The Secret Songs of D.C. Silverenn

| 27

"No," Emi says. "No, no, no, no!"

She bursts into tears, then full on sobs, pressing her forehead to the steering wheel. We sit in a supermarket parking lot, about half an hour away from the downtown area.

"I can't believe this." I shake my head.

"You can't?" Emi looks up, fury lighting up her face. "You can't? You're the one who got us into this mess! You and your senseless, frivolous spending habits! If you had listened to me and just practiced instead of spending so much time shopping, we wouldn't have landed in this mess. Even if we stayed broke forever, we would still have our instruments!"

"Now wait a minute," I say. "Don't pretend that you didn't participate in the treasure hunt, too."

"You dragged me into it! I had no choice."

"You always had a choice," I snap back. "No one made you do anything."

"That's what your problem is, Cerise," Emi shouts. "You want freedom and choice in everything. You never want to put in the hard work. Life isn't fun. Adulting isn't fun, and there's a reason for it. It's because in order to not end up in... messes like this, you need some predictability. You need some stability. Instability leads people into debt. But I'm sure you know plenty about that."

Anger flares inside me. "And look at you, little miss stability! Look where your daily grind has gotten you. Sure, you get a few more gigs than I do with all your practicing. But five years from now, what are you going to do when your hands get so messed up that you can't even lift your bow?"

A fresh wave of sobs overwhelms Emi. Her forehead collides with the steering wheel, and she weeps and weeps and weeps. Tears flow onto her linen pants, speckling her thighs with tiny water droplets.

"If that's... the way you... feel," she heaves out between sobs. "Then... get out."

It takes a moment for her words to sink in. Anger hardens inside me, and I glance around, my eyes landing on a boutique next to the supermarket.

"Fine." I pull the cardoor's handle. "I'm out."

I stalk across the parking lot, looking all around for cars. Not just any car that might run me over because the driver isn't paying attention — I'm watching for a silvery-white vehicle, or a shiny black sedan, or a white truck, or anything that could be remotely suspicious.

The latest fashion hangs inside the boutique. I tell the worker inside that I'm just browsing and will let her know if I need any help. Really, I just want to browse for a bit to clear my head.

Expensive fabrics drape across mannequins, decorate every neatly-lined rack along the walls. I reach out to the black-and-white swirled sleeve nearest me, rubbing the silky fabric between my fingertips. It's a brand new style I've never seen before, featuring a high-collared neckline on the left that swoops into a strapless design on the right. The left sleeve is long enough to cover my palm and a hole for my thumb. The fabric shimmers when the light hits the white swirls, while the darker parts help to balance the metallic brightness.

The blouse is a work of art, something totally unique that I'd wear in a concert to make a statement. Yet I can't appreciate it like I normally would. Guilt has crept in and gnaws at my insides.

It's not only the fact that I made Emi cry. It's that she's right: all I've been caring about is myself, my own experiences. I've been searching for this imaginary life, full of excitement and never lacking a dull moment, always making a statement, never wanting a mundane life to consume me until I'm a shell of the person I once was.