We Own the Sky (The Muse Chronicles Book 1)

by Sara Crawford

“Hey, girl!” Bianca says as she bursts in. She is overdressed for a rock show, wearing a short black skirt, a purple tank top, heels, earrings, and a silver necklace. Her nails are painted purple, too, and she has a ton of makeup on. She looks like a supermodel.

  “Hey…” I say, “Um…you look cute.”

  “Thanks!” It’s as if she lives for these comments.

  “Um…maybe I should change really quick.”

  “Totally.” Bianca sits down on my bed as I stare at my closet.

  “Oh, hey. Have you heard The Red Lampposts demo yet?”

  “No, I haven’t. That’s so cool that they have a CD!” This is impressive to Bianca, who doesn’t understand how easy it is for anyone to record a few songs in this day and age. Sometimes I forget that not everyone has a musician/producer for a father.

  I switch from their website to their demo. I go back to my closet, staring at all my clothes.

  “Are you trying to decide what to wear?” she asks.

  “Yeah…I never know…”

  She hops over to my closet, and flips through my clothes. She finds a black tank top and a red skirt I don’t think I’ve ever worn.

  “How about this?”

  I look over the clothes skeptically. Have I ever shown that much skin?

  “Um…that’s a little…”

  “You’re so wearing this.” She takes the clothes off the hangers. I sigh and put the skirt on. It shows off way more of my legs than my typical long skirts or pants do. I can’t even remember how I came to own this skirt. I immediately regret not shaving my legs this morning, but they’re not too bad so I throw the tank top on.

  “Isn’t it a little cold for this?” It’s only September, but the weather is unseasonably chilly today.

  “You’ll be fine! We’ll be dancing and sweating and everything.”

  Dancing and sweating? Does she think we’re going to a rave?

  “So, what do you think of their demo?”

  “It sounds great. I really like it.” I think she would probably like it no matter what it sounded like. I turn around.

  “Sylvia, you look hot!” She sounds almost surprised.

  “Uh…I don’t know…” I shrug.

  “Want me to do your makeup?”

  “I usually just wear eyeliner.”

  “Let me do it. It’ll be fun!”

  I sigh. Before I know it, I am sitting in my computer chair, and she is rubbing makeup onto my cheeks. I feel ridiculous. And yet, there is something about this moment—getting ready for a show with another teenage girl—that makes me feel normal.

  I keep having these “normal” moments lately. It makes me think that maybe life really will work out. I’ve managed to block out the flickering people most of the time, I don’t really feel depressed anymore, and I even have a social life. Maybe I’ll never have to take antidepressants or go to therapy ever again.

  There is the issue of the British flickering man and the dreams I have about him, but I’m not going to think about that right now.

  “Sylvia,” Bianca is serious now. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Well, I kind of…ignored you for the past couple of years. I didn’t mean to, I just sort of did. But I think it’s really cool that we started hanging out again.”

  “Me too,” I say. And I realize I mean it.

  “If I’m telling the truth,” she continues, “I felt really bad over the summer when I heard those rumors about you. I felt like maybe if I had been a better friend, you wouldn’t—I don’t know—maybe you wouldn’t be going through all of this.”

  “I don’t get why everyone makes up stuff about me. I thought one of the good things about being invisible at school is that no one would care what I’m doing.”

  “You’re not invisible, Sylvia.” Bianca sounds astounded. “Everyone’s always talking about you because people see you as, like, this badass chick. In a weird way, you’re more popular than I am. You’re like a Marietta celebrity!”

  “A Marietta celebrity?” I stifle a laugh. Bianca is probably blowing it out of proportion.

  “Don’t laugh! People look at you and think…wow, there’s a girl who’s going to be famous someday. She just doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her.”

  “But none of it’s true!” I exclaim. “I’ve never gone to rehab, I don’t get drunk at Smith’s Olde Bar every weekend with my dad, and whatever else people say about me. Maybe people know who I am, but it’s all for bad reasons. ‘Oh, look, it’s the girl who had two junkie teenage parents—one of which OD’ed—and now she lives with her trying-to-be-rehabilitated thirty-something father who is nowhere near as responsible as any of our normal parents who all go to PTA meetings while he is out playing South by Southwest with his band.’” I realize I have gone on a rant. Bianca is looking at me with her wide blue/grey eyes.

  “Well, anyway,” Bianca says after a moment, “I know you weren’t at rehab this summer. I know about Riverview.”

  “Yeah. You told Travis.”

  She looks down at the floor, pausing with the makeup.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry, Sylvia. I wasn’t trying to be nosey, but I asked your dad about it one day when you were away. He knows we’re friends so he told me.” She takes a deep breath, looking me in the eye. “You know that you can always talk to me. If you feel…sad or anything.”

  “Thanks,” I say, knowing I can’t really do that. But she is just trying to help.

  Bianca continues putting on my makeup.

  “This looks really good,” she says. “We’ll have to take some pictures. I brought my new camera.”

  “Yeah? You’re still into photography?”

  I remember when we were kids and she used to steal her mother’s digital camera and walk around taking pictures of everything: the sidewalk, the leaves, the houses, someone’s shoe.

  “Definitely,” she says. “I’m on yearbook this year. So be nice to me, and your photo could end up in the yearbook.”

  “Just what I always wanted,” I say sarcastically.

  She laughs. I make a mental note to check out her Instagram sometime.

  “Sylvia. Can I ask you something?” She is serious again.

  “Sure.”

  “Has Travis said anything to you about me?”

  “Oh…well,” I am unsure of what to say. I am almost certain he’s into her, but I don’t want to start playing matchmaker. “He said he thought you were cool.”

  “Did he really?” Her eyes sparkle.

  “Yeah.”

  Her lips fall into a wide grin. “Close your eyes.” She starts to put eye shadow on my eyelids. “Do you like him?”

  “No, not like that.”

  “Really? But you two have an obvious connection.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a musical connection. I don’t see him in a romantic way.” I love Travis’s music, and I love playing music with him, but the idea of dating him seems almost incestuous. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure he’s into you. And I’m…” my voice trails off. I’m what exactly? Saving myself for my imaginary British friend?

  “Well, I’m pretty much in love with him, I think.” I haven’t heard her be this open with me since we were younger. She starts putting on my eyeliner, which means I’m allowed to open my eyes again. “It’s just that he’s so cute. I think he’s the cutest guy I’ve ever seen. And he’s so cool. He has a CD and a band and he just makes the room feel brighter, you know?”

  “Have you told him how you feel?”

  “No, oh my God! I’d be horrified if he didn’t like me back. I mean, usually, guys like me and I can tell they like me. But with Travis—well, sometimes I really think that he likes you. So, I didn’t want it to be weird.”

  “We’re just friends. If you have feelings for him, you should tell him. I guarantee he’d be into it.”

  She finishes with my eye makeup. “Alright, now you just need lipstick.” She fumbles through her makeup bag. “Oh, this is perfect. It matches your skirt.” She
puts it on my lips and then announces that it’s all done. I look in my mirror.

  I barely even recognize my painted face. She has put dark eye shadow on my eyes, ruby red lipstick, blush, mascara, and my usual eyeliner. I look almost pretty.

  “Wow,” I say, “you could be a makeup artist.”

  “You like it?” She beams at me.

  “Thanks.”

  There is a knock on my door.

  “Come in!” I call. My dad opens the door.

  “I just wanted to say bye before I—” My dad looks at me. “Wow, Sylvie, you look nice. Bianca, did you do this?”

  “Yes! Doesn’t she look great?”

  “You both look really cute,” my dad says, smiling.

  “Hey, Dad, do you know where this skirt came from? It was in my closet, but I don’t ever remember buying it.”

  My dad’s face changes.

  “That was your mother’s.”

  I want to ask him how it ended up in my closet, but the pain on his face makes me change my mind. Best to not talk about her. There is a moment of pregnant silence.

  “Well, she had style. I think it looks great!” Bianca breaks the silence. My dad smiles.

  “I’m heading down to the pizza place,” he says, “You sure you girls don’t want to come get some pizza before the show?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “We were going to eat after the show. With the band.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “But thanks, Dad.”

  “Well, have fun tonight.”

  “We will!” Bianca says.

  My Dad gives us a little wave and leaves.

  “Alright,” Bianca says. “Let’s go!”

  * * *

  We are at the Warehouse, and I’ve never seen it so packed. There are three bands playing tonight. The first band—an indie/emo band of kids who look about 12—already played. They were pretty awful, but The Posts are about to play, and I’m excited. The venue is dark, and there are swarms of people everywhere I look.

  I see Cassie waving at Bianca and me as she walks over from across the room. She has sparkly red barrettes in her short black hair and a red dress that accentuates her curves. At least we aren’t the only ones who dressed up.

  Cassie runs over and hugs Bianca and me, complimenting our appearance. She throws an arm over Bianca’s shoulder.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Cassie says, lingering on Bianca’s cleavage a beat too long.

  “You too, girl,” Bianca says.

  And then Travis, Ryan, and Derek take the stage

  They start with the first song on their demo, “Talking,” and I feel my spirits lift. I escape into the world their music sends me into.

  When they start the second track—a new song I haven’t heard—I see the Latina woman. She’s coming onstage—looking like she’s in a rush again. She stands behind Travis, almost dancing with him. But the music is so good that I don’t even care about my imaginary friend.

  I am in the world of The Red Lampposts, and nothing else exists except for these songs.

  Their set is going by fast. I love their new songs. I’ve never seen a local band that I loved this much—let alone a band I go to school with. The more they play, the more entranced I am. Travis closes his eyes and leans his head back a little with his hands clawing the guitar. His lips part and the voice of an angry angel comes streaming out of him.

  And yet, as caught up as I am, there is an edge to my awe. It’s not the familiar pain I feel from loving music too much. It’s a new pain. I look up at him, singing, and I can’t help but imagine myself standing there, singing my future songs. Will someone ever feel about me the way I feel about The Red Lampposts right now? Definitely not if I never write my own songs or play my own shows.

  I look at Bianca who is dancing around wildly, her fancy camera strapped to her neck. I notice Cassie watches her instead of the band. And when they play a mellow new song, she stops dancing, picks up her camera, and shoots photos. Her eyes twinkle as she looks at a picture she just took.

  When they get to “April,” my heart is so full. I know all the words, and I sing them loudly. I can feel the goosebumps on my arms, and there’s an unquenchable thirst that only this song can fill in this moment. All I can do is listen and try to keep myself from crying.

  There is nothing I have ever wanted as badly as I want to be on that stage, playing my own songs. Singing my heart out. I’ve never fantasized about singing like that before. Sure, I’ve always hoped I could be in a band someday, but I’ve always pictured myself behind the drum kit or maybe as the guitarist. Now, I want to be a singer. A real singer. I want it so bad, I can almost taste it. How can I be a singer, though, if my voice is so inconsistent?

  They close out the show with a cover of a Mumford and Sons song that I sort of know. Cassie and Bianca become animated at the beginning of the song, jumping around. The cover sounds good, but nowhere near as good as the originals. I clap along, and my attention wanders back to the Latina woman still dancing behind Travis.

  There is something about her that reminds me of the magical creatures in my Greek mythology class. She could be a Greek goddess.

  It hits me. The flickering people are always with artists.

  Oh my God. I can’t believe I haven’t noticed that before. Now that I think about it, I have been imagining the flickering people every time we talk about the gods and goddesses in Greek mythology class.

  They are always with artists, standing behind them during performances or whispering into their ears as they write or draw. I remember that girl I saw writing recently in the Square—on the bench in front of the fountain. There was a flickering man next to her whispering in her ear as she wrote. I first saw the British guy in chorus class, and I only saw him again in my dad’s studio. Could they be some sort of modern day Muses? Is this possible?

  What am I thinking? Muses? This is even more far-fetched than the ghost theory. Lots of people believe in ghosts. In fact, people believe in all kinds of things. Ghosts, witches, aliens. The whole Scientology religion is pretty out there, even. But Muses? The last time anyone believed in Muses was literally thousands of years ago.

  This is probably the most ridiculous theory I’ve come up with. Maybe I keep coming up with outlandish ways to explain them because I don’t want to face the fact that I have hallucinated these people my entire life—the fact that something is fundamentally wrong with me. I try to brush these thoughts aside as Ryan, Derek, and Travis rush off the stage, carrying their equipment.

  This is not the time to think about the flickering people. The Posts just played an amazing show, and I am lucky enough to be friends with them. That is the only thing that matters right now.

  After all their equipment is packed up, Travis, Ryan, and Derek find Bianca, Cassie, and me as the third band starts to play.

  “Hey!” Travis says, hugging me. “Thanks for coming!” His cheeks dimple.

  “No…no problem…” I stammer. “Really, it was so good. When you guys played ‘April’…Wow.” I feel so dumb, but this is all I can manage to say.

  “Thanks, Sylvia. It’s really great to hear you say that.” He looks at us. “Damn! You girls look super hot!”

  “Thanks!” Now Bianca is beaming. “I did Sylvia’s makeup.”

  “It looks incredible,” Travis says, although he stares at Bianca.

  “That was a sweet Mumford and Sons cover,” Bianca exclaims.

  “Yeah, guys. For real,” Cassie agrees.

  “Thanks,” Ryan says smugly to Cassie. Another guy walks up to us.

  “Hey, this is my brother, Jamie,” Travis says. With light brown hair, blue eyes, and pale skin, he looks nothing like Travis. I must be looking at him with a confused expression on my face.

  “We’re half-brothers,” Jamie says.

  “Yeah, he’s the product of my mom’s gringo phase,” Travis says.

  “Uh…” Jamie says. “Mom is a gringa.” He says the last word with an over-exaggerated ac
cent. “If anyone’s the product of a phase, it would be you.”

  Travis playfully punches his brother on the arm. “Whatever!”

  “We’ve met once before at a Midnight Walk show,” Jamie informs me. “I’m friends with Leo.”

  “Jamie, right,” I say even though I don’t remember ever seeing him before in my life.

  Ryan starts trying to flirt with Cassie, who seems more interested in what Bianca is saying. I wonder for the briefest moment if Cassie has a crush on her—if that’s why she isn’t interested in Ryan. Then again, Ryan is annoying. Not being interested in him is in no way a sign of not being interested in men at all.

  Travis wraps his arms around Bianca.

  “I’m so glad you came. I just want to squeeze you.” He gives her a huge whimsical hug. Cassie sighs.

  “I’m going to the bathroom,” she says as she walks off.

  “Me too,” I say, dashing behind her.

  I turn towards the bathroom, and I gasp. In the corner, the British flickering man stands and stares at me. He’s back. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. What is that expression on his face? It’s almost a sad acceptance. The Latina woman is standing there, too, talking to him and yet, he’s staring at me.

  I impulsively decide to confront him.

  As I approach, he says something to the Latina woman and tries to walk off.

  “Wait!” I say. He stands frozen and gives me one soulful look. It’s as if all the sadness of my entire life is reflected in his eyes. I find myself unable to move. He breaks his gaze, though, and disappears. Into thin air. Every time I’ve seen him, he’s disappeared, but I’ve never caught him in the act. It’s surreal to watch someone vanish before your eyes. The Latina woman stares at me.

  “Sylvia?” she asks. “Wow, you can really see us?”

  “I…” I can’t manage to say anything else.

  “My name’s Mariela,” she says. “Did you like the show tonight?” She is unable to stay still, jumping up and down.

  “It was…amazing…” I am in still in a daze.

  “Didn’t Travis give the best performance you’ve ever seen?”

  “Yeah…” I don’t want to talk about Travis. “What was…” I can’t think of the question I want to ask as I stare at the empty space where the British flickering man just was.