Free Dark Muse by David Simms

from
time to time. “Did you see? Did you see his face?”
    “No.” She shook her head. “Just that freaky
hood. I think that was scarier. Did you?”
    “Nope,” the sax man replied.
    “I didn’t, either,” Otis said, his fingers
white on the drum sticks.
    They waited for Muddy to speak up.
    “I did. I saw his face.”
     

Chapter Eight

    They left class shaken—none more than
Muddy—but things had to be done. Any plans they had to pursue the
person in their collective dreams had to be put on hold, at least
for the moment. Set up and auditions for the Battle of the Bands
was scheduled right after school.
    “How am I supposed to practice now with that
image in my mind?” Otis swirled his sticks, but without the usual
finesse.
    All of the bands were set up on the
auditorium stage, many sharing amps and drum kits, much to the
chagrin of the pickier musicians. Yet with only one PA system, they
had to get along for this one day. Each group was allowed to play
two songs. The Accidentals had yet to decide on which ones they
were going to play.
    Muddy shook his head, unwilling to meet
anyone’s gaze. “Just play. Pretend we’re in the basement. Just
focus.”
    “Okay,” Otis replied. “Okay.”
    As they watched one lousy band after another,
butchering cover songs to the point where even the student advisors
couldn’t decipher what they were hearing, the memories of the
previous night faded enough so that the group could concentrate on
the deal at hand.
    When it came time for Bentley’s group to gear
up, the butterflies in Muddy’s stomach grew rusty barbs on their
wings and spit fire through his insides. Bentley was the school’s
cover boy and thought life revolved around him. He believed that
because he had good looks, money, and a hot car, he was better than
any of his peers. Muddy felt like a one-fingered, lobotomized
accountant compared to his nemesis’ speedy, fleet-fingered runs.
True, not much soul existed in Bentley’s flashy playing, but no one
seemed to care. A good-looking guy playing fast guitar would
usually win over the high school crowd, especially the girls. Plus,
Bentley could sing. Girls like Chelsea and Porshe fell for that
every time. Muddy wondered if Poe ever would.
    Even though six-stringing seemed to be
embedded in his genes, his vocal cords must've had some connection
to the president of the Tone-Deaf Club. Thankfully, Poe’s voice
made up for any torture he inflicted on anyone’s ears.
    Bentley’s singing fell way short of Poe’s
angelic style, but when you were popular, audiences forgave just
about anything. He might as well have sung the theme song to
Barney. Most of the student body would have still applauded.
    They launched into an up-tempo version of a
classic Van Halen song (of course, classic rock had rushed like a
tsunami through American high schools in recent years, thanks to
Guitar Hero and other games). Simple to pull off, technically, but
with that band, it was never about technique, but about soul and
rhythm.
    As Bentley rambled toward the end of the
song, the waiting foursome readied themselves. Muddy wondered if
the others ever felt those same rusty butterflies.
    “Hey, where’s Brian?” asked Corey.
    He must have given Corey a dumb stare in
return because Corey slapped the back of his head. “Our bassist du
jour? Does he know the audition is today?”
    Sighing, Muddy thought about their
four-stringed situation. Most bands employed a full-time bass
player, usually someone who couldn’t handle guitar, a friend who’d
do anything to be part of the band, or a singer who couldn’t sing
while playing. Few these days actually loved to play the
instrument. Even fewer could play it well. Nobody wanted to be Flea
from the Red Hot Chili Peppers anymore.
    His dad called their problem the “Star Trek”
situation. The teen had never watched the show, but the writer said
that when the spaceship explored a strange new planet, they sent
out a scout team to scour the