We Own the Sky (The Muse Chronicles Book 1)

by Sara Crawford

  “Give Vincent some time. He’ll come around.”

  “Vincent. Is that his name?” I ask, stunned.

  “Yes. I should go. I’m sorry.”

  “Wait,” I say. But she disappears.

  I notice that several people are looking at me. I suppose it did look like I was talking to no one. When I look back at Bianca, Cassie and the band, they appear to be engaged in conversation with each other. So at least they didn’t see me.

  I didn’t get a chance to ask her any of my questions, and I am more confused than ever. And one thought keeps buzzing through my mind.

  His name is Vincent.

  SIX

  Love in the Dark

  I am sitting at a table at Marietta Pizza Company next to Travis and Bianca. Cassie, Ryan, Derek, and Travis’s brother, Jamie, are all here, too. Everyone is buzzing with the post-show excitement. I am distracted, though, thinking about Mariela and Vincent.

  What were they doing at the Warehouse? How do they know each other? Who are they? Are they really ghosts? Or is my Muse theory more correct? I have this odd urge to talk to Ms. Bolton about the whole thing. I remember the night I saw her play at Smiths. There was a flickering person on stage with her, too. And she is a musician as well as a teacher of Greek mythology. Does she know about the flickering people?

  But the Muse theory is insane. This is exactly the kind of theory a crazy person would have. Like that guy in A Beautiful Mind. I have to be careful. Seeing people that are not there, that’s one level of crazy. Believing elaborate stories about them, that’s a whole other thing.

  I need to stop thinking about this.

  I look at Travis, who is taking a bite of a breadstick as Bianca talks to him about Mumford and Sons, going on about how great their cover was.

  Maybe it’s time to ask Travis about Mariela. Maybe he really does know about the flickering people. Maybe he could answer my questions.

  “Are you alright?” Cassie asks me. “You kind of zoned out there.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. I look up at Travis. “I was thinking about that new song that you guys played—I think it was called ‘Wicked Smile’ or something?”

  “That’s a pretty new one.” Travis’s eyes light up.

  “We’ve only run through it a few times,” Ryan says. “That’s why Derek screwed up the ending.” Ryan playfully hits Derek on the back of the head, clearly joking, but Derek looks embarrassed.

  “Sorry, dude,” Derek says. “I forgot we decided to repeat the chorus a second time at the end.”

  “It’s cool,” Travis says. “You covered it up pretty well.”

  “Anyway, I really liked that one,” I say. “Well, I liked all of them. You guys played a phenomenal set. I think you could really go places. And a ton of people re-tweeted that last live song you posted. It’s not just me...”

  Travis is beaming. I’m trying not to geek out too much, but I can’t help it.

  “Yeah,” Bianca says. “It sounded really cool.”

  “Hey, do you guys want to go to MacCracken’s?” Jamie asks when we’ve all finished our pizza.

  “Isn’t that a bar?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Jamie says with a scoff.

  “Um, you’re the only one here who’s 21,” I point out, as if it’s not obvious.

  “That’s not a problem,” Travis says smugly.

  “You’ve been before?” Bianca asks, impressed.

  “Yeah, we go all the time,” Ryan says. “There’s a back patio area and a little entrance to it. There’s always a ton of people out there on the weekends, and no one is ever carding at that door. If you just hang out outside, no one cares or even notices. You all look like you could be twenty-one.” He gives us each a glance and scrunches his nose when he gets to me. “Except you. Just keep your head down.” My face turns red. What is that supposed to mean?

  “Jamie totally slept with one of the bartenders,” Derek says with a laugh. He is obviously trying to steer the conversation away from me, and I’m grateful. “So, like, if you order two drinks, they are supposed to ask to see two IDs, but she never makes Jamie do that, and we always get him to order us drinks.”

  They all seem smug about this, but it makes me feel strange. I don’t want to get in trouble, and I don’t particularly want to be around a bunch of drunk people.

  Everyone else (except maybe Cassie) seems hyped about this plan, though, so it seems I am the only one who’s opposed to it. It’s close enough to my house where I can walk home if it gets out of hand. And I do want to ask Travis about Mariela. I decide to go along with everyone, and we walk over.

  The back patio outside is crowded, just like Jamie said it would be. There’s a fire pit with an actual fire inside of it. It’s unseasonably cold for September, but I get the impression that any time it gets under seventy degrees, they use it as an excuse to run the fire. I notice the cold more than usual because of this short skirt, which I’m starting to feel absurd in.

  Jamie sees one of his friends—a tall, chubby guy—and they both go inside to get drinks. I notice there is a small bar outside where a guy is pouring a few beers for customers.

  “Do you think I can just order water from that dude? Do I really not look twenty-one?” I ask Travis.

  “Let me get it for you,” Travis says. “Not that you don’t look twenty-one, but he sees me here a lot. He probably won’t even think about it.” I shrug. Whatever. I don’t want to look twenty-one anyway.

  I sit down in front of the fire, listening to the music that is playing. It’s some female musician I haven’t heard of, but it reminds me of PJ Harvey. I like it.

  Vincent. His name is Vincent. My thoughts keep going there, even though I’m trying hard to be in the moment.

  At least I know his name now. I think it over and over again.

  Vincent. Vincent.

  I also know now that this Mariela is connected to Vincent somehow. She acted surprised that I could see her, but not horrified like the others I have tried to interact with. What does that mean?

  Travis returns with water and hands it to me.

  “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.”

  He sits down next to me.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a beer?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I don’t drink.”

  “That’s cool,” Travis says.

  There is an uneasy silence.

  “Travis, do you know anyone named Mariela?” I ask casually.

  “Mariela? Hmmm. I don’t think so. Why?”

  “She’s about my height. She’s a Latina chick. She has dark hair, and she’s really pretty. She kind of looks like you. She has the same eyes.”

  “That doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “Are you sure?” Maybe Travis is just like me. Maybe he’s trying to keep his knowledge of the flickering people a secret like I am. Maybe he just needs to know that he can talk to me about it.

  “Well, I’m not sure, but…” he seems confused. “You know, my dad loves this old Puerto Rican singer named Mariela Rivera. But somehow I doubt that’s who you’re talking about because she’s dead.”

  Right at that moment, Jamie comes down with a beer in his hand.

  “Here you go, Trav,” he says, shoving a Pabst Blue Ribbon in his hand.

  “Thanks, man,” Travis says.

  Jamie rushes off to Bianca to give her the vodka cranberry he’s holding. Travis takes a sip of his beer.

  “Anyway, who is this chick? Why do you think I know her?” Travis asks. I search his eyes. Do I tell him the truth?

  “I thought I saw her…as a mutual friend on Facebook. But I’m probably thinking of someone else.” I hardly ever even check my Facebook. I don’t even know if Travis and I are friends on there. “Anyway, your show was really, really good tonight,” I say, steering the conversation away from my imaginary friends, somewhat disappointed that Travis can shed no light on the subject.

  “Thanks,” he says. “I was nervous about Derek. He’s p
retty new. We had a different drummer on the demo.”

  “Yeah, I thought he was good,” I say. Though I can’t help but wonder if I’m a better drummer.

  “I’ve been thinking. I really have a lot of fun every time we jam out. Would you ever want to play with us?”

  “Oh…” I am struck by this. Me? In The Red Lampposts? “That would be fun...Actually, that would be amazing.”

  “Yeah?” Travis’s lips curve upwards. “I’ll talk to Ryan about it.”

  “Party in all the Right Places” by Jenny Treb comes on. I roll my eyes.

  “Oh, God,” I can’t help but say.

  “Girl!” I hear Bianca call to me. “This is my jam!” Cassie grabs Bianca’s hands, and they dance together, singing along loudly. Way to keep a low profile.

  This is such a bizarre moment. I’m hanging out with my friends at a bar. How did I get here? Somehow it all seems connected. Vincent and Mariela and Travis and Greek mythology and Ms. Bolton and my newfound friendships and “April” and…

  Travis, Ryan, Derek, and Jamie are all dancing with Bianca and Cassie now. I can’t help but be a little amused. When I check my phone, I realize it’s almost midnight, and I’m supposed to be home in five minutes.

  I should leave now and go home, but I don’t want to interrupt their fun.

  I send a group text to Bianca, Cassie, and Travis.

  Had to go home. Great show tonight. I had a lot of fun!

  I sneak out while they are all still dancing.

  The Marietta Square is eerily quiet tonight as I walk through it. I walk past the courthouse and The Strand Theater and the Chinese restaurant that I love.

  It feels like someone is watching me. I stop walking and spin around in all directions, but I see no one. A little spooked, I pull Murphy out of my purse and put my headphones on.

  The last thing I was listening to was Moonlight Bride so I press play and continue listening. I let the dreamy guitars and the entrancing vocal melodies keep me company as I continue to walk down Cherokee Street.

  The song “Love in the Dark” comes on, and I hear it in a new way. It’s as if he is singing directly to me.

  I am alone as I walk, but I feel the song wrap its arms around me and hold me close the entire way home.

  * * *

  I think I am dreaming, though I can’t be sure. I never know if things are real or if things are only happening inside of my head. I am sitting in my bedroom, and everything looks normal, but it feels like a dream because my window is open. My window is never open in real life.

  I forget everything, though, as soon as I see his face. Vincent. He is floating outside of my window—or he must be because my room is upstairs—but this doesn’t seem abnormal to me. “Tonight, Tonight” starts playing by the Smashing Pumpkins. The lyrics are prominent, even though I’m concentrating on his face—those gorgeous brown eyes that look a thousand years old, the way his forehead creases, the dimples on his cheeks…

  For once, I feel that he’s not trying to run away from me, and I’m relieved. Even if this is a dream, he doesn’t appear to be going anywhere.

  “Who are you?” is all I think to ask.

  “My name is Vincent,” he says.

  “I know. Mariela told me. But…what are you? A ghost?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “This is a dream. You’re in my head.”

  “No, Sylvia. This is real.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I know everything about you. You’ll be seventeen next month. You play drums and guitar. You’ve named your drums Charlie, and your guitar is named Ani. You like to document your life. You’re currently on journal number eighteen, but you’ve only been numbering them since you were ten. You call this one Lily. Your favorite albums are Sargent Pepper by The Beatles, In Rainbows by Radiohead, and Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming by M83. You’ve been spending most of your time alone until recently, playing music, writing in your journal. You pretend not to care. You pretend to enjoy your solitude, but secretly, you’re lonely. You’ve been excited that Bianca, Cassie, Travis, and even Ryan have been talking to you lately…

  “But you’re wary of them. You don’t know if you can trust them. And music—art in general—it’s the only thing you really trust. Your love for music is overwhelming, almost unbearable at times. It makes you feel so much at once that you think you’re going to explode just from listening to a song. And you think no one else understands, but I do Sylvia. Believe me, I do.

  “I’ve never seen anyone else who is in love with Art the way you are. Your passion, your love, it’s almost like worship, the way you lie on your floor and listen to an album, the way you play the guitar so tenderly.

  “And you want to write songs that make you feel the way Radiohead or The Beatles do. You’re very talented, but you haven’t found your own voice yet. You’ve never written an original song. I could help you. I could show you a way.”

  His voice is intoxicating, almost hypnotic. I have an illogical urge to agree to anything he says. I have goosebumps all over my body.

  There’s no way this is a dream. It feels real.

  “You’re a Muse, aren’t you?” I ask. Suddenly, this idea doesn’t seem so stupid. “Are you? Like in my Greek mythology class?”

  He nods once.

  “But how can that be real? I thought all the Muses were female. So, you’re a god?”

  I feel weird about how many times I have kissed him in my dreams. Have I been kissing a god?

  “Not exactly,” he explains. “I’m what you would call an Earthly Muse. I used to be human. There were nine Original Muses in Ancient Greece, of course—we call them the Nine—but then they created more Muses: humans who had a certain passion for the arts who were given the chance to become Muses when they died.

  “Inspiration isn’t an abstract concept with us. We Inspire artists the way you eat food or breathe oxygen. We need to in order to continue existing. Typically, humans can’t see us unless we want them to. I wasn’t going to show myself to you, but you saw me somehow.” He seems just as confused by this as I am.

  “What are you talking about? Is this some kind of joke? The Original Muses? What are you going to tell me next? Zeus and Apollo are hanging out downstairs?” I feel delirious. I’m almost laughing at the absurdity of it all.

  “You brought it up.” He sounds so sure of himself.

  The Smashing Pumpkins song is still playing. Where is it coming from? I look over at my computer, which isn’t even on. I inhale and exhale again.

  I decide, for the moment, to go along with this story. It may not make that much sense, but it is, at least, an explanation.

  “Are all of the flickering people Muses?” I ask. He looks puzzled again.

  “Flickering people?”

  “Yes. That’s what I call them. Ever since I can remember, I’ve always seen them. They seem to flicker, like candles. They go in and out of focus. I can’t always see them if I’m really emotional or focused on my own life, but I can most of the time. And they never talk to me. You flickered when I first saw you in chorus. Once you started looking at me and I started looking at you, you stopped. You were clear.” It feels good to speak these words out loud.

  “When do you see these ‘flickering people’ as you call them?” He leans in, genuinely curious.

  “It’s usually at Smith’s Olde Bar when a band is playing or in theatres during a play or sometimes around my father when he’s playing music. And then I keep seeing Mariela with Travis. She actually talked to me tonight at the show.”

  “Yes. She’s his Muse.”

  I want to believe everything he is saying. It feels like a relief. An explanation. I’m not crazy.

  I nod, and I can feel tears welling up in my eyes.

  “You’re crying,” he says. It’s not a question. His voice is sympathetic, and he looks at me like I’m an injured animal. I look at him, feeling helpless.

  “I want to believe you because that means I’m not
crazy…” I whisper. I stand up, finding myself unconsciously walking towards the window—to be closer to him.

  “You’re not crazy. This is real.”

  “How can it be real? This is a dream.”

  “Just because you’re dreaming doesn’t make it any less real.”

  He holds out his hand, and looks me straight in the eye with a force that is almost tangible.

  “Sylvia,” he says in his seductive voice. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to get involved. But then you saw me, and I couldn’t hide from you anymore.” I find myself leaning toward him like I always do in my dreams. I snap out of it. What am I doing?

  “I don’t…believe you…” I whisper only half-heartedly. Everything in my body is aching to believe him. If this is the truth, I won’t be crazy. I’ll be okay. Special even. A girl who can see Muses. I stare at his hand.

  This is crazy. Dream or no dream, I don’t know him. And he doesn’t know me. Except he does know me. He knows my favorite albums, and he knows about Lily and Charlie and Jimmy. He understands the most secret part of me, a part of me I’ve had to keep hidden since I was a little girl.

  No one’s ever spoken about me like that. He said I am more in love with music—with art—than any other person he’s ever known. I know in my heart that must be true. Art is the reason I exist. Music is my oxygen.

  “Sylvia, please, let me show you.” His voice is soft, almost pleading, like liquid. I look at his hand for another moment, deliberating. “Believe in me.”

  His words echo the Smashing Pumpkins song that keeps playing.

  I look up at him, making my decision. I grab his hand, and he pulls me out of the window, toward him. He wraps his arms around me, holding onto me. My face is inches from his. I am completely mesmerized, lost in the energy that radiates from him. He has this incredible power over me, but the more I allow it to take hold of me, the more I realize that I choose this. It’s as if we’re inexplicably tied to each other, as if we are both feeding each other with this strange electricity.

  He wraps me inside of his coat.

  “Close your eyes,” he says. I look up at him instead. “Trust me.” Two simple words, and yet, as he says them, I realize that I have never trusted anyone the way I trust him in this moment. And with that thought, I close my eyes.