School dragged by on Monday as though time insisted on becoming Muddy’s newest enemy. From the moment he stepped through the yawning jaws of Roosevelt High, minutes turned to molasses through an hourglass. He knew he wouldn’t get a chance during the day to speak to his band, “The Accidentals”, about his brother’s strange disappearance. The story would have to hold until practice. His anxiety boiled, his arms clenched tight to his sides as he walked the hallways. Of all the days that he needed things to glide by, the elements of fate threw him a curveball whenever he turned around. Right as he headed to lunch, they smacked him right in the forehead with a doozy.
“Hey, retard!”
Great. The town’s biggest dealer is talking to me.
The moment froze as he turned to face the six-foot-two, ghost-like bully and his buddies. Muddy didn’t take drugs and this guy knew it, but ever since their mother died, Zack sometimes did. His brother swore the stuff helped him “connect,” just as Jimi Hendrix did, as some of the other greats supposedly did. Muddy knew that Zack ached for a realm most musicians only dreamt of, the feeling when melody, instrument and soul became one, when the barrier broke between worlds, dimensions and anything else life threw in your way. All musicians shot for it. Muddy had been close to the “zone” several times, but had only danced on its edges, had never plunged into its all-encompassing embrace.
But, then he wasn’t his brother. He wasn’t the rock-god-in-waiting.
“Yo,” the slime said, this time even less friendly, if that was possible.
Ice frosted his spine as he turned to face the older boy. Vince looked like an evil imp with sharp cheekbones and a pointy chin.
“Yeah?” Muddy’s voice shook the word into three syllables.
The dealer’s smile broke wide open. At the same time, he nudged his buddies, the guys who actually sold the drugs in school so nothing could be traced back to him. Vince was a senior, probably headed to a good college the following year, but still a terror to anyone he disliked. He had the makings of a lawyer, Muddy often thought.
“Where’s your brother?” Vince asked.
I wish I knew.
“No idea, Vince. He didn’t come home last night.”
“You do know he has business with me, right?”
Muddy didn’t and wished he could punch his brother right then and there.
“He blew me off last night,” Vince said.
If you only knew.
Vince tried to angle him into the locker but the bell rang, saving his butt for another period or two.
“Tell him to watch out if he tries that again.”
* * * *
“Yo, man,” Otis called, twirling a drum stick in one hand and folding a slice of pizza in the other. “You look like you spent a week in Metallica’s bass drum.” Muddy’s best buddy stood a good five-foot even and didn’t care one bit.
One by one, the band members filed into the music room to eat their lunch together, the one place where they felt completely at home outside of the stage.
“Yeah,” Corey said. “Did you fall into someone’s locker again?” The complete opposite of Muddy's best friend, this guy, originally from the poor side of town, towered over all of them at over six-two and wasn't anything like his brittle buddy, Otis.
“Funny.” They had no idea what hell Muddy had stumbled into last night. Running on two or three hours of sleep, the nightmare still pulled him deeper. “Where’s Poe?”
“We thought she might be with you,” Otis, the diminutive drummer said, smiling.
“Why the heck would she be with me?” Muddy snapped, now worried.
Everyone in the band knew about his silent crush on Polly, but he hoped she didn’t—yet.
Still, what mattered now was what happened last night.
“Sorry, man.”
He plopped down into one of the padded chairs, already depressed. “We gotta talk guys.”
“You’re breaking up with us?” Otis was always the first one to joke, alluding to his condition.
The others cut the tension with laughter, despite the ticked off expression that was carved into his face. As they continued, the door edged open, allowing a tall, slender female with raven colored, mid-length hair to enter. Everyone knew about his crush on Poe—except her—or did she? She never let on if she had an inkling of suspicion. With a name like Polly, she preferred the more goth tone of “Poe.” Obviously, “Edgar” and “Poe” would’ve sounded a little too cute—or not. Plus, there was the fact that she thought he wanted to date Chelsea, the ditzy cheerleader who once called him “Special Ed.”
“Dude, what’s wrong?” Otis asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Muddy’s lips moved, but a phantom force held the sounds within his throat. If they only knew how true it was--and that was only half of it!
“Are you okay?” Poe moved closer to him, close enough to tell that she could actually see him and not just a vague, fuzzy silhouette. She wasn’t totally blind, but in the legal sense, she qualified. “Was it your mom again?” For a moment, he allowed himself to stare. He didn’t like to since she wasn’t aware, yet she always was. Her pale blue eyes appeared to gaze through people, to a place where maybe she would be happy. They shone bright but much older than her sixteen years should allow. However, when she smiled, as she usually did when singing, every fiber of her being lit up like a million candles at midnight. She sat in the chair next to him, showing more grace than someone without sight should have, but this was just one more reason she would live forever in his heart.
“Zack’s gone,” he blurted, arms hung low at his seat. “I mean, really, gone. Gone.”
They hit him with a barrage of questions, but the storm in his belly stopped Muddy from saying a word. Even just looking at his burger nearly caused him to vomit all over his friends. He ached to empty his guts, spilling the horrors he'd lived the previous night. Yet as much as they pried and he tried, the words just wouldn’t materialize.
Muddy waited, but knew the darkness he sensed was coming would greet them all too soon.
* * * *
They met again later in the music room for practice. Otis, the diminutive drummer, sauntered in, sticks-a-spinning, followed closely by a heaving Corey, hands full of skinny wooden reeds. “Am I last, again?”
“As always,” Poe cracked. The ham loved to entertain a full audience whenever possible.
Muddy felt the spotlight shine mercilessly on him, something he hated.
This time, he told them everything, from the suspicions that grew when his brother first began skipping rehearsals with his own band and locking himself in his darkened room, to the crackle and spit of the lightning at the crossroads.
Muddy’s flesh turned to goose bumps as he recalled the music Zack played, the song that would haunt him till he felt his last breath decrescendo into oblivion.
Otis shook. “Man, that blows. But what the heck are the crossroads? I haven’t heard that word since that Britney Spears movie bombed.”
“Hey, cut the crap,” Poe said. “No jokes. Not now.”
“No, seriously,” Otis replied, “this is stranger than that bubblegum moron’s success story.” He held his head in his hands as his eyes never fully closed.
Sometimes they forgot his fragilities, the vulnerable kid that hid behind his cool persona, a porcelain egg existing beneath a thin veneer of steel. His own story made Muddy's problems seem trivial.
“Isn’t that a show on VH1?” Corey asked, sounding serious. “They have that country-rock thing happening there? I saw Faith Hill and Kid Rock there once.”
Muddy felt his blood begin to pump liquid heat through his body, throbbing like an untuned bass drum. He couldn't unscramble his thoughts with everyone yapping like that.
“Just shut up!”
They did, shocked into silence. He never yelled, even during rehearsal, or when Poe’s dad did...what he sometimes did. Muddy preferred to simmer, a seething kettle on the edge, but never blowing his lid.
He managed to get through describing last night and when he was done, they all just sat there in awe, staring. Whether it was due to his explosion, or the wild story, he didn’t know, nor did he care.
Poe broke the silence first. “So, let’s go find Zack and bring him back.”
“From where?” Muddy’s voice cracked with pain. “Where did he go? Where do we look? Who do we talk to? This is crazy; this is all we need at school.”
Poe still had her hand on his arm. “Let’s ask Satch,” she said, referring to their music teacher by his nickname. “Satch has been all over the country. He knows tons of weird stuff with music. I’d bet my left eye he’s heard of the crossroads. And I'll bet the other one that he can help,” she said with a wink.
“So, what do you want to do, Muddy?” Poe rarely used his nickname, the name Edgar preferred, instead of sticking with his given name. It meant she cared about his plight.
The sound of her voice brushed away the fog in his mind for a moment. He turned to her, formed the only thought he could think of and cleared his throat.
“We find Zack.” It sounded simple falling from his lips.
But nothing was ever that easy.
* * * *
As the band sat in Mr. Satriani’s music class, waiting for the bell to end the day, Muddy imagined what the others thought. He knew that at least one of them figured he was nuttier than a squirrel’s butt in October. Hopefully, Poe wasn’t the one.
Otis nudged him with his foot. “Are you sure he’ll listen to us?” Whispering didn’t happen in the band room, so neither teen cared about their voices carrying.
“Zack was his prize student,” Muddy replied. I hope that’s enough.
Mr. Santriani helped them survive high school so far by giving the band 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 tomorrow.”
“Lying mother…” Otis muttered. “Son of a friggin’ traitor.”
But the man simply ignored the accusation and moved for the door.
Poe shot out her arm and grabbed the teacher. “Satch, you do know about the crossroads. Look at me and lie to my face. Please.”
Even though she was the only female in the group, Poe had the biggest pair of stones on her and often “out-manned” them in many situations. Muddy figured that when someone had survived her kind of life, one either learned to ride the monster waves or drown in the undertow.
The teacher gently pulled away, as if he had leprosy and didn’t want to infect her.
“Please.” Her pale, silvery eyes pleaded with him.
He walked to the door. “I’m sorry,” he said as he walked out. “You’re on your own this time.” Then he was gone.
But that night, an email arrived from Satch. Three words in the subject line said it all.
I can help.