The Secret Songs of D.C. Silverenn

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Emi is still fuming. She hasn't spoken a word to me since leaving the shop, not even during rehearsal, though Martin, the cellist in our group, didn't notice our standoff. As usual, he was trapped in his own world that centers entirely on music. If he's not playing his cello, he's thinking about the latest piece he's working on, imagining all the notes on the page. The fingers on his left hand sometimes move while at his sides as if he were performing that very moment.

The microwave beeps, and I reach for a paper bowl of mac and cheese. Heat singes my fingertips as I carry it to the rough wooden kitchen table. A spoon already waits at my place beside the packet of cheese. I remembered to set it out this time while my food cooked. I rip the foil open and dump orangey powder onto my pasta along with a splash of milk. If it weren't from a box, I might feel more proud that I have the meal down to a science. It's programmed into my brain, each step performed on autopilot.

My spoon dips into the moistened mound, and I eat while scrolling through social media. I guess TV shows require too much brainpower to watch — only thirty second videos and captions can hold my attention span. What a pathetic existence.

The salty, cheesy taste is so familiar that I barely register it. I'm scooping the last bite into my mouth when Emi enters the room. She pauses in the doorway, then makes a beeline for the pantry. She returns with a granola bar in her hands. Her fingers pinch at the sides, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Here," I say, holding out my hand. "I'll open it."

Emi halts her attack on the plastic packaging, eyes staring at it in dismay. For a minute, I think she'll give in, let me help her. But instead, she opens a kitchen drawer and snips the top with scissors. She pads from the room, chomping on her dinner. Her door slams shut, and loud, shrill notes cut through the air, each punctuated with bursts of vibrato. I guess Shostakovich is on this evening's program.

I head to my room, closing the door in a feeble attempt to block out some of the noise. It's not that she's a bad player, quite the contrary. But if I pay too much attention to it, the same pieces every single day, the same notes and rhythms repeated over and over and over, I know I'll go insane.

The metal folding chair I sit in isn't high enough to match my desk, and my arm bends at an awkward angle as my hand covers the mouse by my computer. I let the muscles in my fingers relax on the smooth surface for a moment before moving the device. The dark screen in front of me lights up with my email. A slew of red, bolded messages are stacked atop each other in my inbox.

I click on the first one. It's another parent canceling lessons with me, the third one this week. Several days again, the audition results for a local youth orchestra were released, and none of my students who tried out got in. Five years ago, I was crushed when half of my ten students dropped lessons because of it. It's old news now. I don't blame parents for canceling lessons. If I can't place in an orchestra, my students probably won't, either.

That's not to say that it doesn't hurt. It's another reminder that I'm not only a terrible musician, but a terrible teacher, too. Because it's never the student's fault in these situations. It's always the teacher's, who drilled the hard spots in lessons until they were spotless, provided detailed feedback on technique and musicianship for an hour every week, and encouraged those who were "too busy to practice" to try to scrape together ten to fifteen minutes whenever possible in their schedules.

I copy and paste my usual reply, taking in deep, even breaths to ensure that adrenaline and frustration don't cause my fingers to go rogue. The next email in my inbox is the same: the parent of the final auditionee, the last one to cancel lessons. Reply, paste, send. I sink back in my chair with a heavy sigh.