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.

"We could do take-out," I mutter. I don't know about Emi, but a ham and cheese croissant doesn't cut it for my lunch. Besides, I doubt Martin would even notice us walking in late.

My back pocket vibrates. I slow my pace, allowing Emi to get slightly ahead of me, and steal a glance at my phone's lock screen. Too many Instagram and Facebook notifications populate the alto clef background, but I don't see a single email message. I shove my phone back into my jeans and catch up to Emi.

"I can't take this," I murmur.

"Huh?"

"The waiting kills me every time."

"Finding out sooner won't change the results." Despite the assurance in her voice, Emi's hands shake her cup. Coffee licks up the cardboard sides like one of those pendulum rides at the State Fair about to fly off its tracks. She squeezes her fingers tighter around the cup, knuckles whitening, to settle her jittery hands and the coffee.

Pop music spills onto the sidewalk from the stores we pass. It's loud, upbeat, and fortunately, unfamiliar — not yet overplayed. I pull my phone out again, actually noting the giant numbers in the center of the screen this time.

"It's only eleven fifty-seven," I say. "We have more than enough time to get there." My gaze shifts to the beauty store on my left. A mannequin stands in the window in front of rows of make-up. Once again, my pace slows.

"No." Emi grabs my arm, tugging me with her as she marches down the street.

"We have time."

"Why do you need more make-up? You barely wear what you have."

I know she didn't intend this, but I feel a flash of irritation at her words. She's right, I don't wear make-up regularly. I need it for concerts, concerts that aren't booked in my foreseeable future, or hers, for that matter. The extent of my playing for the past six months has been for auditions and a few performances with my trio. It's always the same — same concertos, same excerpts, same scales, same trios. You'd think with repetition comes improvement, but honestly, I feel like I take ten steps back every time I touch my instrument.

I yank my arm free of Emi's grasp, a little too hard since she shakes her wrist out. "I just want to look."

We're right beside the store Girls' Friday Night, and the cutest yellow plaid skirt is on display. My steps veer toward it, only to feel a sneaker stamp on my foot.

"Ouch!"

"Only want to look, huh?" Emi crosses her arms. "That's what you said last week, when you spent thirty dollars on a dress." She stalks ahead of me, and reluctantly, I hurry after her.

"Fine, we won't look at clothing."

I follow Emi as she starts down an alley. Tall buildings on either side of the path block out sunlight, so shadows lurk behind rusty, overflowing trash cans and dumps of broken furniture. The music fades to a distant, fleeting memory, a wisp of the life led by those across the street. Eerie stillness settles in its wake, and rot saturates the air with hints of chemicals and smoke. I hate this route, but Emi insists it's a shortcut back to our apartment. It's like a bridge between the nice side of town, prancing with people in designer clothing, and the shabby side, where we live.

The alley opens to a street littered with plastic cups, bags, and who knows what else. I try to avoid the cigarette butts squished on the cracked ground, but I'm certain a few will lodge in the tread of my shoes. Grungy buildings line either side of the straight lane, raw stone and metal exposed. Across the dilapidated street, a man paces outside a store, and only his voice and our gently padding footsteps disturb the quiet.

The shops aren't as nice here. I've been in most of them, and although cheaper, their items aren't as fine. I once bought a shirt that shrunk three sizes after one wash. Emi doesn't consider this drastic overpricing on the rare occasion that she purchases something.

We're just about to round the corner when movement catches my eye in the graffiti-covered brick store beside us. Behind the dirty glass windows on the facade, a pudgy old man adjusts books on a shelf. He kind of has a Santa-like quality, except the light skin on his face is hardened in a scowl and his feet are set in a wide, fighting stance.

"Emi, look! Someone's in there."

Emi leans back to peer through the window. "Oh." She continues on, but I grab her arm.

"I told you it wasn't abandoned."

"Yippee for you," she says, deadpan. "You just won a trip to Paris."

She tries to press on through the alley leading to our apartment building, but I tighten my grip around her arm.

"Let's see what's inside."

"No. There's probably a reason no one goes in there." Her eyes travel along the dusty structure, full of loose bricks and chips in the cement, to the top of the ripped awning over the entrance, where a sign should have been.

"Oh, come on! Who knows, maybe they'll have really great bargains."

"Even if they did, you'd probably purchase the expensive stuff, anyway."

"I promise I won't buy anything," I say. "You can even hold my purse." I hold out my pale green clutch to her.

Emi takes in the shop's dilapidated exterior again. The pudgy old man in the store window glances, or more like glares, in our direction. "Is it... even safe?"

"Never judge a shop by its exterior."

"There isn't even a sign saying that it's open."

"If you don't come with me now, then I'll just return later on."

There's a short pause, filled with the swirl of a breeze, before Emi groans. "Fine. It's better you check it out while I'm around to restrain you... or call the police if you need help."

"Please, you're overreacting. It's literally just a store. How much trouble could it possibly bring?"

Emi just rolls her eyes.