We Own the Sky (The Muse Chronicles Book 1)

by Sara Crawford

  Of course, he was only talking to me because he wanted something. Typical. I make a note to myself to not go to Smith’s for a few months. People are starting to notice me there. I find this hard to believe. But at least this guy didn’t ask me if I knew where to get him a fake ID. Although, that was probably coming next. He seemed alright, though. I mean, maybe he likes good music.

  I’m done with my nachos so I head to the library. Well, now I know for sure that my beautiful stranger was just another flickering person. I see them all the time. They’re a normal part of my life. But why is my heart racing? Why do I feel so shaky?

  I decide that it’s not a big deal. I’m not going to see him again. Maybe he was a ghost. Maybe all these flickering people are ghosts, and I’m like that kid in one of Dad’s favorite movies, The Sixth Sense. The one who sees dead people.

  I try to put it out of my mind as I sit in my American lit class. The teacher, Ms. Stephens, seems cool. I decide this class will be one of my favorites. The first thing we’re reading is The Great Gatsby. I’ve already read it several times. I’d even consider it one of my favorites. There’s something beautiful about how melancholy it is.

  I’m trying to think about Gatsby, but I can’t get the flickering man’s face out of my head. What was it about the way he stared at me? Also, there’s something eerily familiar about him, but I can’t put my finger on it.

  I can’t help but hope that he’ll show up again. Maybe this one would talk to me. I mean, he looked right at me. Maybe he would do more than just talk to me…

  Stop it.

  The bell rings. Only two classes to go.

  I don’t pay much attention in chemistry. Instead, I write in my journal. It’s a great habit to have because as long as you look up every few minutes and nod your head, it looks like you’re taking notes.

  I’m not exactly a great student, but I get good grades. My problem is that I procrastinate so much. I’ll spend most classes writing in my journal and not paying attention, but then I’ll have to teach myself everything before a test. I do most of my work outside of school.

  I like to think of my journals as people. I call this one Lily. She’s a brand-new purple notebook with unlined pages that my dad got for me. My last one had a lot of depressing rants in it, and I wanted a new start. I fill her in about the mysterious man standing outside of the chorus room. I re-hash the details of what happened over and over and over again until the bell rings and chemistry is over.

  I head to my last class of the day, my Greek mythology elective. This is the first year I get a free elective because during my freshman and sophomore years I had to take Spanish, but I also wanted to play drums in band. I quit band though, because they were going to make me be in the marching band. Ugh. I can’t do those uniforms.

  I walk into the empty classroom and notice Travis sitting in the back. He waves. I take a seat behind him.

  “Having a good first day?” he asks me.

  “Yeah, it’s, um, okay.” I stumble over the words. Why am I so awkward all the time?

  I’m trying to think of something else to say when I see the tattooed blonde singer who was playing in the band at Smith’s walk in. She looks like she’s wearing a Halloween costume.

  She’s wearing thick, black glasses and her wild blonde curls are pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her tattooed arms are covered with a black dress jacket. I’m shocked to see this rock star woman standing in front of our class, looking so different from the last time I saw her in her natural habitat.

  “Hey, everyone,” she says.

  Apparently, this is the teacher.

  Travis becomes notably more attentive when she starts talking—along with all the other males in the class.

  She passes out a book called Mythology by Edith Hamilton as she walks around the classroom. “My name is Ms. Bolton,” she says with a smile. “This is my first year as a teacher here, so if you’re wondering why you don’t recognize me, that’s why. This is also the first year we’ve offered a class on Greek mythology, so you guys are kind of the guinea pigs.” Her smile is contagious. The whole room seems lighter.

  She passes out the syllabus. Most of class is spent going over it and introducing ourselves to each other. Then we have an open discussion about what we think the purpose of mythology is.

  I find myself getting lost in the discussion. I have always been fascinated by the Greek gods and goddesses—the way everyone believed in beings so magical and mysterious back then. When I saw this elective on the list of classes that would be offered, I was genuinely excited.

  When the bell rings, I realize I was so engaged in the class that I didn’t even write in Lily.

  As I start to walk to the buses, Travis follows me.

  “So, that was pretty cool,” he says.

  “Yeah, Ms. Bolton seems really nice.”

  “Yeah, man,” Travis says in a tone that also suggests how attractive she is.

  For a moment, I debate whether or not to tell Travis that I’ve seen her singing in a band, but I decide that she may not want her students to know that. So instead I just walk along in uncomfortable silence until I get to my bus.

  “Are you riding the bus?” he asks, almost laughing.

  “Yeah,” I say, defensively. “I don’t like driving.”

  “Oh…well, I could give you a ride if you want.”

  “That’s alright, thanks.” Without another look, I climb onto the bus and sit down in the back. Not even five seconds pass before I start thinking about the flickering man’s face and sigh.

  TWO

  Inspiration

  The image of him is haunting me. None of the flickering people have ever affected me like this.

  I’m sitting on the bus, writing this to Lily, listening to Sea Change by Beck when I realize we’re at my stop. I shove my things in my bag and rush off the bus.

  I walk past the huge, historic houses on Church Street. I’ve lived here in Marietta, Georgia for my entire life. I guess it doesn’t count as a small town because it’s really just a suburb of Atlanta, but the actual town of Marietta doesn’t feel so suburban. It has a little square with shops and restaurants and a park. It’s kind of nice.

  My house is comfortable, but noticeably smaller than most of the other houses. It’s an old brick house that has been in my family for generations. It has a finished basement—which Dad has converted into a recording studio—and two levels above that. Technically, it belongs to my grandparents on my dad’s side, but they moved to Florida a few years ago. Sometimes I wonder if it’s weird for Dad to be living in his childhood home now that he’s thirty-three and is a parent himself. He was only seventeen when he had me. I don’t know if he really feels like a parent all the time.

  The house is empty. Dad must be working. He has an erratic schedule, and he’s not usually at home unless he’s recording or practicing.

  The upside is that when he’s gone, I get to use all his awesome gear. I know the only thing that’s going to calm me down right now is music. I go downstairs to the studio, pick up Jimmy—my dad’s black Gibson guitar—and plug it into a Fender tube amp. It sounds incredibly rich and full. I throw a Buddy Guy record on the record player and as it blasts out of the PA system, I play along with the bluesy guitar solos. I close my eyes and let all my emotions flow into Jimmy.

  When I am listening to the blues like this, especially when I’m playing guitar, it feels as if I am timeless. I feel like there is a purpose for all my sadness. I let it pour out of me. I don’t think. I become the notes vibrating from sweet Jimmy into the amp and out into the air. And that’s all there is.

  I almost forget about him altogether. The dark-haired flickering man. Almost.

  In between songs, I open my eyes.

  He stands in the vocal booth, watching me. I can see him more clearly now. He has the most unique face I’ve ever seen. He is unconventionally gorgeous. My entire body tenses up. We stare at each other.

  I stand up. “Please, tell me who yo
u are…what you are…”

  He stares at me with incredulity in his eyes. “I don’t understand. How can you see me?” His voice is so quiet it’s almost inaudible.

  I note that he has a British accent. My body is rigid. This is the first time I’ve heard one of them speak. I get a better look at him. It seems impossible that I could’ve thought he was a teacher or even a student before. How could he be a part of the regular world? How could he be anything but one of my imaginary friends?

  “I’m sorry,” he says. There is so much compassion in his face that I almost can’t even be angry as he flickers once more and disappears.

  I’m sitting on the amp in a daze. Buddy Guy is still on, but I’m not playing along anymore. Jimmy lies in my arms as if to say, “Why are you talking to imaginary strangers when you could be plucking my sweet strings?” But I just sit here. Staring into the vocal booth.

  Come back. Please come back.

  “Sylvie?” my dad calls from upstairs.

  I turn off the music and place Jimmy back on his stand. “Hey, Dad,” I call to him. “I was just playing Jimmy. Hope you don’t mind.” I try to make my voice sound normal.

  “Doesn’t he sound great?” He’s practically drooling. He sets down his bass in the living room and sits down on the couch.

  “Were you teaching?” I ask, trying to look casual.

  “Yeah, I picked up a couple of new students on Mondays. This college kid who’s learning guitar and a teenage girl who’s learning bass. The girl was decent. College dude needs some help. How was the first day?”

  “Pretty good.” I can’t decide if this is a lie or not. “I’m in chorus this year. With Mr. King.”

  “Cool. You gonna start singing?”

  I shrug.

  Dad turns on the TV and goes to the kitchen to grab a banana. I look a lot like him. We have the same green eyes. He has a full mop of thick, curly, brown hair, though. My hair is similar to my mother’s—straight and thin, almost stringy.

  “How late were you guys up last night?” I ask, trying to make conversation. Anything to take my mind off him.

  “Everyone passed out an hour or so after you went to bed. That was pretty fun, though. You sounded good on Charlie.”

  Charlie’s my drum kit. Dad understands why I name my instruments. He names all his, too, like Jimmy. “Thanks, Dad.”

  One thing I love about my dad is how he keeps things pretty normal, even after everything that’s happened—Mom leaving, his addiction, my depression, his trips to rehab, my trips to mental health institutions. We never talk about any of that.

  “Why don’t you put together a band? There’s gotta be some other kids at school who could play with you, especially if you start singing.”

  He’s been encouraging me to start a band for a while now. “I don’t know. I just like playing by myself or jamming out with you guys every now and then.”

  “Some of my students are getting pretty decent now. There’s this one guy who’s only a couple of years older than you. You guys could play The Warehouse and a few other all-age venues, and you can practice here as long as you practice on different days than Midnight Walk. You know, I might even be able to get you in at Smith’s…”

  Once my dad gets going on an idea, he doesn’t stop. His mention of Smith’s reminds me of Travis’s CD, but I decide I should listen to it myself before I give it to him.

  “I’ve already got all the gear you’d need, and I could even record an album for you. And—”

  “I don’t know, Dad, I don’t really want people to hear me right now, you know? I’m not that great of a musician.”

  “How can you possibly say that? You’re ten times better than I was at your age, on multiple instruments!”

  I nod, trying to get my dad off the subject. I don’t want to have this argument again. “I think I’m going to go upstairs and get started on my homework.”

  “They gave you homework on the first day?”

  “No, but I wanted to start reading this book for my Greek mythology class.”

  “Alright, try not to stay up too late tonight.”

  “I won’t.”

  My little room is a shrine to music. So many posters cover the walls that I can barely see any of the dark green paint underneath. Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead, Sigur Ros, The Beatles, Florence and the Machine, even a signed Black Keys poster. I take the book out of my backpack and read one sentence before I put it down on my desk, unable to focus.

  I don’t want to think, so I turn on Grace by Jeff Buckley and lie down on my bed. I close my eyes and just listen, as if Jeff Buckley is still alive. As if he is a real person singing to me, whispering in my ear. And yet, the more I listen, the more I see the flickering man’s face. I don’t know why I keep thinking of him that way. He isn’t even flickering anymore. When I saw him in the vocal booth, he looked perfectly…solid.

  I shut out the thoughts and let Jeff Buckley’s voice carry me into a dream.

  * * *

  I must have passed out really early last night because it’s 5:00 in the morning when I look at the clock. Grace is still playing on repeat from my computer. I sigh and throw off my blanket. I take Travis’s CD and put it in my computer, uploading it to my library. What I really need is a long shower.

  I walk into the bathroom. I press play on the CD player—not even sure what is in there. As I stand underneath the hot water, Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd starts playing. It feels appropriate to start my day with this album as David Gilmour reminds me to “breathe in the air.”

  I get dressed and eat breakfast in a daze, trying not to think about anything. Before I walk to the bus, I make sure to update Murphy. This is what I need. New music. The only thing that will distract me from how shaken up I feel is listening to songs I haven’t heard before. Travis only gave me three, but that’s better than nothing.

  Sometimes Leo and Jake (my dad’s bandmates) will ask me why I still use this iPod instead of just putting my music on my phone. I guess I could, but Dad gave me this iPod when I turned ten, loaded up with all his favorite music. I’ve been adding my own selections ever since. It’s not just a gadget; it’s my best friend. I mean, it even has a name. I’m going to use Murphy until he stops working.

  Besides, I don’t want to be listening to an amazing song and have it interrupted by a phone call. Not that anyone ever calls me.

  I put my headphones on as I walk to the bus stop. The first track starts, and I find myself bobbing my head and doing my half-dance, half-walk to the upbeat guitar riff and the drums. As soon as the vocals start, my entire opinion of Travis changes.

  His voice is pure passion and emotion, and it enraptures me. He almost sounds like Jeff Buckley. The lyrics are telling a story about a house that sits on a beach. This is why I love music—when the goosebumps start and I get chills all over my body, when my spirits are lifted, when a beat makes me feel alive. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

  I can feel the drums pulsing as if they are inside of my bloodstream. Drumming as if from deep inside of me, deep underneath my skin. I feel that rush of excitement that can only come from love at first sound. The only thing that beats this is playing this kind of music with other musicians. I imagine myself playing this beat on Charlie. I can’t help but grin.

  The next track is a ballad. It starts with just piano and Travis singing. He’s singing so powerfully about unrequited love. The piano drops out and his voice lingers on one soulful high note. Then the drums explode along with the bass and much more forceful piano that echoes the chords he was playing at the beginning.

  “Hot damn, Murphy,” I whisper, almost breathless. This is spectacular. I’m speechless as I realize I know the person who made this song. He had a conversation with me yesterday. I feel giddy.

  The third track is more upbeat than the second, but not quite as upbeat as the first. It features guitar again instead of piano. The third song is by far the catchiest with a vocal melody that is sure
to be stuck in my head for the rest of the day. By the time it’s over, the bus is almost to school. I don’t even remember getting on.

  Today I feel good for the first time in months. I want to laugh for no particular reason. I feel alive. Now I’m thinking about Travis in a much different light. How did he write these songs? How does he have so much emotion in his voice? How great would it be to see them live?

  I feel a little guilty for dismissing Travis as some annoying hipster yesterday. Maybe he’ll understand me and my love for music. Maybe he’s like me and my dad. Maybe we’re supposed to be friends.

  I listen to the tracks again as I walk into school and down the hall. I decide the second track, the ballad, “April,” is my favorite. I manage to pull my headphones off just before I walk into homeroom.

  When I find a new album or song I love, I’ll play it over and over and over again. I once listened to track four on the ( ) album by Sigur Ros on repeat for a whole weekend. Nonstop. When I was sleeping, when I was eating, when I was in the shower. I couldn’t stop.

  This is what I’m doing with this three-track demo. And somehow, the more I listen to it, the more I think of the flickering man I saw in chorus yesterday. The notes and the melodies remind me of the magic I saw in his eyes.

  * * *

  History and algebra are unbearable. I spend the entire two periods trying to pay attention, but I keep hearing Travis’s songs in my head. Sometimes it’s almost physically painful when I’m not able to listen to music.

  When the bell rings after second period, I rush to the chorus room.

  Travis walks in with one of his friends. He looks a little more normal today. He’s still wearing skinny jeans and a band t-shirt, but he doesn’t have on the unnecessary glasses. His hair also looks less styled. Maybe he’s not trying too hard after all and I was just being judgmental. He’s laughing about something with his friend. When his eyes find me, he gets quiet.

  I suddenly feel weird. It’s as if I have heard something incredibly intimate from him. I feel embarrassed for being so in love with his three-track demo after so few listens. I try to downplay it.