The Album: Book One Read Online Free

like my own private scrapbook, and I want a story to remember this night with my favorite person.
    “Ugh, Chloe. Records?”
    “Yes!” I squeal. “You pick. The first one that catches your attention and makes you happy, because this is a fantastic night that needs to be branded,” I suggest.
    “Really? That’s such an honor. Okay, lemme see . . . we’re rock, we’re young with attitude, we’re New Yorkers, or at least want to be, crude and raw, yet playful . . . c’mon follow me!”
    Natalie looks around the store then hurries down an aisle. We pause around the Hip Hop section, which is weird because the only rap we’ve ever listened to is Salt-n-Pepa.
    Natalie beams with excitement as her fingers flick the top open-ing of the ’80s masterpiece. We’ve listened to the cassette version a thousand times since the 6 th grade . . . it’s a symbol of our youth. I squeeze her tightly as she pulls out a worn copy of the Beastie Boys Licensed to Ill . This album is the quintessential teenage anthem of revolt, but now it’s also our sacred ballad.
    “Perfect,” I say.
    “Oh God, Chloe! Do you remember when we had that huge fight over Ad-rock? I mean, I would still totally screw him, but c’mon! Our fights were pretty lame.” Natalie hugs me back, and if it weren’t for the three geeks hovering across the aisle, I could stay in this moment all night.
    12:55 a.m.
    The summer sky is intensely dark and mysterious and I can’t see a single star. I don’t have a clue what time it is, but I’m sure our parents are beginning to miss us. Natalie and I reach the car but she stops suddenly and jumps up and down. I can’t tell if she’s excited or needs to pee—
    “Chloe! Look!” Natalie points across the street toward a rundown shopping center. I try to see what she’s looking at and the only thing I can spot open is a little shack in the parking lot with Christmas lights and a neon hand. There’s a marquee that states, Now Accepting Most Major Credit Cards , but I can’t imagine why she would be so excited about that.
    “What exactly am I looking at, Nat?” I ask.
    “It’s a psychic! Let’s go!” Natalie quickly gets in the car and I follow. I guess having my future revealed could be cool . . . or not. Like, what if she reads my palm and my lifeline reveals an early death, or worse, twelve children! Oh, and I’m totally freaked by those creepy tarot cards with evil queens and sun gods determining my fate. Shit, I overanalyze fortune cookies, and I’m scared to death of Ouiji boards since the mishap of 1990. I’m not sure I can handle the real thing.
    Natalie parks the car and reaches over to shake my leg, “This is going to be fun! Maybe Grandma Jean or Kurt Cobain will show up during a séance!”
    We walk to the little door of the purple building and search for the buzzer. But wouldn’t she know we’re here? I pick up a large crystal from the window ledge and then drop it to the ground when the door slowly creaks open. Fear governs the reflexes.
    “Come in girls. I’m Madame Clarice, mistress of magic and temptress of the spirit world.” I bet she sells Amway, too.
    Natalie and I cautiously take a step inside the dark room and hold hands. The place is exactly like what I’ve seen on television, but it smells more like a bakery than a witch’s lair. An entire wall houses spice racks and glass bottles and one of those bowls they have at Casa Mexico that serves guacamole. The room is darkened by layers of velvet and tacky silk scarves, but I can also see the faint light of David Letterman on a small television in the corner.
    Madame Clarice leads us to a small round table with, no joke, a crystal ball. We move slowly, taking baby steps toward the center of the room. Madame Clarice may be the mistress of magic, but she looks like the seductress of sweatpants, and I’m really hoping this isn’t some sort of scam that will be aired on Jenny Jones . Her long hair is plaited into a braid with a