The Prom Goer's Interstellar Excursion Read Online Free

radio is broken, which is a conspicuous hardship for somebody who listens to as much music as I do. The vehicle’s cassette player is somewhat functional, though the only tape I have is the original cast recording of The Phantom of the Opera , to which we were listening.
    â€œSing once again with me…Our strange duet…,” said the tape.
    â€œI never pegged you for a musical theater person,” said Sophie.
    â€œWe bought the truck used. This is the tape that came with it, and I can’t get it out.”
    â€œAnd as a result, you happen to listen to it all the time.”
    â€œThe tape player automatically turns on when I start the truck. Try to get it out. I promise you, the Phantom of the Opera isn’t going anywhere.”
    â€œThat’s the way the Phantom works,” said Sophie. “He lingers maniacally.”
    â€œBut misunderstood.”
    â€œYeah, definitely misunderstood.”
    Sophie hit the eject button on the tape player. Nothing happened.
    â€œTold you it didn’t work,” I said. “I know nothing about engines or carburetors or transmissions, but I know about my tape player.”
    â€œYou should buy a huge boom box at a thrift store and drive around with it. That way you could listen to anything you want, and it would look kinda badass.”
    â€œI don’t go to thrift stores,” I said. “I have a problem with the smell of old blankets.”
    â€œReally? I buy all my clothes at thrift stores. It gives me the sense of being constantly in costume, which helps with living in the middle of nowhere.”
    â€œIn what way?”
    â€œIf I’m wearing somebody else’s clothes, I can trick myself into thinking this isn’t my life.”
    Made sense.
    â€œI can’t wait to get out of New Mexico,” I said. “ Look at this place. It’s like some dystopian event happened and we’re the only survivors.”
    Outside, scrubby green bushes dotted the dead brown landscape. Power lines buzzed endlessly. Wind turbines stood motionless in the distance, starting to cool after a day of spinning in the sun.
    For a while, Sophie and I made small talk. She asked if I knew where I was going to college. I told her my first choice was Princeton, but I was on the wait list, which felt like a hopeless situation. She told me the wait list was still pretty good—better than a straight-up rejection—and asked if I had any strategy for getting off it. I told her I was thinking of trying to find religion, or maybe looking up some minor god to whom nobody else was praying and asking it to help me out.
    â€œMy suggestion is you try Utu, Sumerian ruler of the sun,” she said. “I always liked that particular deity.”
    â€œYou’re putting some deep knowledge on display there.”
    â€œI like arcane information,” she said. “It makes me feel likeless of a cookie-cutter human being if the things in my head aren’t the exact same things that are in everybody else’s. I never in my life want to have a conversation about a reality television program.”
    â€œWhat about being on one?”
    â€œMy deepest nightmare.”
    â€œNobody would ever consider you a cookie-cutter human being,” I said.
    â€œWhat do you like to do outside of school?” she said. “I don’t know anything about you, except that you play music.”
    â€œâ€¦You know that I play music?”
    â€œWhen you plug in your amplifier, I hear you playing guitar in your house,” she said. “Do you have a microphone too? Because sometimes I think I even hear you singing through the amp.”
    â€œYes, I have a microphone.”
    â€œMaybe that’s what can set you apart from everybody else when it comes to getting off the wait list. You should send Princeton a Sgt. Pepper –style concept album about how much you want to get in.”
    My stomach twisted. The thought of Sophie