Dark Muse Read Free

place to hang out, a place to escape the
crap from the Bentleys and Vinces and ignorant teachers who thought
the group stood a step below them on Darwin’s ladder.
    They waited until the rest of the class left
the acoustically perfect room. It was a haven for anyone who loved
music, either to perform, or to simply listen and enjoy peace from
the chaos outside its door.
    The bushy-haired man bustling behind the mass
of piano, lyres, music stands and at least three trees worth of
sheet music, was a true genius of disorganization. The music
director of their high school, Mr. Satriani was always working on
some symphony that never saw the light of day, never ceased to be
working on some creative endeavor. Sometimes that endeavor meant
their little band, with whom he spent countless hours honing their
skills and even assisted in forming the chaotic, cacophonic
concoction that was Poe, Corey, Otis, an occasional bassist and
him.
    “Hey,” Mr. Santriani crooned, dropping a few
sheets of scribbled staves. “It’s the next big illegal download
superstars! How are “The Accidentals” doing? Need help with a new
song?”
    Muddy’s mouth opened to speak, but only stale
air burst forth.
    Poe stepped up to the plate to save his butt,
as always. “Nope, no new song. We need something a little more
important.”
    “Well, I guess big brother’s helping plenty
on the musical end now. No need for this old guy to bring you to
celebrity status. Maybe he rubbed some of his wild mojo on you,
gave you a smidge of his skills. Maybe—”
    “Maybe he’s friggin’ missing!” Otis said.
Okay, the silence was officially broken.
    If the man heard correctly, he didn’t show
it. He didn’t move a muscle, nor did his face register the
slightest emotion.
    “Satch,” Poe yelled, calling Mr. Satriani by
the nickname they'd given him. “Did you hear Muddy?”
    Mr. Satriani simply picked up the papers and
went about rearranging them on the piano. “I heard. Did you check
the police station? Vince’s shack? How about Iron?”
    Muddy felt himself tense. Zack wasn’t bad. He
just wasn’t handling things well.
    “We checked everywhere,” Poe said, saving
Otis from a suspension.
    Mr. Satriani wrinkled his face. “He
wouldn’t…”
    Muddy nodded. “I saw what happened.”
    The man knotted his brows.
    “Well, Mr. Rivers. What did you see?
Where did you see Zack go?” Sometimes Mr. Satriani suffered
from verbal diarrhea. Many a time, someone in the band wanted to
shove Imodium down his throat.
    “I don’t know,” Muddy answered, feeling the
choke of the first tear. “I have no idea.”
    * * * *
    After listening to the watered down version
of the previous night’s events, sans the disappearing act behind
the invisible curtain, their teacher and mentor, whom they counted
on for guidance in most of life’s endeavors, sat on the piano
bench, dumbfounded.
    “What do you think, Satch?” Poe asked Mr.
Satriani. “There’s gotta be a plausible reason for what happened,
right?”
    “I just don’t know, honestly.” Mr. Satriani
looked sad, as though he understood, until they asked the key
question.
    “Just what are the crossroads? Last
night I Googled it and found some legend about musicians selling
their souls at a crossroads in Memphis.”
    No answer.
    “Right?” Muddy tried to keep his voice from
breaking.
    He looked past Mr. Satriani, into the field
beyond the windows.
    They would’ve believed him if eye contact had
been made, as Mr. Satriani was one of the few people who treated
them as equals. He never even once mentioned the words “special,”
“learning disabled” or worse. But this time, he spoke through them, as if his cat sat before him begging for a
treat.
    “So you don’t know the stories?” Muddy knew
he’d lost his teacher’s attention, but for Zack, he persisted.
    “No, I don’t. I’m sorry.” Mr. Satriani shoved
some papers into his bag and grabbed his keys. “I have to leave
now. See you