The Muse Chronicles: Books 1 - 3: The Muse Chronicles

By Sara Crawford

What could you create if you fell in love with a Muse?

16-year-old musician, Sylvia Baker, has always been different. She's the only one who can see the "flickering people." When she sees a gorgeous flickering man named Vincent, she learns that they are Muses.

With his help, she finds herself creating exquisite songs that she loves almost as much as songs by her favorite bands--Radiohead, M83, and The Black Keys--and she is falling in love in a way she never knew was possible. While trying to maintain her newfound friendships and her band, she falls deeper into the world of the Muses.

When the original Greek Muses wake to find a world in which the internet has given everyone the tools to be an artist, a battle between traditional and new methods of creation ensues. As Sylvia discovers how she is connected to the world of the Muses, she learns that this war may put her music, her love, her very life at stake.

Book 1 of this young adult urban fantasy romance was a semi-finalist in the YA Books Central 2017 Awards in the "All the Feels" category

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sara Crawford
• Release date: Jul 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393829409

Sara Crawford

Sara Crawford is an author, a playwright, and a musician. Ever since she was five years old, she has lived for art in one form or another. This manifested itself as writing plays at age eight and convincing (forcing) the neighborhood kids to perform them on her driveway, auditioning for Atlanta Ballet's The Nutcracker three years in a row before finally landing a small role as a toy soldier, starting an all-girl band in high school, writing and producing her own plays and short films, and most recently, writing a YA trilogy about a girl who falls in love with her Muse (THE MUSE CHRONICLES). Sara has been an actress, a singer, a playwright, a songwriter, a guitarist, a keyboard player, a poet, a screenwriter, and an author of both fiction and non-fiction. She graduated in 2008 from Kennesaw State University with a B.A. in English and in 2012 from the University of New Orleans with an M.F.A. in Creative Writing (emphasis in Playwriting). She has taught creative writing courses for Southern New Hampshire University, and she has been in numerous bands in Atlanta, including Pocket the Moon. She also loves to talk about books, music, and writing on her YouTube channel and talks art and creativity on her new podcast, Find Creative Expression. For more information visit http://saracrawford.net or https://www.youtube.com/user/saracrawford.

Book preview

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 incredibly rich and full. I throw a Buddy Guy record on the record player and as it blasts out of the PA system, I play along with the bluesy guitar solos. I close my eyes and let all my emotions flow into Jimmy.

When I am listening to the blues like this, especially when I’m playing guitar, it feels as if I am timeless. I feel like there is a purpose for all my sadness. I let it pour out of me. I don’t think. I become the notes vibrating from sweet Jimmy into the amp and out into the air. And that’s all there is.

I almost forget about him altogether. The dark-haired flickering man. Almost.

In between songs, I open my eyes.

He stands in the vocal booth, watching me. I can see him more clearly now. He has the most unique face I’ve ever seen. He is unconventionally gorgeous. My entire body tenses up. We stare at each other.

I stand up. Please, tell me who you are...what you are...

He stares at me with incredulity in his eyes. I don’t understand. How can you see me? His voice is so quiet it’s almost inaudible.

I note that he has a British accent. My body is rigid. This is the first time I’ve heard one of them speak. I get a better look at him. It seems impossible that I could’ve thought he was a teacher or even a student before. How could he be a part of the regular world? How could he be anything but one of my imaginary friends?

I’m sorry, he says. There is so much compassion in his face that I almost can’t even be angry as he flickers once more and disappears.

I’m sitting on the amp in a daze. Buddy Guy is still on, but I’m not playing along anymore. Jimmy lies in my arms as if to say, Why are you talking to imaginary strangers when you could be plucking my sweet strings? But I just sit here. Staring into the vocal booth.

Come back. Please come back.

Sylvie? my dad calls from upstairs.

I turn off the music and place Jimmy back on his stand. Hey, Dad, I call to him as I walk upstairs. I was just playing Jimmy. Hope you don’t mind. I try to make my voice sound normal.

Doesn’t he sound great? He’s practically drooling. He sets down his bass in the living room and sits down on the couch.

Were you teaching? I ask, trying to look casual.

Yeah, I picked up a couple of new students on Mondays. This college kid who’s learning guitar and a teenage girl who’s learning bass. The girl was decent. College dude needs some help. How was the first day?

Pretty good. I can’t decide if this is a lie or not. I’m in chorus this year. With Mr. King.

Cool. You gonna start singing?

I shrug.

Dad turns on the TV and goes to the kitchen to grab a banana. I look a lot like him. We have the same green eyes. He has a full mop of thick, curly, brown hair, though. My hair is similar to my mother’s—straight and thin, almost stringy.

How late were you guys up last night? I ask, trying to make conversation. Anything to take my mind off him.

Everyone passed out an hour or so after you went to bed. That was pretty fun, though. You sounded good on Charlie.

Charlie’s my drum kit. Dad understands why I name my instruments. He names all his, too, like Jimmy. Thanks, Dad.

One thing I love about my dad is how he keeps things pretty normal, even after everything that’s happened—Mom leaving, his addiction, my depression, his trips to rehab, my trips to mental health institutions. We never talk about any of that.

Why don’t you put together a band? There’s gotta be some other kids at school who could play with you, especially if you start singing.

He’s been encouraging me to start a band for a while now. I don’t know. I just like playing by myself or jamming out with you guys every now and then.

Some of my students are getting pretty decent now. There’s this one guy who’s only a couple of years older than you. You guys could play The Warehouse and a few other all-age venues, and you can practice here as long as you practice on different days than Midnight Walk. You know, I might even be able to get you in at Smith’s...

Once my dad gets going on an idea, he doesn’t stop. His mention of Smith’s reminds me of Travis’s CD, but I decide I should listen to it myself before I give it to him.

I’ve already got all the gear you’d need, and I could even record an album for you. And—

I don’t know, Dad, I don’t really want people to hear me right now, you know? I’m not that great of a musician.

How can you possibly say that? You’re ten times better than I was at your age, on multiple instruments!

I nod, trying to get my dad off the subject. I don’t want to have this argument again. I think I’m going to go upstairs and get started on my homework.

They gave you homework on the first day?

No, but I wanted to start reading this book for my Greek mythology class.

Alright, try not to stay up too late tonight.

I won’t.

My little room is a shrine to music. So many posters cover the walls that I can barely see any of the dark green paint underneath. Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead, Sigur Ros, The Beatles, Florence and the Machine, even a signed Black Keys poster. I take the book out of my backpack and read one sentence before I put it down on my desk, unable to focus.

I don’t want to think, so I turn on Grace by Jeff Buckley and lie down on my bed. I close my eyes and just listen, as if Jeff Buckley is still alive. As if he is a real person singing to me, whispering in my ear. And yet, the more I listen, the more I see the flickering man’s face. I don’t know why I keep thinking of him that way. He isn’t even flickering anymore. When I saw him in the vocal booth, he looked perfectly...solid.

I shut out the thoughts and let Jeff Buckley’s voice carry me into a dream.

* * *

I must have passed out really early last night because it’s 5:00 in the morning when I look at the clock. Grace is still playing on repeat from my computer. I sigh and throw off my blanket. I take Travis’s CD and put it in my computer, uploading it to my library. What I really need is a long shower.

I walk into the bathroom. I press play on the CD player—not even sure what is in there. As I stand underneath the hot water, Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd starts playing. It feels appropriate to start my day with this album as David Gilmour reminds me to "breathe in the air."

I get dressed and eat breakfast in a daze, trying not to think about anything. Before I walk to the bus, I make sure to update Murphy. This is what I need. New music. The only thing that will distract me from how shaken up I feel is listening to songs I haven’t heard before. Travis only gave me three, but that’s better than nothing.

Sometimes Leo and Jake (my dad’s bandmates) will ask me why I still use this iPod instead of just putting my music on my phone. I guess I could, but Dad gave me this iPod when I turned ten, loaded up with all his favorite music. I’ve been adding my own selections ever since. It’s not just a gadget; it’s my best friend. I mean, it even has a name. I’m going to use Murphy until he stops working.

Besides, I don’t want to be listening to an amazing song and have it interrupted by a phone call. Not that anyone ever calls me.

I put my headphones on as I walk to the bus stop. The first track starts, and I find myself bobbing my head and doing my half-dance, half-walk to the upbeat guitar riff and the drums. As soon as the vocals start, my entire opinion of Travis changes.

His voice is pure passion and emotion, and it enraptures me. He almost sounds like Jeff Buckley. The lyrics are telling a story about a house that sits on a beach. This is why I love music—when the goosebumps start and I get chills all over my body, when my spirits are lifted, when a beat makes me feel alive. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

I can feel the drums pulsing as if they are inside of my bloodstream. Drumming as if from deep inside of me, deep underneath my skin. I feel that rush of excitement that can only come from love at first sound. The only thing that beats this is playing this kind of music with other musicians. I imagine myself playing this beat on Charlie. I can’t help but grin.

The next track is a ballad. It starts with just piano and Travis singing. He’s singing so powerfully about unrequited love. The piano drops out and his voice lingers on one soulful high note. Then the drums explode along with the bass and much more forceful piano that echoes the chords he was playing at the beginning.

Hot damn, Murphy, I whisper, almost breathless. This is spectacular. I’m speechless as I realize I know the person who made this song. He had a conversation with me yesterday. I feel giddy.

The third track is more upbeat than the second, but not quite as upbeat as the first. It features guitar again instead of piano. The third song is by far the catchiest with a vocal melody that is sure to be stuck in my head for the rest of the day. By the time it’s over, the bus is almost to school. I don’t even remember getting on.

Today I feel good for the first time in months. I want to laugh for no particular reason. I feel alive. Now I’m thinking about Travis in a much different light. How did he write these songs? How does he have so much emotion in his voice? How great would it be to see them live?

I feel a little guilty for dismissing Travis as some annoying hipster yesterday. Maybe he’ll understand me and my love for music. Maybe he’s like me and my dad. Maybe we’re supposed to be friends.

I listen to the tracks again as I walk into school and down the hall. I decide the second track, the ballad, April, is my favorite. I manage to pull my headphones off just before I walk into homeroom.

When I find a new album or song I love, I’ll play it over and over and over again. I once listened to track four on the ( ) album by Sigur Ros on repeat for a whole weekend. Nonstop. When I was sleeping, when I was eating, when I was in the shower. I couldn’t stop.

This is what I’m doing with this three-track demo. And somehow, the more I listen to it, the more I think of the flickering man I saw in chorus yesterday. The notes and the melodies remind me of the magic I saw in his eyes.

* * *

History and algebra are unbearable. I spend the entire two periods trying to pay attention, but I keep hearing Travis’s songs in my head. Sometimes it’s almost physically painful when I’m not able to listen to music.

When the bell rings after second period, I rush to the chorus room.

Travis walks in with one of his friends. He looks a little more normal today. He’s still wearing skinny jeans and a band t-shirt, but he doesn’t have on the unnecessary glasses. His hair also looks less styled. Maybe he’s not trying too hard after all and I was just being judgmental. He’s laughing about something with his friend. When his eyes find me, he gets quiet.

I suddenly feel weird. It’s as if I have heard something incredibly intimate from him. I feel embarrassed for being so in love with his three-track demo after so few listens. I try to downplay it.

Travis, I call to him. I listened to your demo.

Did you? His face lights up. This is Ryan, by the way. He plays bass in the band.

The short Korean boy gives me a little nod.

I’m Sylvia, I say to Ryan. Yeah, it was...well, I thought it sounded...awesome. Awesome? Couldn’t I have found a better word?

Really? That’s so cool, Travis beams.

Yeah, I’m definitely going to ask my Dad about trying to get you guys in at Smith’s.

They high five each other.

Hey, girl! Bianca is demanding my attention. She throws her arms around me in an awkward hug that I’m not expecting.

Oh, hey, I say.

Hey, Travis! Bianca exclaims, ignoring Ryan.

They smile and acknowledge her.

I stare at the door. I can’t help but wonder if he’ll show up again today. Truthfully, I haven’t stopped thinking about him since I first saw him. And when I try to distract myself with music—listening to Jeff Buckley, playing guitar, listening to Travis’s demo—it only makes me think of him more. I’m not sure why.

That sounds great. Do you want to come, Sylvia? Bianca asks.

I’m sorry, what?

We have a show coming up at The Warehouse. Travis holds out a flyer to Bianca.

I notice her hand lingers on his a little longer than necessary as she reaches to take it.

Sure. I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. I’m actually ecstatic about the possibility of hearing these songs live.

We’ll totally be there. Bianca beams at them.

Yeah, Cassie says. It sounds fun. Her tone is nice enough, but I can’t help but notice the slight frown on her face. Does she not like them?

Sweet! Ryan says.

Am I really going to get to see him play those incredible songs live? I wonder how he was inspired to write songs like April. A part of me wonders if I’ll ever find the inspiration to write songs like that.

Mr. King starts class, and Ryan and Travis rush to their seats in the tenor section.

"Oh my God, he’s so cute," Bianca whispers.

I guess, Cassie mutters, crossing her arms.

We start working on Let’s Begin Again. As I sing, I realize my voice is not the strong, solid voice from yesterday, but my normal weak, shaky voice. I’m disappointed. Was yesterday a fluke? Maybe the sleep deprivation really was making me think I sounded better than I did.

Then I notice her.

She’s tall with tan skin and dark hair, and she looks like Latina model. And she is unmistakably flickering. She looks as if she’s running late, rushing into the room. When she sees Travis, she smiles and walks over to stand behind him. She places a hand on his shoulder. She doesn’t appear to realize that I can see her. I’m trying not to stare.

Could Travis know about the flickering people, too? Is he better at hiding it than I am?

My head is spinning. Should I ask him about this woman? I decide against it for now. If Travis can’t see her, he’ll think I’m crazy. And somehow, the thought of the person who created those breathtaking songs thinking I’m crazy makes me feel miserable.

Before I know it, chorus is over and I’m making my way to the lunch room by myself. I’m standing in line to get a sub sandwich, thinking about them. The flickering people. The Latina woman I saw with Travis, my gorgeous British stranger. Am I seeing them more often now?

I get my sandwich and try to find a table. I look around the lunch room at all the other high school students, chatting about normal high school things. A group of girls at a table in front of me are comparing shades of nail polish. A couple at another table is practically making out in the lunch room. Some football players are talking about the team they get to play for their first game.

It feels like I’m in a different world than they all are. They don’t see strange imaginary people. They don’t spend time in mental health hospitals. They don’t sit in their Dad’s van in the garage, trying to take their own life. Then again, do any of these people feel what I feel when I hear Jeff Buckley or Pink Floyd or Beck...or even Travis’s band?

The mention of my name pulls me out of my thoughts as I sit down. I notice Travis and Ryan sitting a few tables down. They don’t see me.

Do you think she’ll hook us up? Ryan asks.

I don’t know, Travis replies.

If anyone can help us find some, though, I definitely think it’s her. Did you see her yesterday? She was totally on something, Ryan laughs. "Everyone knows about how her mom OD’ed, and her dad’s been to rehab, like, three times. Didn’t you hear? It’s all over school that she spent a month in rehab this summer."

I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. I can feel the disappointment. Is this the same person who created the songs I’ve fallen in love with? I wrap up my sub sandwich, shove it in my backpack, and rush to the library.

I don’t acknowledge them when Travis calls my name. I just keep walking, looking straight ahead.

THREE

Vincent

Vincent followed Sylvia as she walked into the library. He crept behind a shelf of books, peering through the shelves as Sylvia sat at a table, unwrapping a sandwich.

He felt silly. She was the only artist who had ever seen him before he wanted them to. He wasn’t used to hiding.

He watched her as she ate. There was an angry scowl on her face. If only he could hear her thoughts. He had been so far from her at lunch that he hadn’t heard what had gotten her upset. He wished that he could approach her. He longed to talk to her. There were so many things he wanted to ask her.

Maybe he should give this up. Maybe it was too hard this way. He didn’t want to be selfish with Sylvia. Maybe he should walk away.

He remembered when he first saw Sylvia. Urania had found her and shown her to him. Urania knew that there was something about Sylvia that would keep Vincent here. Of course she knew.

The images had flooded his mind: Sylvia playing drums and smiling, Sylvia listening to She’s Leaving Home by The Beatles with oversized headphones, lying on her bedroom floor as a single teardrop drifted down her cheek, Sylvia watching her father’s band and lifting her arms up to sing along. Vincent could feel the goosebumps rising on her arms.

The sight of Sylvia brought Vincent to his knees. He had never seen anyone so in love with music, with Art. She filled him with hope, and then he knew. He knew he had to find her, to Inspire her. That had saved him. It was enough. She gave him a reason to exist. Because if an artist like that existed—not even aware of the potential she held inside of her—then he had to exist. This was what he was meant to do, after all. And no one had been as worthy of Inspiration as Sylvia.

He vowed that he wouldn’t be selfish. He promised himself he would stay hidden like this. He wouldn’t interfere with her life. He would simply Inspire her.

He closed his eyes and thought of a melody, sending it in her direction. His entire body felt electric as waves of bliss coursed through him.

FOUR

Detention

I eat my sandwich in the library, feeling embarrassed, awkward, and angry. I’m angry at myself for loving Travis’s music when he’s such a—

I can’t finish the thought because a new melody pops into my head out of nowhere. I’ve never heard this before, but it’s elegant and charming and haunting. It sounds familiar, yet new. I have the urge to play it on piano, which is odd considering I don’t really play piano. This melody sounds like drowning with relief. I can feel it. I find myself humming along. Where’s my pen? Maybe I can figure out the notes in my head and jot them down.

Ms. Baker, you’re not supposed to eat in the library.

Principal Jenkins, a man who has to be about ninety, stands over my table, frowning at me. Of course.

Sorry. I wrap the sandwich back up in its plastic bag and put it in my backpack, annoyed that this interaction has made the melody go away.

Ms. Baker, do you have any regard for rules? He squints at me, looking angry with his beady little eyes.

I said I was sorry, I almost spit out at him.

I can see why you have no respect for authority, given who your father is. Who your mother was.

What is that supposed to mean? I can feel the rage boiling over.

Shhhh! a girl who is studying hisses at me.

Ms. Baker, you’re being rude and disrespectful. Principal Jenkins pulls out a pad and scribbles something on it. I can see beads of sweat forming on his bald head.

I’m sorry about the sandwich, I snap.

I’m giving you detention! he says. He tears off his slip of paper and hands it to me.

"Detention? Just for eating a damn sandwich?"

You broke the rules and now you’re using disrespectful language! You’re just like your parents!

Okay, asshole! Everyone in the library stares at me. Principal Jenkins frowns. He writes something else on his pad, tears a sheet off, and hands it to me without speaking.

Great. Afternoon detention for the rest of the week.

Principal Jenkins was Principal when Dad was a student here—when he dropped out of high school at age seventeen after knocking up the homeschooled teenage whore.

I stare at him, infuriated as he shuffles off. I can’t stand that man. He has this idea that I’m just living like a rock star all the time.

Sylvia! When I spin around, Travis is behind me. I saw you rush off to the library. Everything okay?

I don’t have any drugs, Travis, I snap.

Whoa. What are you talking about?

I overheard you guys. Talking about me. I know I’m a little weird, but I don’t do drugs, and I don’t know where you can get any. And I wasn’t in rehab this summer. I was...somewhere else. The words tumble out of me before I can stop them.

Oh. He is quiet. I can see his cheeks turning red. Sorry about that. Didn’t you hear me telling Ryan he was being an idiot?

No, I mumble.

A girl shushes us.

Sorry Ryan is so lame, Travis whispers. I just...I think we could be friends, you know? He grins, his brown eyes shining.

Sorry, I say. I didn’t mean to yell at you. It’s just that I...well, I don’t have a lot of friends. At least not my age anyway.

The same girl shushes us again.

Do I need to give your friend detention too, Ms. Baker? Principal Jenkins has returned. Of course. Mr. Jones. How appropriate. He looks at Travis with a new kind of scorn.

We were just leaving, I say.

Good. I know you aren’t in here doing actual homework.

Why are you being so mean to her? Travis asks him. Principal Jenkins scowls.

That’s it! he takes out his yellow pad, scribbles on it, tears the sheet off and gives it to Travis. You get detention, too!

What the hell? I didn’t do anything! Travis says. I shoot Principal Jenkins an angry look.

Come on, Travis, I say, still staring right at the principal. I turn on my heel and storm out of the library.

* * *

In Greek Mythology, Ms. Bolton is giving us an overview on all the gods and goddesses. It’s a relatively straightforward discussion, but she makes it entertaining. When the bell rings, I find myself feeling disappointed.

Where’s your detention? Travis asks.

I frown. I was so engrossed in the class, I completely forgot about my detention. I look at my slip. The football field.

Yeah, mine too.

When we make our way to the field, I can see Coach Hubert getting ready for football practice.

What are we supposed to do? I’ve never had detention before.

Sometimes Coach Hubert makes us pick up trash or do paperwork for the football team, but sometimes, he gets so preoccupied with practice that he forgets about the people who have detention, Travis says.

Had detention with Coach Hubert a lot?

You could say that.

Do you get in trouble a lot? I ask as we sit down in the stands.

Travis just shrugs with a cocky smirk.

The football players assemble on the field. Coach Hubert hasn’t even acknowledged me, Travis, or the three other kids who have detention. I pull out Lily and start writing.

Are you writing a story? Travis asks.

No. It’s just Li—my journal. I don’t know him well enough to tell him about the names.

He nods. I continue writing.

Do you write stories? he asks.

I sigh, shutting Lily. I’m clearly not going to get any journaling done.

No. I’m not a writer, really. I just like to write down things I’m feeling and thinking and stuff that—

YOU IDIOTS! Coach yells at the team. I laugh, grateful that my rambling was interrupted.

So...is he even going to talk to us? I change the subject.

Just make sure he signs your slip at the end, and you’ll be good. Travis laughs.

We sit in silence for a moment. I feel the warmth of the sunlight as it emerges from behind a cloud.

Sorry I got you into this, I say to Travis. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Principal Jenkins detests me, and anyone who is associating with me is automatically horrible, too.

It’s all good, Travis says as he colors on his book bag with a black Sharpie. What did you even do to get detention? 

I called him an asshole.

Travis bursts into laughter. I try to remain serious, but I can’t help cracking a smile.

Shut up! It’s not funny! I say, but I erupt into giggles anyway.

Our laughter dies down, and we are silent for a moment.

Can I ask you something? he asks.

Sure... I am hesitant.

Well, Bianca said you actually were at Riverview this summer. I’m not trying to pry or anything. I really just wanted to...I mean, are you okay? There is sincerity in his voice that I can’t place. I’m a little speechless. How did Bianca find out I had gone to Riverview?

I... I try to find words. Yes, I was at Riverview for depression. They prescribed antidepressants for me. I haven’t been taking them lately, though.

Did it help?

Not really. I don’t quite understand why, but I add, It was the music that saved my life.

He looks at me. What do you mean?

I sigh. I guess I am telling this story now.

"It was about a week ago. I was sitting in my dad’s van in the garage, and I started the engine. I sat there, writing in my journal, crying, listening to music, waiting for my crippling sadness to go away. It felt like the only way to escape.

I had Mur—my iPod on, and when ‘Hurt’ by Nine Inch Nails ended, a song I vaguely recognized came on. I had forgotten it was on shuffle, and I have some music on it that I’ve never even listened to. I recognized the singer was Morrissey, the lead singer of The Smiths. It was one of the albums Dad put on there.

I look down at my feet, afraid I won’t finish this story if I look up at him.

In the song, he was pleading with someone not to take their life. I listened to the whole song, and then all I could do was laugh. How could I kill myself when that particular song came on at that exact moment? It was as if the actual song was telling me not to end my life, as if some sort of God of Music wanted to save me.

After a moment of thoughtful silence, he asks, What was the song?

It was called ‘Angel, Angel, Down We Go Together’.

We are quiet again. I watch the football players, avoiding eye contact. I’m not very good at eye contact. I’m starting to feel bad about how I yelled at him earlier, even though I already apologized.

I really did love your songs, I admit, "like...a lot." The words sound insignificant. How can I tell him that his music gave me goosebumps? How can I tell them that it made me feel exhilarated and melancholy and soulful and longing all at once? How can I tell him how it made me feel jealous in a way I’d never been jealous of another musician before?

Thank you, he says.

There’s so much more I want to ask him, especially about April. I want to know why he sounds so emotional during that song. I want to know so many things. I want to ask him if he can see the flickering people...

So, where did you guys record the demo? is the only question I can manage.

Ryan’s dad paid for us to use this guy’s studio downtown.

The quality sounds excellent. I can’t wait to hear what you sound like live.

He sits up a little straighter.

We continue to talk about music, talking about our favorite bands and what albums we’re listening to. He says that he likes all my favorite bands...Radiohead, Pink Floyd, Jeff Buckley, The Black Keys. We talk about our favorite TV shows, our favorite films, our favorite actors. I tell him he has to watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and he tells me to watch the latest thriller starring Matthew Morris. He tells me I need to watch Game of Thrones, and I tell him he needs to watch Once Upon a Time.

When detention is over, I approach Coach Hubert with my slip, and he signs it without comment.

Do you want a ride home? Travis asks as we approach his blue Corolla.

No, I think I’m just going to walk.

Don’t you live near Church Street? One of those residential roads around there?

Um... I am flabbergasted.

Bianca told me she lived near you, he explains quickly. I promise I’m not a stalker or anything.

Oh...no, I didn’t think... I feel so awkward right now. Well, anyway, I don’t mind walking.

Come on, that’s at least a few miles away. Let me drive you.

He opens the passenger door, and I nod, not really wanting to ride with a crazy teenage driver, but not really wanting to walk three miles or however far it is either. He cleans off some clothes and trash from the passenger seat, and I get in the car, trying not to worry. I explain to him how to get to my house. He nods, and turns some music on with his phone. Neon Trees. I feel better as he rolls the windows down. 

For a moment, I forget about everything that has bothered me today. I forget to be worried about Travis and his driving. I can feel the wind as it blows my hair into my face and Neon Trees plays so loud that it makes me feel alive, and I feel like I belong here.

It’s an odd feeling. One that I’m not used to.

Travis pulls into my driveway and turns the music down. I grab my bag from the back seat. He looks over at Bianca’s house down the street.

Do you know if Bianca’s home? he asks.

I’m not sure. Her car isn’t there so probably not.

He nods.

Are you two dating? I ask.

No, not yet, he says with a smirk.

Gotcha.

I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.

See ya. I am pretty casual considering I plan on going inside and listening to his demo on repeat, which is exactly what I do.

* * *

It’s finally Friday. I’m heading to my last afternoon detention. The football team doesn’t have practice, though, so we get to clean up the cafeteria. Travis only had detention the one day so I don’t have anyone to talk to.

The week has gone by in a blur. I’ve listened to The Red Lampposts’ three songs so many times that they are ingrained in my head. I know all the lyrics now. I still try to act nonchalant around Travis, though, but I am in awe of his songwriting, his singing, his guitar playing. In awe...and a little jealous.

Although, I have been coming up with my own little melodies. They keep popping up in my mind. The one I heard in the library has been recurring, and I even recorded myself humming that one on my phone so I wouldn’t forget it.

I haven’t seen the beautiful British flickering man at all since that time in the studio. Each time I go down there to play guitar, I halfway expect him to show up, but he never does. I am starting to think he’s going to be like every other flickering person I see briefly and then never again. This thought makes me sad in a way that I can’t explain. I have seen that Latina flickering chick that hangs around Travis repeatedly, but I don’t think he can see her. I haven’t asked him about it. I keep thinking about asking her about the British flickering man, but I haven’t found a good moment to talk to her.

She almost looks related to Travis. Maybe she is a dead relative. Maybe they really are ghosts. I try not to think too much about it.

Chorus and Greek Mythology are my favorite classes. I’m finding that I really enjoy singing. I feel like my voice just keeps getting better. I honestly don’t know what happened. I wasn’t this good of a singer six months ago or even one month ago, but now it sounds lovely. I’m not complaining.

Greek Mythology is interesting, and Ms. Bolton makes it entertaining. I get caught up in the stories about Zeus and Aphrodite and Apollo and all the other gods. They’re all so remarkable.

Bianca has been talking to me a lot more. She even asked me if I wanted to hang out tonight. I think she probably wanted to hang out with Travis and was looking for a group outing to invite him to. Either way, we are apparently all going to the movies tonight: Travis, Bianca, Cassie, Derek—the nineteen-year-old drummer of The Posts—and Ryan. I’m not thrilled about hanging out with Ryan, but Travis claims he set the record straight about me not being on drugs and I should give him a chance.

I guess I’m a little excited about going out with everyone tonight, even though it’s just the movies. I never do anything normal like that.

After detention, I listen to The Red Lampposts demo again on the walk home.

When I’m obsessing over a song, it’s like it crawls under my skin, like it has infected me. I can’t think of anything else. I have to keep playing it over and over and over again until I move on and become obsessed with the next thing. If I’m obsessing over something like Radiohead