We Own the Sky: The Muse Chronicles, #1

We Own the Sky

Book 1 of

The Muse Chronicles

––––––––

SARA CRAWFORD

Copyright © 2017 Sara Crawford

All rights reserved.

Edited by Liane Larocque

Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson

ISBN: 1548450200

ISBN-13: 978-1548450205

Note from the author –

This trilogy is a love letter to music.

If you’d like to listen along to the songs referenced in the book, there are playlists available.

https://saracrawford.net/the-muse-chronicles-playlists

For my Muses

Especially M83, Muse, Moonlight Bride, Slowdive, Beach House, Stephen Chbosky, Stephenie Meyer, and Rainbow Rowell

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

PART ONE

ONE The Chorus Room

TWO Inspiration

THREE Vincent

FOUR Detention

FIVE The Warehouse

SIX Love in the Dark

SEVEN Vincent

EIGHT deliberation

PART TWO

NINE melodies

TEN jamming

ELEVEN Vincent

TWELVE urania

THIRTEEN years of sorrow

FOURTEEN lydia

FIFTEEN just the music

SIXTEEN party

SEVENTEEN vincent

EIGHTEEN birthday

PART THREE

NINETEEN CLIO

TWENTY LYDIA

TWENTY-ONE JENNY TREB

TWENTY-TWO VINCENT

TWENTY-THREE COLLABORATION

TWENTY-FOUR URANIA

TWENTY-FIVE SHE’S LEAVING HOME

TWENTY-SIX BLACKOUT

TWENTY-SEVEN LYDIA

TWENTY-EIGHT LET’S BEGIN AGAIN

TWENTY-NINE CLIO

THIRTY INVISIBLE

PART FOUR

THIRTY-ONE izabella

THIRTY-TWO vincent

THIRTY-THREE immortal

THIRTY-FOUR clio

THIRTY-FIVE more than you know

THIRTY-SIX urania

THIRTY-SEVEN the only thing that survives is art

THIRTY-EIGHT vincent

THIRTY-NINE mariela

FORTY the blood of the muse

FORTY-ONE no one can ever take music away

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Preview of

Book 2 in The Muse Chronicles

Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming

About the Author

PROLOGUE

It was quiet on Mount Olympus. Inside small houses and caves, hidden in fields and clouds themselves, the gods and goddesses were asleep.

An old, charming house sat at the end of one of the longer fields. It was made of wood, stained with weather, time, and magic. Inside, one large room contained nine beds.

Seven Original Muses slept. They had the same dark hair, the same copper skin, but distinctive features.

Two beds were empty: one that had once belonged to Thalia, Muse of Comedy, and one that belonged to Urania, the Muse of Astronomy, the current Ruling Muse.

In the last bed lay Clio, Muse of History, twitching in her sleep. Soon, she would open her eyes for the first time in 500 years, shocked to discover how much the world’s Art had changed.

PART ONE

August 2012

ONE

The Chorus Room

When no one is looking, I can’t resist brushing my fingers across the keys of the piano. They feel perfect underneath my hands even when I’m not playing. Mr. King walks into the classroom, and I rush toward the risers.

Baker! Mr. King exclaims. You’re in chorus this year?

I nod. Mr. King is also my homeroom teacher. Where do the altos sit?

He points to the right side as a few seniors file into class. I’m glad you’ve joined us. With as many instruments as you play, I’m sure you’ll be a natural. He wears a warm smile on his face as I take my seat.

It’s true—my dad raised me on music. He works as an audio engineer now at Smith’s Olde Bar. He also teaches guitar, bass, and drums. Somehow, he still finds time to be in a well-known local band, Midnight Walk. And he plays basically every instrument ever.

He’s an excellent singer, but I didn’t inherit that. Sure, I can hold down harmonies well enough, but my voice sounds weak and shaky at best. I don’t want to tell Mr. King, given that he thinks I’m some kind of musical prodigy or something, so I just shrug and nod in an awkward way. Mr. King’s smile doesn’t waver.

He has always been the coolest teacher at Marietta High School. He can’t be older than thirty. He has a sophisticated style and long, black dreadlocks that hang past his shoulders. Today, he’s wearing a fashionable blue button-down shirt with a slick black tie and black pants. With his dark skin and glasses, he looks like a bookish Bob Marley. He ties his dreads in a ponytail when he’s teaching, but once I saw him outside of school at Smith’s Olde Bar. Mr. King didn’t see me there, but he danced without a care in the world while the band—fronted by a cool tattooed blonde girl—played a Prince cover. He let his hair down then.

More people walk into the classroom, and I see Bianca Ross among them. She’s as bubbly as always. She tucks a strand of her long, red hair behind her ear as she sees me.

Hey, girl! she says.

Hi, I mumble. We used to be best friends, but she’s barely spoken to me in years.

I didn’t know you were in chorus this year. She sits next to me. How have you been? She tilts her head in a sympathetic way.

A surge of panic runs through me. Does she know about Riverview? I’ve been...okay.

An African American girl, who I vaguely know, sits down next to her.

Cassie, look, Bianca says. Sylvia’s in chorus this year.

She’s talking about me as if I’m not sitting right here.

Cassie and I exchange awkward nods.

The bell rings, and Mr. King sits down at the piano. He makes all of us who are new to chorus stand and introduce ourselves. He hands out a syllabus and the sheet music to seven different songs we’ll be singing for the fall concert.

I stop listening the moment I see the flickering man.

He stands just outside the door. He’s wearing a black suit that looks almost old-fashioned. He has long, black hair tied in a ponytail, and he’s tall. His skin is so pale that it’s almost translucent, and he has breathtaking brown eyes. There are many imperfections in his face. His nose is a little pointed, and his lips seem slightly asymmetrical. He doesn’t look like everyone else. I am immediately drawn to him. He is strangely beautiful. He flickers in and out of focus like the flame of a candle—like they all do. My imaginary friends.

I can’t seem to pull my eyes from him. It’s not his unusual look; all the flickering people look alluring and odd. It’s the fact that he’s staring at me. He watches me intently, studying my face. I never make eye contact with anyone for this long, but I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from him as he stands motionless, looking at me with the same fascination.

They always appear to be different ages. Sometimes they look like teenagers. Sometimes they look older. I’ve seen quite a few who’ve had grey hair and wrinkles. I can never really tell. In some ways, this one looks like a student, maybe a senior. In other ways, he looks like he could be a teacher.

He stops flickering the more I stare at him, the more he stares back at me. He’s coming into focus, and now, he just looks like a real person. A three-dimensional, solid human being who is staring at me from outside of the chorus room. Why isn’t he acting shocked or horrified like all the other flickering people do when they see me staring at them?

I can feel goosebumps rising on my arms, and I get that feeling in my stomach. The one you get right as you soar down the first hill on a roller coaster. Powerless.

I notice Mr. King playing piano. I’m probably supposed to be doing something.

I glance over at Bianca’s sheet music and see that we’re singing Let’s Begin Again by John Ritter. I’ve never heard the song, but I know enough about sight-reading to make my way through it. I start to sing the alto part, but I freeze.

My voice sounds like someone else’s. It’s never sounded this good in my life. It’s a clear and perfect tone, and I don’t sound shaky or weak at all. Have I evolved into a better singer somehow? But last night I was singing harmonies with my dad and his band and my voice sounded just as quiet and unimpressive as usual. It doesn’t make sense. Am I imagining things? Am I hearing Bianca?

Mr. King stops us and works with the tenors on their part.

"Wow, Sylvia, I didn’t know you could sing like that," Bianca whispers.

I shrug, feeling the blood rush to my face. If I look up from my sheet music, will he still be staring at me? I glance up at him anyway.

He hasn’t moved. He’s still staring, only now he has a smile on his face. I notice his teeth are a little crooked. I look back down at my sheet music. Get it together.

Maybe he’s not a flickering person. Maybe he’s another teacher. Maybe he’s a senior and he’s ditching whatever class he’s supposed to be in. Maybe other people can see him, too. He isn’t flickering anymore, though I swear he was when I first saw him.

I lean toward Bianca. Hey...do you see that guy?

What guy?

Standing just outside the door? He doesn’t look like anyone else I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure why I added that last bit.

Who are you talking about? I don’t see anyone. Bianca looks puzzled.

Great. If she didn’t think there was something wrong with me before, she does now.

Alright, altos, let’s go over your part, Mr. King says. And then we’re singing again.

So, he is another one of my imaginary friends. But why is he staring at me? Why is he smiling every time I sing? Why isn’t he ignoring me like the rest of them do?

And what’s more, why is he making me feel like this? My heart is pounding, and it’s hard to breathe. The goosebumps are still covering my arms.

Sylvia, Mr. King asks, are you lost?

What?

Your face is really red. And you’re not singing. Are you alright?

Oh...I just...I’m feeling dizzy, I lie.

Do you need to see the nurse?

No, I just didn’t get much sleep last night. This part is not a lie.

Why don’t you sit down, Baker? Mr. King looks a little concerned.

Sometimes I get a judgmental speech from a teacher who assumes I’m on drugs. Because, of course, Dylan Baker’s daughter would be. But Mr. King has never been anything but kind to me.

I sneak another glance at my flickering stranger. He’s still staring at me. I swear, he hasn’t moved this whole time. I try not to look at him for the rest of class. I only fail a few times. Seriously, though, is it possible for someone to be so...attractive? I know everyone wouldn’t think he was attractive, but I’m finding it difficult to tear my eyes away from him. I try to memorize his features: his asymmetrical, round lips, his dark ponytail with a few stray strands falling around his face, and his brown eyes that are whirlpools inviting me to drown.

Maybe I’m so sleep deprived that it’s making me see things. Well, making me see things differently than I usually do. Okay, that sounds ridiculous. I focus on my breathing.

I realize it may be a little disconcerting to know I see people who aren’t really there, but this has happened to me my entire life. Dad used to say I just had a lot of imaginary friends. Anytime I ever tried to talk to them though, they always looked at me in horror.

So, I stopped trying. Now I just ignore them as much as possible.

But they aren’t usually so enthralling. He’s not real. He’s not real. He’s not real. I try to convince myself, but I don’t feel any better.

The bell rings.

You sure you’re feeling okay, Baker? Mr. King asks.

Yes, I’m okay. Like I said, I didn’t get much sleep last night.

Jamming out with your dad, I guess? He smiles.

Yeah, actually.

When are we going to hear your music?

I glance down at my shoes. Oh, I’ve never written any songs.

Well, I’m excited to have you in class this year. Maybe you’ll be inspired to write some. Mr. King flashes a wide grin.

He smiles more than anyone I’ve ever known. It does make me feel better, in spite of myself. Thanks, Mr. King.

I turn back to look at the beautiful flickering man, but he’s gone.

***

My next period is lunch. Last year, my routine was always sitting by myself, eating as fast as possible, and then going to the library, where I either read or wrote in my journal while listening to my iPod, Murphy. Every now and then, someone would try to sit with me. Usually it was some hipster guy trying to hit on me because they misread my social awkwardness for cool standoffishness. Or they thought they could score drugs. Once they realized I wasn’t cool or on drugs, they left me alone.

As I stand in line waiting to buy nachos, I can’t stop myself from obsessing over the maybe-flickering-maybe-not-flickering gorgeous man from earlier. Maybe my...hallucinations (I struggle to even think that word) are getting worse.

Maybe I need to tell Laura, my new therapist, about them. The flickering people. Maybe I need to be diagnosed as schizophrenic and start taking medicine. Maybe there really is something fundamentally wrong with me.

As much as I think that might be true, I don’t want to take medicine. I don’t want to stop feeling as much as I do, even though sometimes it seems out of control.

And in some ways, life would be a little lonely without my imaginary friends. I mean, I don’t actually believe they’re real, so where’s the danger in me enjoying their presence? Their striking, unusual appearance? They’re like beautiful ghosts. Or angels.

I pay for my nachos and sit down at the end of a table.

A Latino hipster who I kind of recognize sits down next to me. Sylvia, right?

Yeah. My reply comes out less polite than I mean it to, but I’m still distracted.

My name’s Travis. Travis Jones. I sing tenor in chorus. His brown eyes beam. They’re a much different brown than those of the flickering man. He’s wearing a black A Place to Bury Strangers t-shirt—I know vaguely that they’re a band, though I’ve never heard them—and red skinny jeans. His golden-brown skin looks perfect, almost like a model’s. His black hair is styled in a comb over and his bangs fall almost into his eyes, which are hidden behind red-rimmed glasses with no lenses. Woah, this guy tries way too hard.

Yeah, I reply in between nachos, you’re a senior, right?

Yeah, he answers. So, um, my older brother told me he saw you downtown at Smith’s Olde Bar, running sound, drinking a beer. I didn’t know they don’t card. Or do you have a fake?

I sigh. "I wasn’t drinking anything. And I don’t run the sound. Sometimes, I’ll just move things around if my dad has to go to the bathroom or something. My dad’s the sound guy and—"

But you were there? Travis is looking at me like I’m the coolest person he’s ever seen.

Yeah. Sometimes my dad sneaks me into shows when he’s working. No one’s supposed to know, though. He could get in trouble if anyone found out how old I really am.

Believe me, I won’t say anything, he says with a little laugh. I’m in a band, you know. We’re called The Red Lampposts. He looks at me as if I’m supposed to be impressed by this.

Cool.

I’m the singer, he adds. So, could you help us get a gig there?

Oh, um, my dad doesn’t really do booking and...

He pulls a CD from his backpack. Do you think you could give your dad our CD? It’s just three tracks.

I don’t know. I mean, they don’t usually book bands whose members are under 21. He looks disappointed, so I add, I’ll ask.

Cool. He gives me a boyish grin. We’re going to start shopping the demo around and try to get signed. I think our stuff is really, like, marketable, you know? I mean, it’s not, like, Jenny Treb or anything, but it has a certain—

Hey, Travis, can I ask you something? I interrupt him, realizing he could answer my question.

Sure.

In chorus today...did you happen to see someone standing outside the door, listening to us? A guy with dark hair? Maybe another senior?

Um...no. He looks puzzled. No one was standing outside the door.

Oh, I thought I saw...I’m sure it was just the lighting playing tricks on me. I got, like, no sleep last night, I offer lamely.

Right, I understand. What were you doing? Last night, I mean? he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I was up late jamming out with my dad and his band. I realize I sound defensive.

Really? That’s awesome. He seems genuinely impressed. A group of his friends walk by.

Hey, Travis! one of them says.

Travis stands up to join them. Before he walks away, he turns back to me. Good talking to you, Sylvia.

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