I’m explaining to my little sister, Rylee, why it’s a bad idea to suggest playing Mrs. Black Hole in her class production of Welcome to Our Solar System, Mr. Earth!, which is this school play her teacher, Mr. Matson, who’s batshit, wrote and puts on every year for a schoolwide assembly.
Four years ago, when I went to Wescott Elementary, he put me as Mr. Neptune in this styrofoam turquoise globe. Kids called me “Blue Balls” for all fifth grade. Some guys still did last year, in high school, until I threatened to beat Trey Clark’s ass.
There is no “Mrs. Black Hole” in Mr. Matson’s script—it’s Rylee’s idea—and good for her, being good at science, but fifth graders are dumb.
Not only did Rylee make up this Mrs. Black Hole part, but she also wrote a song.
Rylee’s crying because she wants everyone to hear her black hole song. It has a message for this boy she likes. Apparently, this is her plan for asking the kid out, which is sick, I admit, the balls she’s got.
“Did you already ask Mr. Matson?”
“I sent him a message on PowerSchool.”
“Shit. Tell him you were joking.”
I explain slut, a concept she seems somehow unaware of. The lyrics to her song feature “suck” and “hole” a lot.
After my talk, she goes: “‘Mrs. Black Hole,' Jesus Christ!” but she's cry-laughing and says she’ll change “suck” to “absorb” and “hole” to “void.”
I feel bad, say, “Don’t change all of it.”
She says she’ll “retract” her message on PowerSchool and sing the song straight to Aiden on the playground. That’s the boy she likes.
Aiden is Mr. Moon.
She means suck/absorb into her heart.
I ask if she’s going to just sing it a capella, or play it on the guitar? Mom gave her Dad’s old guitar for Christmas, and Rylee’s constantly banging on it.
The banging’s getting brutal in our trailer. Mom says she knows a dude at O’Charley’s, where she works nights now, who’ll give Rylee lessons for free, but she keeps forgetting to ask.
Rylee sings okay, and writes good; it’s just that singing without a guitar or something is little kid stuff. It’d be better to bring the guitar to school.
Or, I say, she could ask this kid over. He might get shy on the playground.
“Aiden’s rich,” Rylee says. “I’m not inviting him here.”
“I had Sage over all the time,” I say. Sage was my girlfriend until last summer when she started hooking up with Trey Clark.
Rylee’s phone buzzes.
“It’s PowerSchool,” she says and sits on her bottom bunk. “Mr. Matson says he loves Mrs. Black Hole.”
Rylee runs to our closet and pulls out the black suit Mom bought me from JCPenney. She throws it on the carpet, saying, “Perfect.” It still has all its tags and will be giant on her. I only wore it once, to Dad’s funeral.
I keep telling Mom to return it, but she forgets.
