Invisible Inkling

“You shouldn’t come into the bathroom with people,” I say. “People like privacy in the bathroom.”

“You’re just stealing volumizer putty,” says Inkling.

“I know, but—”

“Whatever. I swear, I will never understand human beings.”

“Just don’t come into the bathroom unless the door’s open, okay?”

“Got it. Now go on. Put more in. You want to get a really big fluff-up.”

I put more in.

Right before lunch I go to the boys’ room at school and mush the putty through my hair until it stands on end all over my head.

I look insane. I know I do. But maybe insane is good, you know? Maybe insane is what it takes to scare away someone like Gillicut.

Entering the cafeteria, I turn my neck side to side, displaying my fur fluff as Inkling taught me. I keep my shoulders low and my gaze fierce. It’s a display of size and health, and it’s supposed to make your enemies back down.

“Spikey Spankopolis. You been to the beauty parlor?” Gillicut comes up from behind.

“No,” I say, with great seriousness. “I have not.”

“Did the beauty-parlor lady stick your finger in an electric socket?” he asks. “Or did you see your own ugly face in the mirror, and now you can’t live down the shock?”

“No,” I say again. I can tell the fluff isn’t working, but I try to see the plan through to the end. Inkling promised it would work if I’d just commit myself and not wimp out. “I have bigger hair than you, Gillicut,” I say loudly. “In fact, your hair is small and weak looking, compared to mine.”

He bursts into a fit of giggles. Pointing at me.

Soon a number of other kids are pointing and laughing, too.

Drat.

I should never have listened to Inkling. He thinks the laws of the lunchroom are the same as the laws of the Ethiopian Outback, but clearly:

They. Are. Not.

Gillicut holds his hand out to me. “Sprinkie tax, Spikey Spank.”

I give him my Tupperware of sprinkles.

I brought the rainbow kind. Just in case.

Gillicut leaves his hand out and gets my dried-fruit snack.

And then my chocolate milk.

Instead of eating what’s left, I run to the boys’ room and wash the putty out of my hair.

Every day after that, regular as regular, Gillicut takes whatever’s best in my lunch.

The Squash Situation

Becomes Desperate

Inkling and I settle into a happy routine. At least, it makes me happy. We get up early and watch science videos while eating breakfast cereal. He leans against my leg while we watch, telling me wild stories about bandapat life in Ethiopia, or the Woods of Mystery, or wherever he’s supposed to be from.

Sure, he’s a liar, but at least he’s never boring.

When the rest of my family wakes up, Inkling climbs onto a high shelf in the kitchen and watches us as we eat and talk and get ready for the day. Every now and then I toss him up an Oatie Puff and he eats it in midair. In the afternoons we play Monopoly or Blokus in my room, and I tell him everything that’s going on.

Even more than I used to tell Wainscotting.

“I can probably figure out a new plan to defeat Gillicut,” says Inkling, the day after the hair fluff. “But the thing is, I need some squash. I haven’t had any for ages and ages.”

“I know,” I tell him. “I’ll get you some.”

But finding squash is not so easy. Like I said, no one in my family eats it. My allowance is two dollars a week, but all of that goes to paying Mom back for my Lego airport, which cost a lot. I never see any cash, and Nadia won’t pay me for helping with the dog walking.

“I need the squash, Wolowitz,” Inkling says. “I’m in a weakened state. My bandapat instincts are dulled. You saw how the rootbeer nearly ate me. And your dad sat on me, too.”

I nod.

“Get me squash,” he says. “Get me squash or I can’t stay here anymore.” Then, coaxing: “Get me squash and I can solve your Gillicut problem.”

“When do you need it by?” I ask.

“Yesterday!” cries Inkling. “But today will do.”

So we try. He climbs onto my back, and we go downstairs to Chin’s apartment. “Hello,” I say, when Chin opens the door. “Do you have any squash I can borrow?”

Chin laughs. She is wearing a tutu. I have never seen her dressed that way before. “I don’t think so,” she answers. “Mom, do we have squash?”

Chin’s mom comes up. “No squash. Tell your dad I’m sorry, Hank.”

“It’s not for my dad.”

“Then what’s it for?” Chin wants to know.

Locke and Linderman appear at the door. They are wearing tutus also.

Suddenly I can’t think of a reasonable answer.

“I didn’t know you had friends over,” I say to Chin. “I’ll see you later.”

“Do you want to come in?” she asks. “We’re doing a ballet and we could totally use a prince.”

“That’s okay.”

“There could be a sword fight if you want. It doesn’t have to be leaping around or romance or anything.”

“No, no,” I say. “Hello, Dahlia. Hello, Emma. I have to look for squash now.”

I turn and run up the stairs.

“Keep trying,” says Inkling.

“But that was a disaster,” I say.

“Keep trying,” he repeats. “I need the squash.”

We knock at Seth Mnookin’s, but only Rootbeer is home. She barks like a crazy dog when she smells Inkling on the other side of the door.