The Secret Songs of D.C. Silverenn

| 16

I inhale a deep breath. My instrument, resting on my shoulder, rises with the motion before dropping into a giant cue. Bow hair strikes the string in repeated accents while my third finger attacks the fingerboard. Unrelenting vibrato pierces the air, bounces off the scattered furniture. My fingers tumble from seventh position, all the way down the fingerboard and across to the c string. My bow digs into a rumbling drone, a puzzle piece that completes the chord Emi and Martin play. The pitches merge into one reverberating note. I can feel it oscillating in my bones. The sound peters out, though the echo lingers for several seconds longer.

"That... was awesome," Emi says. She tucks her instrument under her arm and lets her bow dangle from her finger. Her chest rises and falls as she breathes in.

"I really felt the music," Martin says. His eyes are still closed, his preferred stance while performing.

"I don't think there's a thing we need to rehearse on our final piece," Emi says, dumbfounded. She squints at her music pages, turning them slowly. "Nice job, everyone. We're in good shape for Saturday night."

"Is there anything else we should work on?" I ask. I feign looking at the many pages for something noteworthy.

"Well... there are a few spots we could go over for dynamics and to get the balance better." Her brow furrows, and she lifts her pencil, scribbling a few things in her music. Pages rustle as she flips them, followed by more lead scratching the paper.

Hunger pangs in my belly. I tap my phone screen on, noting that it's a quarter to one. Our morning rehearsal started at eleven, with the idea that we'd end around four in the afternoon. However, Emi didn't anticipate my sudden enthusiasm for the music. In fact, I woke up at eight a.m. to practice while she was out teaching a couple lessons at the middle school. I hope it's enough to warrant an early lunch, and one that isn't composed of choco-cherry chewy chip granola bars.

As if reading my mind, Emi glances at her watch, then stares vacantly at the music for a second. "You know what, we can call rehearsal for today. As long as we clean up a few things tomorrow and Friday, we'll be in good shape for Saturday night."

I love the pure disbelief in Emi's voice. It's satisfying enough to make me practice more — almost.

"Shall we rest up for tomorrow, then? We don't want to strain our hands," I say.

Or brains. Or sanity.

"Yes, the hands," Martin mumbles. "Must protect the hands."

Emi glances between us. Her eyes dip for a fleeting moment to her own hands, which shake as they hover by her sheet music. She snatches the pages off the stand, ending the tremors. "Yeah, yeah I guess that's fine. Let's go get some lunch."

She heads straight for her music case, face hardened in concentration, as if she were still playing her violin. A pang of sympathy goes through me for her, but I've learned it's better to not mention it.

I place my instrument inside its case. My cleaning cloth squeaks up and down on the string to form a steady, tinny beat, a noise to rival any horror movie soundtrack. Slowly, my mind refocuses on what this lack of rehearsal means. I can now place my attention on getting inside the unnamed store. If I play my cards right, maybe Emi will join me, too.

Emi waits for me at the door, a smile now on her lips. I can sense her confusion as we walk through the building's vacant halls.

"I don't know what you did," she says. "But you sounded so much better. The passion in your playing really shone through. You should play like that more often." She takes a breath, and I brace myself for the crack about practicing more to get more gigs, like herself. Already, a retort is forming in my mind: you might be getting more gigs now, but it won't last if practicing destroys your hands.