The Secret Songs of D.C. Silverenn

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It probably isn't wise to drink your money, yet here I am, sipping a seven-dollar latte. Hazelnut foam fills my mouth, along with a splash of the bitter dark roast lying underneath it, warming me up from the air conditioning. I savor each drop of it. It's not every day that I splurge on such a delicacy.

A bundle of napkins falls onto the table. Emi slides into the opposite seat, eyeing me. Her small, tawny hands close around a cardboard cup similar to mine, though I know pure, dollar-fifty coffee sits inside—which is probably what I should've gotten.

"And what are we celebrating this week?" she asks. She tips her head back and brings the cup to her pink-glossed lips. A muffled cry escapes her, and she quickly returns her cup to the table. "Too hot."

"That's why you get milk," I say.

Emi raises a thin eyebrow. "Milk that costs more than regular coffee?"

"I'm trying not to do dairy." Besides, I just had to try the brand new hazelnut milk featured on the menu.

"And yet you ate ice cream after dinner last night." Emi brushes back a strand of her black bangs. "Seriously, Cerise, we can't be buying lattes every week."

"You didn't buy one." In fact, in all the five years that we've roomed together, she's never bought one.

"But we all know who you're going to hit up for rent money when you run out."

I turn my gaze out the window, taking another sip of my drink. Somehow, it doesn't taste quite the same as when I first got it.

"The people here have rent to pay, too," I mutter.

A drum beats through the speakers overhead, followed by the strumming of an electric guitar.

A little sunrise is smiling through my wiiin-dooow.

It says good morning and scaaares the night away.

I roll my eyes. This song has been blasting everywhere—the supermarket, the mall, department stores. It has even polluted my car for a few seconds before I can flip radio stations.

Emi's "I just don't get what all the hype is about," Emi says.

"About what?"

"You know what." She nods to the ceiling. "All these stars make millions of dollars every year. And here we are, barely able to get a gig."

"The classics just aren't appreciated like they used to be." To calm my building irritation, I take another sip of my silky beverage, quite the contrast to the rasp overhead.

This day is mine! Nothing can stop me nowww.

Emi stands from her seat. "Come on, I can't take these stupid lyrics anymore."

"Agreed." I grab the white, paper to-go bag beside me and follow.

Warmth radiates onto my cold skin as I step outside. The red-fringe sweater around my shoulders barely stands up against commercial AC units, though it is quite effective in our apartment.

Emi glances at the leather strap around her bony wrist. "It's almost noon. We should get going if we're going to make it to rehearsal."

My gaze drifts to a pizza parlor up the road. Only one traffic light and crosswalk separates us. "How about lunch first? We have a whole hour."

"Okay, first of all, you just bought food," Emi says. "Second, you just dropped seven dollars on a latte and eight on a croissant. Third, it's a ten minute walk to our car and twenty minute drive to our rehearsal room. There's no way we'd make it in time." Emi turns in the opposite direction of Joe's Pizza, strolling at a clip, and I reluctantly hurry to keep up.