Invisible Inkling

“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.”