Invisible Inkling (7 page)

Land o' Pumpkins

O
n Inkling's advice, I survive Thursday by playing sick. We can't ambush Gillicut till Friday, and I have to stay alive for that to happen, so I'd better just not go to school. I tell Mom at the breakfast table: “I think I got bit by a rare South American beetle, one of those ones with venom that gives you a fainting sickness and makes your legs swell up all weird and red.”

“Oh, really?” She feels my forehead and takes a thoughtful bite of granola.

“My legs are really itchy. I don't think I should go to school.”

“Dad said something about a boy who was mean to you in the park yesterday,” Mom says, bending down to examine my completely normal-looking legs. “Was that the boy you talked about before? Is he still giving you trouble?”

I nod. I hadn't realized Dad even noticed Gillicut in the park. He didn't say anything. He never did come up with any advice for me.

“Does that boy have anything to do with your South American beetle illness?” Mom asks.

“No,” I say. “There was this strange beetle yesterday that climbed on me and probably bit me.”

She pats my shoulder. “Sounds like a twenty-four-hour sickness. Right?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. You can stay home. But what will you do all morning? I can be here, but I have a ton of bills to pay for the shop.” Suddenly I notice that my mom has lines around her mouth. Her hair is showing gray because she hasn't gone to the salon like she usually does.

“I'll play with my imaginary friend,” I tell her. “No problem.”

She laughs.

* * *

Inkling cheats at Monopoly. But I beat him at Blokus.

“Wolowitz,” he tells me as he's reading the strategy tips. “I have news.”

“You do?”

“Squash news.”

“Did you find some?”

“Not exactly.”

“Did you figure out how to get some?”

“Kind of.”

“'Cause it would be good for you to have some squash before tomorrow,” I say. “So your strength is up for the big attack.”

“Yeah, well. Squash in Brooklyn. I'll believe that when I see it.”

“I thought you said—”

“Wolowitz,” interrupts Inkling. “I hate to tell you this, but after I save your life tomorrow, I gotta go.”

“What do you mean?”

He heaves a sigh. “The squash problem. It's killing me. I told you I couldn't stay here without squash.”

“For serious?”

“There's a pumpkin farm in upstate New York. Land o' Pumpkins. I read about it in the paper.”

“Oh.” I am in shock.

I feel dizzy.

Inkling is moving away.

Forever.

And not even against his will.

“Did you know there's a holiday called Halloween?” Inkling asks.

I nod.

“And on Halloween, human beings actually hollow out pumpkins and
throw away
all the yummy inside bits?” Inkling asks.

“I've heard of that, yeah.” My voice comes out choked.

“Wolowitz, I gotta get to this Land o' Pumpkins. I'm one of the last bandapats. If I don't eat squash regularly, I'm gonna . . . You know I've only had that half a butternut since I got to Brooklyn.”

“I tried to get you squash. I really did.”

“I know. But it's a serious situation. A pumpkin farm is a much better place for a bandapat than a squashless Brooklyn full of rootbeers.”

“Don't go,” I whisper.

“You'll get over it,” Inkling says. “This is not a life-or-death problem for you.”

“Please, Inkling. I'll try even harder.”

“Wolowitz, you've tried and you've tried. You're just not a guy with a lot of squash. It's a fact you've got to accept about yourself.”

“I'm so, so sorry,” I say.

“I'm sorry, too,” he says. “But once I've paid the Hetsnickle, I'm off to Land o' Pumpkins. It's just the way it's got to be.”

I excuse myself and go to the kitchen. I open the freezer and pull out a tub of Heath bar brownie ice cream. It's not even my favorite flavor, but I eat two bowls of it anyway before Mom comes in and makes me stop.

At noon Mom has to go to Big Round Pumpkin. Inkling and I tag along with her. I pretend to be sick in the overlook.

I lie on the floor up there in a fog. Inkling and I don't talk. I wouldn't even know he was there with me if it wasn't for an occasional cough from his favorite corner.

I read a book about volcanoes I got from the library.

I do my math homework.

I start drawing a picture of me and Inkling—only there's nothing to draw when I get to him. I don't know what he looks like.

I crumple the picture and toss it into the recycling.

After school, Nadia comes by to walk me home, but we go over past our building to Smith Street first because she wants to look in the window of this store that sells funny hats.

She's talking about how she wants to buy one for her boyfriend, Max, but can't decide between the one that looks like a Mohawk and the one that has skulls on it. I'm about to tell her that the one with stegosaurus spikes is much better and it's three dollars cheaper than either of the ones she's thinking about—when I see the face of an animal, down by my knee, reflected in the window.

It disappears almost as soon as I see it—takes off down the block, and I've caught nothing but a flash of black eyes and a puff of orangey fur—but I'm sure it's Inkling. “I'm running home!” I shout to Nadia, and zoom around the corner and to the end of the block where our apartment building is.

As I get to our steps, I can hear Inkling wheezing from the run. Nadia is still at the other end of the street, moving slow, weighed down by schoolbooks.

“I just saw you in the store window,” I gasp.

“No, you didn't.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You saw a rootbeer.”

“No.”

“Then you saw a squirrel.”

“No squirrel is that big.”

“You saw nothing, Wolowitz. Stop imagining.”

“I saw
you
!” I say. “But barely. Won't you let me see you some more?”

“Never.”

“Inkling!” I say. “Please? Now that I know I can actually see you, I can hardly stand it.”

“I can't take the chance, Wolowitz. Bandapats are nearly extinct. If they put me in a lab or a zoo surrounded by mirrors, I don't think I can take it, that's all. I can't live that way.”

“Pretty please?” I beg.

“No, no, no,” says Inkling. “This conversation is over.”

I Play a Mean Trick

M
y parents both work until eight o'clock tonight, so Nadia's in charge of dinner. She steams broccoli and makes us a package of organic macaroni and cheese. Then she plugs her headphones into the computer and does her homework.

I decide to get a proper look at Inkling, whether he wants me to or not.

Because he's leaving me for a pumpkin patch upstate.

Because if I can see him, I'll have something concrete to remember when he's gone.

I'm not sure where he is in the apartment, but I put some Oatie Puffs in a small bowl. I tuck that and my most special pop-up book under my arm. “I'm going to the bathroom to have a snack of delicious Oatie Puffs and to read about helicopters,” I say loudly. “And I'm leaving the door open, because I don't need privacy right now!”

“Don't touch my volumizer putty,” Nadia says, taking off her headphones. “Or my scrunchy gel.”

“I would never,” I say. And it's
sort of
true: Since I fluffed my hair at school three weeks ago, I have zero interest in hair products.

“Well, someone messed with it yesterday.”

Inkling. He's been volumizing his fluff!

“Maybe Mom borrowed some,” I say. “Did I mention I'll be reading my helicopter pop-up book out loud? And that there will be Oatie Puffs?”

“Why are you bringing
cereal
to the bathroom?” asks Nadia. “That's kind of disgusting.”

“I like the light in there,” I say. “The tiles are cool on a hot day.”

“You have a weird brain,” says Nadia. “I'm telling you, Hank.”

“I'm taking these
super yummy
Oatie Puffs to
the bathroom now,” I yell.

“Good-
bye
already,” says Nadia, putting her headphones back on.

I get settled in the bathroom. I don't touch Nadia's hair stuff, but just to tease her I put the eyeliners in the cup where the toothbrushes live. I'm only in there for a minute or two when I see the door swing.

Ha ha!

I pounce. Fur and muscle flail in my hands.

Ha ha again!

“Let go, you crazy human!” Inkling barks, wiggling madly.

I keep holding on. “I'm just going to look at you!”

“Put me down!” He twists and flails. “You're insulting my dignity!”

Ignoring his struggles, I put one hand under Inkling's backside, and with the other I grab the scruff of his thick neck. He's kicking hard with his back feet, snorting. I know he has a right to be mad—but I can't stand it anymore.

I need to know what he looks like.

I need to know his face, the way I know the faces of my family. I need it now, before he leaves me for Land o' Pumpkins. I need it—
today—
because yesterday I was meaner than I've ever been to anyone; and 'cause tomorrow, Gillicut may kill me.

Keeping tight hold of Inkling's wiggling body, I climb onto a chair I've pushed in front of our medicine cabinet.

“My teeth are by your neck, Wolowitz!” cries Inkling. “I can bite your neck if I want to! Bandapats have serious teeth!”

“Be quiet,” I whisper. “You don't want Nadia coming in here.”

“My serious teeth are right by your neck!”

But I know he won't hurt me.

He would never hurt me. I trust Inkling completely, which is why I need to see him so badly. I lift his squirming body and: There we are, in the mirror.

Me, just how I always look.

Inkling, twitching and snapping.

He's reddish orange with black stripes around the neck. Big black eyes. Creamy white ears. Stripy rings down his fat tail.

His face isn't shifty or clever or content. It's . . . friendly. Even though he's struggling in my arms.

“Hank!” The door opens all the way, and Nadia is standing there.

I drop Inkling.

He scrabbles as he falls and grabs the back of the wooden chair.

It tips.

I tip.

We all three tip backward and—

Bam!

The chair hits the Oatie Puffs bowl,

the cereal sprays across the room,

I land in the tub,

Inkling's underneath me,

my head hits the tile,

Nadia shrieks,

the room spins,

Oatie Puffs rain down on us—

and I am lying in pain in the tub, staring up at the shower head and feeling Inkling worm himself from under my legs. He heaves out and then I hear the soft click of claws going across the bathroom tile.

“Are you okay?” Nadia pulls me to a sitting position.

Everything aches.

Nadia inspects my head where I hit it. She strokes my hair. “I don't think you're bleeding. Does it hurt? Are you going to cry? Poor Hank.” She puts her mouth on my head but doesn't exactly kiss.

“I'm okay,” I say, squirming. “I'm fine.”

“Then why were you standing on a chair?” She sounds mad now. “Why were you yelling at the mirror?”

“I—”

“And why, why,
why
were you eating Oatie Puffs in the bathroom? Why can't you just watch TV like a normal person?” Nadia rakes her hand through her green hair. “Why, Hank, why?”

“Because I'm
not
a normal person!” I scream. “I'm not. Why can't you just
like
that about me?”

Nadia doesn't answer. I climb out of the tub and stomp off to my room.

Inkling sulks in the laundry basket the rest of the evening. After my parents come home and Mom tucks me into bed, I try to make up with him.

I crawl into my closet so we can talk. “You're cute, you know.” I start with flattery.

“What, you're surprised?” Inkling barks. “Of course I'm cute.”

“I knew you were furry,” I say, “and very soft and nicely fluffy, but—”

“Just stop there. Don't be insulting.”

“I thought—”

“All bandapats are cute, and I am one especially cute bandapat. I've told you before. There should be no surprise.” I can hear him adjust his position in the basket.

“Fine,” I say. “I meant it as a compliment.”

“I woulda been cuter if you hadn't been holding me by the scruff,” complains Inkling. “I have a nice fluff of fur around my neck area. You couldn't see it.”

“Will you let me pick you up again?” I coax. “Let me hold you up to the mirror so I can get a better look at your cuteness?”

“In your dreams,” says Inkling.

He's still mad.

“I'm sorry I grabbed you,” I say. “I'm sorry we fell down.”

“I'm
invisible
, Wolowitz,” snaps Inkling. “That means I'm
not visible
, and
not visible
means you can't see me.
Not visible
is how I like it to be and how bandapats have survived through the ages until we got endangered. Really, just what part of this did you not understand when you lured me into the bathroom with cereal and pop-up books—just so you could jump me?”

“I tried to be gentle,” I protest.

“Oh!” Inkling's voice is cross. “Thanks for being gentle when you were sneak-attacking me. Thanks for being gentle while you bullied me just like Gillicut bullies you. Thanks for being gentle while you manhandle me like I'm a stupid pet.”

“I
am
sorry,” I say. “It seems so strange to spend all this time together and not know what you look like. Especially when you're leaving.”

“You're asking to look at me again, Wolowitz.”

“Yes, but—”

“When I just said I like to be invisible! That doesn't sound like sorry to me.”

“I am too sorry.”

“Maybe I should leave first thing tomorrow,” says Inkling. “Maybe I don't owe you a Hetsnickle debt of honor anymore after all.”

“Fine,” I say. “I never asked you to owe me anything.”

“Fine, then. Now can you leave me alone? I'm extremely tired from being manhandled.”

“Fine.”

“Yes, fine.”

“Fine yourself,” I say.

I get back in bed.

I can't sleep.

And I can't sleep.

I lie there, thinking,
I have an invisible friend, and he won't accept my apology.

I have an invisible friend, and he won't talk to me.

I have an invisible friend, but he doesn't even like me anymore.

I am a dirtbug and a caveperson, that's why.