Maybe Vincent was right. Maybe I have already made this choice. Maybe it’s always been made. Maybe there was never any other way. Sylvia Baker. Born to two musicians, brought up with no other friends besides music, feels everything way too much, spends time in mental facilities. Maybe the whole thing that has been wrong with me this whole time is that I haven’t been making my own music. The only way to find absolution is to sing for it. To make my own songs.
I close my eyes. I decide.
Vincent. I’m ready.
And when I open my eyes, he is sitting beside me on my bench, just like the shaggy-haired Muse sits beside the writer woman on the other bench. I don’t feel anger or fear. I’m facing him with complete calmness, ready to dive into the deep end.
There’s no turning back now.
PART TWO
September 2012
NINE
Melodies
We stand in my dad’s studio and stare at each other in silence. I don’t blink. I don’t look away. I don’t even breathe. I lose myself in the depth of his brown eyes.
He walked me back to my house after he came to me on the bench. He wanted to take me there in an instant (Traveling, he calls it, with a capital “T”) but I thought it would look pretty funny if a girl disappeared from in front of the fountain in the Marietta Square. So instead he walked beside me as I walked home, singing catchy and awe-inspiring melodies in my head the entire way. Those were the melodies I had been hearing for weeks, I realized. It was always Vincent.
Now we are back in my dad’s studio.
“I knew that you would say yes.” His voice is confident in that irresistible British accent. “Shall we start with something simple?” he asks. I move to pick up Ani. He looks around. “How about the piano?” He looks at the stand-up piano on the opposite side of the studio.
“The piano? I’m really a lot better at the drums or the guitar or the bass even…I never even play the—”
“If this is going to work, you have to trust me completely and do what I say.” His voice is firm, like a strict teacher.
I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. I feel embarrassed, a child who has been scolded.
“If this is going to work, you need to not be so pushy.” I hate being told what to do. “And you could at least call Martha by her name.”
“I’m sorry,” he says in a liquid voice. “Will you at least try? I know Martha would be pleased.” He doesn’t miss a beat. He knows Martha is the piano.
In silence, I walk over to Martha. I sit down on the bench, placing my fingers on the keys with hesitation and my foot on the sustain pedal.
“What am I supposed to play?” I ask.
“You know what to play,” he whispers.
I hear the melody in my head—the one I first heard in the library that has been repeating. It’s as if he has turned up the volume. That electric current is back, and I feel chills all over my body. I sigh in ecstasy. There is a sense that I am one with everything in the Universe.
“It gets better when you start playing,” he says, understanding how amazing I feel.
He walks towards me so that he is standing right behind me. We’re inches away from each other, almost touching. My heart is racing. I don’t dare turn around to face him.
He places both of his hands on my shoulders and then brings them down, almost caressing my arms. His touch increases the electricity flowing through me. It feels like every moment I have ever been inspired by a piece of art. It feels like me sitting in the theatre watching The Smashing Pumpkins play “Tonight, Tonight,” grabbing my father’s hand…multiplied times a thousand. I feel goosebumps rising on my skin. I think of those goosebumps I get during moments like those, but the goosebumps are not just on my arms like usual. They are covering my entire body. The melody gets louder and more emotional, more haunting. I’ve never felt anything like this, and my breath is shaky when I inhale, like I can’t get enough oxygen. There is a tingling feeling that’s spreading through my arms and into my chest. The feeling is so intense; I almost want to lean forward, away from him. I find myself leaning back towards him instead so that my back is touching him. The feeling increases, and I close my eyes. I realize that I have been grabbing his leg. I am slightly embarrassed at this and let go of him.
“It’s alright,” he whispers, “just listen.”
I try to focus my attention on the melody instead of the feeling inside of my body. The melody progresses to a new part of the song I have never heard. It’s striking, moving, heart-wrenching, and inspiring all at the same time. My eyes fill with tears. One spills out before I can stop it. I’m embarrassed. How many times have I cried in front of him already?
“Play it,” he whispers softly.
My mind is blank.
“How?” I ask. I look at Martha pleadingly.
He reaches down and places my left hand on the first chord. I know enough about piano to know that this is A minor. He places my right hand on an A to start the melody. I start to play. Soon, my fingers are moving without me having to think about them. It’s as if I’ve been playing the piano my entire life. On a good day, I can feel comfortable with the guitar or the drums, but I still have to think about what I’m doing. It’s never felt like this before. I’m playing this exquisitely complex song with no mistakes.
And he was right. It does feel better when I play. The feeling is boiling up inside of me, overflowing through my fingertips, into Martha.
He takes his hands off my arms, and the music in my head abruptly stops. I can feel him step away from me. I am desperate for the melody to return. My hands stop, and the images stop.
“Keep playing,” he says.
I close my eyes and place my hands back on the keys. And then it’s pouring out of me. The melody isn’t in my head anymore; I’m creating it. I’m giving it life. It’s existing because of me. My hands are moving across the keys without effort. I am in utter amazement.
I realize the goosebumps are less prominent when he’s not touching me. For a small moment, I long for his touch. The longing feels somehow multiplied, like all my emotions have been turned up. But instead of letting them overwhelm me like I normally would, I channel them into my hands, into the melody. I play my longing in this song.
I sing along with the piano. Perfectly formed, thoughtful lyrics are pouring out of me. I’m doing it. I’m singing! I’m writing a song! And my voice sounds exquisite, better than it even has been sounding in chorus.
I repeat the melody over and over. I don’t want to forget it. Neither one of us speaks for twenty or thirty minutes. When I finish the song for the sixth or seventh time, I pull my hands away from the keyboard and turn to face him. I am breathless, and I feel high.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“We don’t really have ages,” he says.
“When did you become a Muse?”
“In 1887.”
“Oh…” I don’t know what to say to that. “So, you’re older than a century?”
“It doesn’t really work like that.” Did he just laugh? “I haven’t been a Muse the entire time. Once we become Muses, time doesn’t work the same way for us as it does for you.”
“So, you were once…human?” The word “human” sounds wrong. It makes it sound like he’s not human now. And even though I know he’s not—exactly—I can’t help thinking of him as being…well, a man.
“Yes. I was a poet. In Manchester.”
“But your accent sounds so proper,” I say. I don’t know much about the United Kingdom accents, but I don’t think the Manchester accent sounds exactly like his.
“My father was from London.”
“Isn’t it kind of weird that you still have an accent after all this time?”
“We don’t change. We stay as we were when we died.”
So, he is a ghost. Kind of.
“You’re a ghost?”
“No,” he says seriously, “I’m an ageless Muse. I’m a spiritual being. But because the Earthly Muse
s are humans who have been turned into immortals, we still retain much of what made us human.”
“Oh…” is all I can think of to say. “How did you die?”
“I think that’s enough questions for now,” he says. “You need to concentrate. Play the song again.”
For the next hour or so, I play the piano and sing along. I can feel his eyes on me. I don’t know how many ti mes I’ve played this song, now. I don’t know how late it is. I don’t even care.
I turn to look at him. He looks nearly as sad as the A minor chord I’ve been playing. My hands pause.
“Am I doing something wrong?” I ask him.
“No,” he says, quietly, “it’s nothing.”
He glances off towards the vocal booth. I can see despair washing over him. I want to know what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. I want to know him. I want to crawl inside of him and really see who he is.
I hear the door open upstairs.
“Sylvie?” my dad calls.
“Um…I’m down here…” Is it already that late?
Vincent looks at me with a knowing grin.
“Another time, my dear,” he says. And then he disappears just before my dad comes into the studio.
“Hey, Sylvie,” he says. “Were you playing Martha?”
“Yeah,” I say, “I hope you don’t mind.”
“You know you can use any of my instruments whenever you want. And God knows my piano is a lot better than that crappy keyboard you never play. I thought you were into Charlie these days.”
“Yeah, I don’t know, I guess I got…inspired,” I smile, grinning at my choice of the word.
“Well, you missed a great show. The Warlocks were phenomenal.” My dad is still riding that after-show buzz, I can tell.
“Yeah, sorry about that…I…couldn’t get in touch with Bianca, and you know, I can’t drive by myself with just the permit.”
“I wanted to talk to you about that,” my dad says, sitting down on a stool. “Do you want to go get your license soon? Before your birthday?”
“Sure,” I say. “So, how’s mixing the new Midnight Walk album going?” A change of subject is always in order when he brings up driving.
“Pretty good,” he says. “It’s almost ready for a test listen.”
“Sweet!” I exclaim. I’m genuinely excited. I love my dad’s band. I love that I get to hear all their songs first before anyone else.
“Yeah, I confirmed our big album release show for February,” he says with excitement.
“Awesome.” I can’t help but smile. There is nothing more motivating to me than my dad’s determination in the music business. This upcoming album will be the fourth release from Midnight Walk. The first two were independent releases, and then they got signed by Briarcliff Records, a small label in Atlanta. They put out their third album, and they sent them on this long tour. The shows were mostly great, but they didn’t make the label enough money so they dropped them. My dad spent a few months being really depressed about it. I was seriously worried that he was going to drink again so I made sure to watch him like a hawk during that time.
And then I saw the red-haired flickering lady hanging around a few times, and Dad got back to work writing more songs. It suddenly hits me. That must be my dad’s Muse.
“Hey, who drew that?” Dad asks me, interrupting my thoughts.
I realize he’s staring at the guitar tab that has Vincent’s portrait on the back. I must have left it on the top of his amp.
“Oh…” I get up to grab it. “I was just fooling around.” Dad grabs the paper from me and studies it.
“Wow, Sylvia.” Anytime he uses my whole name, it’s serious. “This looks really good. I didn’t know you could draw like this…”
“I can’t really, I just—”
“Drawing, playing piano, going out with Bianca…what have you done with my Sylvie?” he laughs, but then he gives me a look that has just a hint of suspicion in it. Does he know about the Muses? I can’t talk to him about that.
“Well, I’m pretty tired,” I say. “I think I’m going to bed.”
“Alright…” he says, “Goodnight.”
He gives me a hug. As I leave, I can hear him playing his acoustic guitar (Butch). I walk up to my room in a daze. I go to my computer and turn Muse on. I lie down on my bed, letting the songs wash over me.
I wonder vaguely if Vincent will show up again. Or if I will dream of him.
As I slip into sleep, I can’t help picturing his brown eyes locking into mine.
***
I yawn as I walk to my algebra class. Monday morning already.
I spent all day yesterday lying around the house. Both Travis and Bianca tried to contact me, and I didn’t return their calls or text messages. I sat with Martha and played the song a little bit. I kept waiting for Vincent to show up, but he never did.
Vincent is so unreliable. I never have any way of knowing when he is going to grace me with his presence and when he isn’t.
I haven’t had a dream about him, even, since the Sleeping Beauty dream. I think a part of me hoped that since I had agreed for him to be my Muse, I would be seeing a lot more of him.
My mousey, skinny algebra teacher, Ms. Ramsey, rambles on about graphs and functions; I am trying really hard to pay attention, but the closer third period gets, the more nervous I get.
Will I see Vincent in chorus? The idea sends a thrill down my spine. My Muse.
“See you tomorrow,” Ms. Ramsey says to us after the bell rings. I gather my stuff and head to the chorus room, taking a deep breath.
I am trying to focus on each step that I take as I walk to chorus, but my heart starts beating faster, and I feel adrenaline rush through my body. I feel nervous and jittery, like I drank way too much coffee. It’s as though something has shifted now. I no longer have an imaginary friend…I have a Muse.
As I walk in, everything seems normal. I am one of the first people to arrive. Vincent isn’t here, I notice with disappointment.
Bianca and Cassie walk in. Bianca looks ecstatic; Cassie looks miserable.
“Hey, girl!” Bianca exclaims. She gives me an unusual hug.
“Whoa,” I say. “You alright?”
“I’m great!” she beams.
I look over at Cassie, mouthing, “What?”
She mouths back one word to me. “Travis.”
It all makes sense now as Travis walks into the chorus room and gives a little wave to Bianca before sitting down in the tenor section.
“Where were you all weekend?” Bianca asks me. “I tried to text you like a million times.”
“I…my phone charger broke. My phone was dead,” I lie.
“Oh. That’s okay. I was wondering if you wanted to…” She keeps talking, but I’m not paying attention because Vincent appears behind the piano. I remember that he can hear my thoughts if I direct them to him.
Hello, I send the thought to him.
“Hello, my dear,” he says. His voice makes me melt. “I’m going to help you get the solo today.” I remember vaguely something about how Mr. King is going to have solo tryouts for the jazzy rendition of “Seasons of Love” from Rent that we’re doing for the fall concert.
I didn’t see you yesterday. I look at him.
“Sorry, love,” he says. He’s never called me that before. I can feel myself blushing. “Time isn’t the same for us.”
I nod slowly. He keeps saying that, but I don’t know what he means.
“Sylvia, are you alright?” Bianca asks. “You just completely zoned out.”
“Sorry,” I say. “What were you saying?”
But we both get cut off by Mr. King who has us singing some warm up songs.
Mariela rushes in as usual, but this time, she looks over at me.
“Hey, Sylvia!” she whispers.
Oh, great. Now they’re all going to be talking to me. I’m like Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost. If I didn’t seem crazy before, I will now.
I try to give her a
n inconspicuous nod, but Ryan thinks I’m nodding at him, and he gives me a wink.
“Alright, let’s get out ‘Seasons of Love’,” Mr. King says. We all pull out the appropriate sheet music. “Who all is going to try for the solo?” Bianca raises her hand confidently. I am suddenly shy. Can I really sing in front of all these people? Vincent looks at me.
“Raise your hand,” he commands in his distracting British accent.
I tentatively raise my hand along with a sophomore girl. I notice Travis raising his hand, too. There’s a male solo in the song as well.
“Great. Who wants to go first?”
No one moves.
“Don’t be shy, now. Let’s hear it. Ms. Ross?”
Bianca stands up boldly. Mr. King plays a few bars before the solo, and she starts singing. She has a solid voice, if not a little nasal. She’s obviously trying to imitate Jenny Treb. I’m trying to pay attention, but I keep getting distracted by the perfection that is Vincent.
There he is, standing behind the piano, looking more elegant than ever. I think he looks more gorgeous now that I know him. I can’t seem to tear my eyes from him.
Bianca finishes and everyone claps. She is radiant, like she just won a prize.
“Good job,” I whisper.
“Thanks!” she says.
The sophomore girl—a cheerleader—gets up and starts singing. Her voice is so quiet that I’m having a hard time hearing her. Mr. King adjusts his piano playing so that it’s softer, but that just makes her sing at a lower volume. She finishes and everyone applauds politely, though not with as much enthusiasm as they did for Bianca.
“Thank you,” Mr. King says, “Baker?” He looks at me. It makes me smile that the other two girls got a “Ms.” in front of their names, and I just get a last name. It somehow makes it seem like I am closer to Mr. King than everyone else. I remember the schoolgirl crush I used to have on him nostalgically as I stand up. He plays the introduction, and Vincent moves to stand next to me. He places his hand on my shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze.
I open my mouth, and this soulful voice of a mature woman who has been singing all her life comes out of me. It’s the angelic voice I’ve been singing with all along. I realize that Vincent has been Inspiring me to sing like this, even since that first day. And the days I didn’t sound as good—in chorus or jamming out with Travis—it’s been because Vincent wasn’t there.
We Own the Sky (The Muse Chronicles Book 1) Page 9