The Prom Goer's Interstellar Excursion

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2015 by Chris McCoy

Cover hand-lettering/illustrations © 2015 by Julie McLaughlin

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children's Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

McCoy, Chris.

The prom goer's interstellar excursion / Chris McCoy.—First edition.

p. cm.

Summary: Minutes after eighteen year old Bennett Bardo of Gordo, New Mexico, asks Sophie Gilkey, his dream girl, to the prom and she says yes, she is abducted by aliens, and Bennett catches a ride across the galaxy with a band of misfit musicians to find her.

ISBN 978-0-375-85599-3 (trade)—ISBN 978-0-375-95599-0 (lib. bdg.)—ISBN 978-0-375-89711-5 (ebook)

[1. Alien abduction—Fiction.

2. Extraterrestrial beings—Fiction. 3. Bands (Music)—Fiction.

4. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 5. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction.

6. Interplanetary voyages—Fiction. 7. Humorous stories.] I. Title.

PZ7.M478414457Pro 2015

[Fic]—dc23

2013045875

ebook ISBN 9780375897115

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I can't believe it has gotten to this point.

I am a worthless, ramen-eating, day-sleeping, I-think-I-wore-these-boxers-yesterday-but-I'm-not-even-quite-sure pile of dirt right now. Eighteen broken years old. Damned to live with my parents for the next few decades, then inevitably go stark mad and spend the rest of my life searching the New Mexico desert for the Fountain of Youth in the hope that it will allow me to relive my empty years that have slipped away.

I wish I could have jettisoned my brain when I was wait-listed by Princeton. Given it to somebody who might have used it correctly. College was the only reason I needed it, and now I'm not even going. I
would
just offer it to a research lab and tell the scientists to hook up all the electrodes and wires they
want to it, if I wasn't worried about some remnant of my consciousness lingering behind. Living as a Brain in a Jar probably wouldn't be much different than living as a depressed human in my childhood bedroom in this burned corner of the American Southwest, but better safe than sorry.

As you might have guessed, I am in a fetid place mentally right now. Damn you, Princeton. Damn you, getting abducted by aliens, though that was technically my fault.

That's what happened, by the way. I'm going to be writing about it quite a bit as we go forward here, so forgive me if it feels like I'm not giving you enough information up front. It's all coming. I understand that you might find the “teaser” nature of this prologue aggravating—I don't particularly like it as a literary device myself—but I wouldn't be writing this story at all if I wasn't having a mental breakdown, so I thought it might help if you had some initial context.

The air outside is as hot as a Tesla coil, I'm desperately lonely because Sophie is gone, and I can't find a job because everybody in town views me as a potential criminal with whom one should never make eye contact. Children point at me. Old ladies gasp. I am utterly alone. Just my guitar, a yellow legal pad, and a story that I feel like I should get down on paper in case this breakdown persists and the doctors at the mental hospital where I end up need some evidence of why they cloistered me away, for their case files. Maybe I'll read these pages over when I'm done, just to think about Sophie. To keep her fresh in my mind, though I can't imagine a time when she wouldn't be in my thoughts. She's always, always there.

I'm Bennett Bardo. I don't know why I need to introduce myself if there's a distinct possibility that I'm the only person who is ever going to read this manuscript, but hey. Is this what having a true psychological meltdown feels like? I can't
believe
I'm giving myself a writing assignment on top of this depression. I can't believe anything, but then again, there's also nothing I
wouldn't
believe anymore, because of my recent experiences. Reality and unreality have broken down in my mind. Dogs are cats, squares are circles, tunnels are bridges, forks are spoons. What's wrong with me? Let's do this. Pen to paper, pen to paper. Try not to stab yourself with the pen. Okay, let's go.