We Own the Sky (The Muse Chronicles Book 1)

by Sara Crawford

  “Yeah, I’m…”

  “You know, I heard that Travis and Ryan wouldn’t give your songs a chance, and I think it’s great that you are playing them anyway.” She pauses, frowning a little. “You know, sometimes they really bother me. Travis and Ryan. They don’t have any regard for anyone else’s feelings. I don’t know how you put up with it for so long. Or how Bianca does…” She gives me a look, realizing that she is going off on a tangent. “Anyway, I really admire you. Getting up there and playing your songs. I hope someday I can do it. Not playing music, but just performing in general. You were right, you know. I should have auditioned for A Christmas Carol, but I just…couldn’t. I was too scared.” She stops talking and sighs. She stares off into the distance.

  “Hey,” I say. “I know someday, you will be able to do it, too. Perform, I mean. I see you on stage and in films…I can imagine it.”

  She smiles. “You think so?”

  I nod. “Definitely.”

  “Thank you, Sylvia,” she says. “It’s your show and look at me, I’m talking about my hypothetical acting.”

  “It’s alright,” I say. I have always liked Cassie. In some ways, I think she understands me more than Bianca does.

  She smiles at me, and then she goes off to the bathroom.

  When I walk outside, Morgan is finishing her set. And then I am suddenly moving my Ani and my father’s electric keyboard (Billy) up near the microphone.

  “Hey, good luck!” Morgan says to me as she packs up her guitar.

  “Thanks…” I manage. “I really liked your U2 cover…”

  “Rock on!” she looks excited that anyone noticed.

  I pay close attention to plugging everything in, not looking at anyone in the audience. I can see Mr. King and Ms. Bolton in my peripheral vision, sitting at a table next to Leo and Jake, who are both drinking beer from Hemingway’s.

  And now everything is set up, and there’s nothing else left to do except play. I pick up Ani. I turn my back to the audience for a second, making it look like I’m just tuning my guitar. Instead, I close my eyes.

  Alright, Sylvia. Vincent is not here. You can worry about that later. Right now, you just have to play these songs. You can do this. You have your guitar, Ani. You have your dad’s keyboard, Billy. You have the blood of the Muse running through your veins. If there’s one thing Lydia ever gave you, it was that.

  And with that thought, I feel brave enough to face this.

  I am both Muse and artist, I realize. I can be Muse to myself.

  I am a half-Muse.

  I open my eyes and turn to the audience, which is actually a pretty decent-sized crowd.

  “Hey,” I say into the microphone, making myself smile. “Thanks for coming out.”

  I can feel the energy pulsing in my body—the same energy that I send to my dad when I’m trying to Inspire him—the same energy I feel coming from Vincent’s body when he Inspires me. I launch straight into my most upbeat guitar song, a song I wrote called “Fallen Leaves.” It’s about the changing seasons and how everything dies. It’s sort of related to the song “Autumn.” I think of them as being connected: a series of songs. The lyrics are quite melancholy, but the song is upbeat.

  As I sing, I think of nothing. I simply let all my sorrow and frustration and anxiety float out of me through my voice. And once I have started the first song, I flow into the rest rather flawlessly.

  I am playing these songs better than I have ever played them—even without Vincent. People are cheering loudly after every song. I play some originals with Ani, and my fingers are forming the chords without shaking. I’m almost happy. It’s an exhilarating feeling.

  I then move to my piano songs—“Nothing Lost,” “Autumn,” and “Remember”—all of which go perfectly. Billy sounds great, and my fingers move across the keys effortlessly. I can’t help but think of how proud Vincent would be if he could see this.

  I get to the Florence and the Machine cover on my set list. I quickly decide that I don’t want to do that song, and instead, I start to play the opening chords to “Somebody That I Used to Know” by Goyte. I’ve slowed the song down, and I realize that I’m singing it as sort of a ballad somehow. But I don’t care. I’m just letting all the soul that I possess float through my voice and through my hands into the song.

  I remember how lovely our voices sounded together when I sang this with Vincent. I can remember his notes so clearly in my head.

  I direct my attention back to the song, away from my thoughts. And I can feel myself getting more and more emotional, practically singing to Vincent.

  Somehow, it’s therapeutic, though, to sing this song and to picture Vincent’s face in my head. Somebody that I used to know. The idea that that’s my new description of Vincent practically sends me into an emotional breakdown, but luckily, I just sing instead.

  When I finish the song, the audience is silent for a moment.

  “YEAH! GO! WOOH!” Travis suddenly shouts, applauding loudly. He seems completely trashed. I’ve never seen him drunk, I realize. A sensation of panic comes over me as I notice that he is going to sit next to my dad. Is he going to drunkenly blab about everything he read in my journal? My heart is racing again.

  Keep it together. There’s only one more song in my set. “Lights Out.”

  I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to play this song without crying. It’s my song for Vincent. It always has been, I realize. And yet, in spite of the whirlpool of emotions swirling around inside of me, I want to play the song…desperately.

  And then it occurs to me. This is my “Pine Needle.” I am my father’s daughter, through and through.

  “You will always have the right to borrow my expression,” I sing. “And I will always have the right to come with you. Wherever I go…wherever I go…” My voice cracks with the emotion, but I don’t even care. The crippling sadness, the heartache, the boiling anger, everything I have ever felt, it all streams through me into the guitar and out through my voice, and it’s almost as if I don’t have any control over it. I continue to strum as hard as I possibly can until I play the last chord. And I realize that the pulsing energy has not left my body, this entire show. The Inspiration. I truly have been my own Muse.

  “Thank you,” I say into the mic as the chord still rings out.

  And it’s over. I’ve just played my first show at Cool Beans. I exhale.

  This show was so much better than the show at Tommy’s party. The adrenaline pumps through me, and I am beaming. It all evaporates, though, as soon as I remember that Vincent wasn’t here to see any of it.

  And then I get caught in the hustle and bustle of everyone trying to congratulate me as I’m packing up my instruments. Mr. King and Ms. Bolton congratulate me with hugs and my dad’s friends all congratulate me and tell me how excellent my set was and that they couldn’t believe that was my first show. Bianca, Cassie, Ryan, Derek, and Jamie are all practically ecstatic, showering me in hugs and praise. Morgan is still here, too, and she seems genuinely impressed.

  I thank them all. But really, I just want to be alone.

  I pick up Ani and start to head to my dad’s van in the alleyway, when Travis is suddenly beside me with Billy.

  “Here, let me help!” He’s obviously drunk, and I really want to just sit in the van and have my long anticipated emotional breakdown, but I can’t refuse his help. We walk to the van and pile the instruments inside.

  We start to break down the PA system.

  “Here, let me help with that,” Ms. Bolton says as she grabs a speaker.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say.

  “Us female musicians have to stick together,” she says with a wink.

  “Whoa, you’re in a band?” Travis asks her. I worry for a moment about Ms. Bolton knowing that Travis is drunk. Couldn’t he get in trouble for that?

  “Yeah, she’s in a really cool band,” Mr. King says as he steps up to help us. We are all carrying pieces of equipment to the van.

&
nbsp; “Did you see where my dad went?” I ask Travis. I don’t know how much longer I will be able to keep it together.

  “I think he went inside to get coffee or something,” Travis says, looking at the ground.

  I thank Ms. Bolton and Mr. King for their help with the PA system as we put the last of it in the van.

  “So those last couple of songs you played…wow, that was intense,” Travis says. “Were those songs about Vincent?”

  I stop breathing. My pulse quickens. My face goes blank. A tear spills out.

  “Travis, I…”

  “Why did you have to quit the band, Sylvia? Our band was awesome. It’s not my fault you see people that don’t exist and shit. I think you really need help.” He is slurring his words, and now more tears are coming before I can stop them, but this time they are angry tears. And I don’t even care if Ms. Bolton and Mr. King can hear me.

  “Sylvia, I really think you need to get help,” Travis repeats. “I’m only saying this because I’m your friend, and I’m worried…I’m worried about you. You need to be on serious medication.”

  “I…” I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to make it better.

  “I mean, you actually think you are a…what did you call it? Half-immortal? Like some crazy shit we read in Ms. Bolton’s class? What is wrong with you?”

  I am paralyzed now, unable to say anything. Why is he doing this? This is what alcohol does to people. He must have thought these things all along. And now that he is wasted, they are all coming out.

  “Travis, I think maybe you need to go home and sleep it off,” Mr. King steps back up to the van, putting his arm around Travis’s shoulder.

  “Look, just give me a second to talk to Sylvia,” he says, shrugging Mr. King’s arm off his shoulder. Mr. King gives Ms. Bolton a look. The two of them walk away from us, whispering as they go. “And who the hell is Lily? Why do you write to her every day? None of it makes any sense.”

  “Lily is what I call my journal,” I whisper, staring at my feet. “I…I give everything names. Murphy is my iPod. Ani is my guitar. And Vincent! Vincent is just my…” I can’t think of any object that Vincent could be. Tears fill my eyes. “Well, he’s no one. I swear.” I pause. “Why are you doing this?” I ask him desperately.

  “I know it seemed like I wasn’t going to say anything, but I just needed time to process…you know, to process everything…everything I read,” he says, slurring his words. He sits down on the ground. “I’m just trying to be a friend, Sylvia. You’ll thank me someday. You will…you’ll…you’ll see.” He pauses. “I told Dylan about it, and he’s going to…to help you to—”

  “You what?” I’m livid.

  “Sylvia, I’m really worried about you…I don’t think you’re mentally—”

  “That was not your place!” I’m shouting now. “Anyway, there’s nothing to tell! None of that was real! There is no Vincent!” At the truth of my words, more tears spill out. I can feel myself breaking down.

  “You don’t mean that,” Travis says, drunkenly stumbling. “You’re just trying to—”

  My body reacts before I do. I feel my fist bawling up beside of me, and then I punch Travis in the face. Hard. So, hard that I can feel my knuckles throbbing as I take a shaky breath.

  “JESUS! Sylvia! DAMNIT!” He’s grabbing his face, wincing in pain. I immediately regret punching him. I can see Dad rushing out of Cool Beans, rushing over to us. Mr. King and Ms. Bolton are staring.

  “I’m…I’m sorry, Travis…but I…”

  “You really are crazy,” he says quietly.

  “Hey,” Jamie comes up to him now. “Travis, let’s just all chill, okay?”

  “You need to stop giving him alcohol,” I say to Jamie. Jamie looks at me with wide eyes, and then he looks over at Ms. Bolton and Mr. King. He hurries away, Travis by his side.

  I can feel more tears stinging my eyes. My dad puts his arm around my shoulder.

  “Come on, Sylvie,” he says softly.

  “Mr. Baker,” Ms. Bolton says with concern in her voice, “I was wondering if I could just have a quick word.”

  “It’ll have to be later,” Dad says, “I need to get Sylvia home.”

  Ms. Bolton has an odd look on her face that I can’t place. Mr. King gives her a look. It’s as if they are trying to communicate with each other without speaking. I don’t care, though. I just get in the passenger seat of the van where I can cry comfortably.

  My dad gets in the van, and Siamese Dream is in the CD player. The tail end of “Disarm” is playing, and as “Soma” starts to play, I let myself break down like I haven’t broken down since that night months ago when I tried to kill myself in the garage, not even caring that my dad is here.

  Vincent had been there to save me then—in the garage. But where is he now? Or am I really crazy? Maybe none of this ever happened. Maybe I made the whole thing up in my head. Travis told my dad. Everyone is going to think I’m completely nuts now, and Vincent is nowhere to be found. He’s completely abandoned me.

  All the flickering people have left. My imaginary friends. Where have you gone?

  I realize that we aren’t driving home. We appear to be driving towards Smyrna, another suburb of Atlanta. There’s only one place that I know of that’s in Smyrna, I realize in horror.

  “Dad, where are we going?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

  “We’re going to Riverview.”

  FORTY-ONE

  No One Can Ever Take Music Away

  “Dad.” I try to make my voice sound as calm as possible. “I don’t need to go to Riverview.”

  “I just watched you have an emotional breakdown, Sylvia. And Travis told me some very disturbing things.” I’ve never seen that expression on Dad’s face. He looks almost afraid.

  “He read my journal, dad. Some of that stuff is fictional. You know? It’s like a metaphor.”

  “Everything he said actually made sense. I mean, I’ve been noticing you talking to yourself a lot lately. And he says you think you’re seeing people and…Sylvia, have you been taking your medicine?”

  “No, I haven’t,” I admit. “That has nothing to do with it. I’m not seeing anyone.”

  “This is my fault,” he says. “I never really got on your case about going to see your therapist or checked to make sure you really were taking your meds. But then, I thought you were getting better just because you were playing so much music. You were playing these wonderful songs all the time so I thought you were really working things out. And then tonight, you played a really incredible set—especially for your first show—but when Travis told me…everything…and then when I saw how upset you got, how emotionally unstable you are…”

  “Dad, Travis was drunk. And he’s just mad that I quit the band. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.” I can feel more tears coming, but I know they won’t help my case. “He didn’t know what he was reading. You know how we name everything? Like Butch and James and Martha? You do it! That’s all I was doing. Vincent was just a nickname.”

  “I remember you’ve always had your…imaginary friends. I think maybe you need to go back for a few days, a week or two maybe. Talk to Laura, start taking your medicine again.”

  “Even if I were seeing people, antidepressants aren’t going to fix that!” I burst.

  “Look, Sylvia, all I know is that something is wrong, alright? You’ve been talking to yourself, you’ve been really withdrawn…”

  “Don’t act like you even know what’s going on with me. You’re never around.” It was a low blow, and I realize this as soon as I say it. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  Dad is silent for a moment. The air is thick.

  I close my eyes. This isn’t happening.

  “Travis also said some disturbing things you wrote about…about your mother,” I’ve never heard my dad’s voice get that quiet.

  “Dad,” I decide to change tactics. “Don’t you remember? The day you were wasted on the couch when I got home from
school? Why did you drink so much, Dad? Because you saw her. Lydia. She’s still alive, and you know it.”

  “I had a flashback…” he admits. “She looked exactly like she did when we were together. She looked seventeen. She couldn’t have been real. She’s dead.” And now there are tears in my dad’s eyes.

  “No, she’s not!” I exclaim. I can’t help myself. “She’s not dead, she’s a Muse. And so is Vincent. And so am I. I’m a half-Muse, Dad. Lydia was a Muse when she had me. She was a Muse the whole time she was with you. Why do you think she insisted on giving birth at home with just the two of you instead of in a hospital? Why do you think she never wanted to be around anyone else besides you? Because no one else would have been able to see her!”

  “Sylvia, you’re saying some really crazy things…” My dad sounds almost scared. But I know there’s a part of him that almost believes me.

  “You just said it yourself, I’m like my mother. Why do you think I’m so talented with music, Dad? Why do you think you are? Why do you think anyone is? It’s not just us. Muses are real. They Inspire us, they give us Art!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

  “What if I believe in Muses? Is that any different from someone believing in Jesus?”

  “Most people aren’t talking to Jesus as if he’s a real person in their bedroom, and most people don’t think they’re making out with Jesus!”

  “I’ve Inspired you, Dad,” I say desperately. “All of those songwriting sessions you’ve been having lately? Haven’t you been wondering why I’m always hanging around when you are writing new songs? I was trying to see if I could do it, and I can.”

  “Sylvia,” Dad says. “Look, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you have to admit, you are not stable.”

  “Don’t you remember the drawing I did? I can’t draw, Dad. That was all Vincent. I’ll show you now…I’ll make you draw something…”

  “This whole year, Sylvia…you’ve now punched two different people, you’re talking to yourself, you just had an emotional breakdown that was quite frankly one of the scariest things I’ve seen since—” He stops himself as we pull into the parking lot.