A girl's friendship with a lonely black hole leads her to face her own sadness in this original, funny, and touching middle grade novel for fans of  Crenshaw and  Flora & Ulysses . When eleven-year-old Stella Rodriguez shows up at NASA to request that her recording be included in Carl Sagan's Golden Record, something unexpected happens: A black hole follows her home, and sets out to live in her house as a pet. The black hole swallows everything he touches, which is challenging to say the least—but also turns out to be a convenient way to get rid of those items that Stella doesn't want around. Soon the ugly sweaters her aunt has made for her all disappear within the black hole, as does the smelly class hamster she's taking care of, and most important, all the reminders of her dead father that are just too painful to have around. It's not until Stella, her younger brother, Cosmo, the family puppy, and even the bathroom tub all get swallowed up by the black hole that Stella comes to realize she has been letting her own grief consume her. And that's not the only thing she realizes as she attempts to get back home. This is an astonishingly original and funny adventure with a great big heart. Praise for The Care and Feeding of a Pet Black Hole "An original tale of family love, scientific passion, and a truly epic journey of self-discovery." — Kirkus "As much a journey of grief and healing as a literal adventure, Cuevas's story is both touching and funny." — Booklist Michelle Cuevas graduated from Williams College and holds a master of fine arts degree in creative writing from the University of Virginia. She lives in Massachusetts. Chapter One ✶ The Mysterious Something That Followed Me Home This story began on an afternoon the color of comets, with a girl dressed all in black. A sad girl. A girl with a hole in her heart, and darkness on the horizon. That girl, of course, was me. “My name is Stella Rodriguez,” I told the guard at the gates to NASA. “I’m eleven years old. I’m here to speak with Carl Sagan.” It was late, almost dark, and I was alone. You and Mom would not have approved. The guard looked up as if he’d heard an annoying mosquito, decided he imagined it, and went back to reading his magazine. “Actually,” I tried again, “I’m Carl Sagan’s great-great-great-great-granddaughter, and I’m here at NASA to tell him that in the future we’ve invented time travel!” “Please go away,” said the guard. “But I have an appointment . . .” “No,” said the guard, “you definitely don’t.” “ Fine, okay, maybe I don’t!” I said, a bit too loudly. “But if you take into consideration chaos theory or the butterfly effect, the very notion of long-term predictions—for example, an appointment —becomes an absurd impossibility. Time—” But before I could continue trying to sound scholarly, an ear-piercing alarm started ringing. Lights began flashing, and I could hear shouts from inside the building. “Okay,” I said, putting up my hands. “Let’s all just take it easy. I’ll go peacefully. No need for alarms. I’m too bookish for prison!” But the guard wasn’t paying attention to me. He grabbed his phone and started shouting, something about code reds and protocol, and before I knew what was happening he had run inside, leaving the gate wide open. I wish I were the type of person who would sneak​ into NASA during a molecular-robot-alien-rocket-invasion-​​explosion. But you know very well I’m not that type. Not even close. I’m more of a chicken-liver-jellyfish-fraidy-cat type. And so I left. I left without seeing Carl Sagan, or giving him the important package I’d come to deliver. Time was of the essence, since the Voyager launch date—August 20, 1977—was mere months away. Avoiding the alarms at NASA, I went to the bus stop and waited. It was the last moment of light, and I had a strange feeling. Like when you sense a breeze on your ankles in a room with no open windows or doors. Like when you’re sure you can see a face in the moon, and it’s staring right at you. Like when you’re the seeker during hide-and-seek, and you just know you’re being watched through a closet keyhole. I darted my eyes from side to side, looking in the bushes and up at the trees. I didn’t see anything anywhere but dusk. And so I was understandably relieved when the bus came around the bend. That is, until I got on the bus, and things started to get even stranger, if possible. “My wallet!” shouted a businesswoman. “Someone stole my wallet!” Everyone scanned the bus for a shady-looking character. “And where’s my toupee?” asked an elderly man. This continued for three more stops, shouts of Where’s my lunch? and Who took my pet frog? To get off the bus, I had to weather an obstacle course of people on their hands and knees searching for something-or-other under their seats. The stop was only a few minutes from home, but it felt like miles. I mean, what was going on?! The dusk had turned to straight-up gloom, which wasn’t good because by that point I had a s