Invisible Inkling

“Nadia?” I ask my sister, back in the apartment. “Will you buy me a squash? It’ll only cost maybe four dollars, and I’ll pay you back when I’m done paying Mom for the Lego airport.”

“Nuh-uh,” says Nadia, not even looking up from her book. “You’re gonna be owing on that airport for, like, two years.”

“Come on,” I beg. “Just one little squash.”

“No way,” says Nadia. “You never paid me back when I bought you those waffle cookies. Or when I fronted you money for the helicopter pop-up book.”

She’s right.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Inkling, when we’re alone in my room again.

“But I need it,” he says. “Need my squash, so bad.”

“No one has it,” I say. “And I don’t have any money.”

“I’m sluggish,” he moans. “I’m losing fur in patches. You’ve gotta help me, Wolowitz. Otherwise how can I help you?”

I can hear the desperation in his voice.

I want to help. I really do.

The question is, how?

I Am Not an Ambassador

of Goodwill

No squash, no solution from Inkling. Over the next week, Gillicut gets not only five Tupperwares of rainbow sprinkles—one each day—but a nectarine, two bags of sandwich cookies, a bag of Cheddar Bunnies, a yogurt drink, pretzels, raspberries, a Luna bar, and a box of dried cranberries.

The Monday after, Chin convinces me I should I talk to the lunch aides.

“Don’t tattle,” says the old, blind lady. “You boys work it out.”

“Tell him not to,” says the bored lady in the sunglasses.

“Tell him I’m writing his name down,” says the cranky lady with the orange hair.

But writing his name down doesn’t help. Gillicut is on a rampage. And he’s not dumb: He kicks under the table, pinches while he’s smiling, and never makes a move until the aides are busy with someone else.

Tuesday, I talk to my dad about the problem, when he’s reading to me before bed.

“There must be a peaceable solution to this conflict, little dude,” he says. “Can you think of a peaceable solution?”

I shake my head.

Dad sighs. He’s a pacifist, which means he doesn’t believe in war, karate lessons, or toy guns. “Did you try saying ‘Please leave me alone’?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Did you try saying ‘Back off’?”

“Yes.”

“But the guy didn’t back off?”

“No.”

“Oh, little dude,” my dad says. “That’s rough.”

“I know,” I say. He takes my hand and squeezes.

“Let me think on it,” he says.

Wednesday, I talk to Ms. Cherry. I tell her how Gillicut goes on the rampage.

She says, “I’ll mention it to the lunch aides.”

I tell her they already know.

She says, “I’ll talk to his teacher”—Mr. Hwang down the hall. And, “Let me know if it happens again, ’kay?”

Okay.

And then it does happen again. And again.

Friday, I go to see Ms. Cherry during recess when she has more time to listen. I explain how Gillicut’s a bully and a dirtbug and a caveperson.

Ms. Cherry is sitting at her desk, eating a wrap sandwich. A bit of mayo blobs on her upper lip. I think that’s why teachers don’t like to eat in front of us kids. In case they look silly.

“Mr. Hwang already talked to Bruno and to Bruno’s dad,” says Ms. Cherry. “He said absolutely: no more kicking and no more taking lunch items from other kids. Bruno agreed.”

“But he took my lunch today!” I protest.

“He did?”

“Yes!”

“Well, I’ll tell Mr. Hwang. But let me share something with you, Hank.” Ms. Cherry pats her complicated hair.

“What?”

“Mr. Hwang thinks Bruno could use some friends. Since the summer, his parents don’t live together anymore. He’s just with his dad, and he’s been going through a rough time. He needs everyone to be nice to him.”

No.

“Maybe if you offer to share your sprinkles, he’ll offer to share something back. You could reach out!”

No, no.

“You can switch the situation around. You can be an ambassador of goodwill.”

No, no, no.

“Remember, Hank,” says Ms. Cherry. “Strangers are friends waiting to happen. We don’t use words like bully and dirtbug and caveperson to talk about our friends, now, do we?”

And then, answering herself: “No. We don’t. If you are using words like that with Bruno, the way you just did talking to me—well, then you’re giving him a hard time, aren’t you?”

“How did it go with Ms. Cherry?” Inkling asks later as we move our pieces around the Monopoly board. He’s eating kidney beans with whipped cream on top, his new favorite dinner.

“Bleh,” I say.

“What happened?”

I am too tired to tell the whole story. “Ms. Cherry understands Everyday Math,” I tell Inkling. “But she does not understand people.”

“I don’t understand people, either,” says Inkling, collecting the money on Free Parking. “Not liking squash, wanting to be alone in the bathroom, all that stuff is incomprehensible.”

You understand us when it matters, I think.

But that’s too mushy to say out loud.

Instead, I buy Park Place and build four houses.

Terror in the Aisles

of Health Goddess

On the weekend, Mom goes to Health Goddess, the natural-food store near our home. It’s run by friends of my parents.