The Prom Goer's Interstellar Excursion by Chris McCoy

Author:Chris McCoy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2015-04-13T16:00:00+00:00

“Here you go, Walter,” I said, extracting the grass I had taken from Jyfon from my inside pocket. “It was all I could take with me, but I figured it might be a nice break from Chinese.”

Walter’s eyes went wide. I thought he was going to cry.

“You brought me grass?” he said.

“I wish I could have brought you more.”

I set the grass in front of him on the floor of the closet.

“This is the nicest thing anybody’s done for me in years,” said Walter.

“My pleasure.”

I watched Walter lean down and—methodically, savoring each individual blade—chew on the end of each piece, slurping it up into his mouth as his eyes fluttered in satisfaction.

“Thank you. So much.”

“Enjoy it,” I said, closing the closet door to give him privacy. I could hear his snorts of pleasure through the wood.

Sophie had been sleeping for a couple of hours on an oversized ottoman at the back of the bus, snoring lightly. Exhausted. The snores sounded like a miniature variation of her laugh, but instead of a “HA…hehhhhhh,” it was more of a “WER…werrrrrr.”

I might have found it adorable had I not been so irritated. I was listening to Cad tinker on Skark’s guitar, trying to write a song.

“Oh, pretty girl, I met you far from home…,” he sang.

With every new lyric, I grew more annoyed.

“Now I know why I’ve been flying around…. Sophie Sophie…But only with you have my feet left the ground…. Sophie Sophie…”

“You sound ridiculous,” I said. “You’re thirty and she’s still in high school. It’s a good thing there aren’t age-of-consent laws in space.”

Cad looked up at me.

“She’s already told me she’s eighteen, and you told me yourself that you’re graduating in a couple of weeks,” he said. “What’s the problem? Picasso had a teenage muse, why can’t I?”

“She’s not your muse. She’s my muse. I don’t want to hear you using Sophie’s name in your songs. I use Sophie’s name in songs. You’ve been with a million girls, leave mine alone.”

“You write songs?”

“I write songs. Yes. Of which Sophie is a dominant part.”

“Can I hear one?”

I paused.

“I’ve never actually completed one,” I said. “I’m not always great at finishing what I start, but that has nothing to do with this.”

“I see. How about we make a deal, then. You feel free to use Sophie’s name in song fragments, and I’ll use her name in real songs, and then someday you can release an album of couplets that you can sell down at the local open mike night. I’ll handle the proper album, thank you.”

“It’s going to be hard to release an album if your band hasn’t written a new song in five years.”

“Skark hasn’t written a song in five years. I’ve written hundreds, he just never uses them.”

“I don’t blame him. I’m listening to you working on this, and it’s terrible.”

Cad lifted the guitar strap over his shoulders and rested the instrument on the chair beside him.

“If you’re sore about this girl, I’d like to point out you said she was your date, not your girlfriend.

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