parents sit around plastic picnic tables.

Viola tucked under my arm, we stand and bow. Emi gives me the side-eye, so I focus my attention on our five-person audience. The applause is short-lived, lasting perhaps ten seconds, before the buzz of voices and the creak of the swingset dominate the air once more.

"Seriously, Cerise?" Emi chides, turning to me. "You had to ruin the ending?"

"I'm sorry; I zoned out. It's hard to think when I'm hungry."

Emi's eyes drift to her watch. "It's only twelve-eleven."

"I should've had a bigger breakfast. Eggos just don't cut it."

"Well, next time, try to think ahead." Emi sets her violin in her case before twisting the tiny, silver knob at the end of her bow to untighten it.

"I don't know about you, but I think today's Trio in the Park was a tremendous success." Martin zips his cello case, then stands up. He has a tall, limber frame to rival Emi's. His elongated neck swivels as he surveys the park with a deep, contented sigh.

Emi and I exchange glances. Martin has always been more optimistic about these sorts of things.

"What would make you say that?" Emi slowly says.

Martin's hand sweeps outward. "Look at this place."

I take in the children gallivanting in the play area, the parents deep in conversation. Martin must be peering into a different park because the one I see here contains a crowd of about fourteen people, none of whom are interested in our music.

This is only our second Trio in the Park. We started it back in March, on a less frigid Saturday morning, as a way to gain traction for our group. We missed a couple weeks, but to be honest, I don't think it makes much of a difference. The response to our efforts this week is the same as two weeks ago.

Martin threads his arms through the straps on his cello case. "Well, I'm off. I will see you both on Monday." With that, Martin walks down the sidewalk to his car in the parking lot.

Emi whirls to face me. "Cerise, we'll never get gigs if you keep up this attitude of yours. You have to focus."

"I'm sorry!" I say.

"That's what you always say." Emi folds up her music stand, and I move to do the same. "Would it kill you to smile a little?"

"Maybe I would if I weren't playing the same notes all the time," I mumble.