Invisible Inkling

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.

Rampage

Friday. Pizza day.

When I get up, Inkling’s not in the laundry basket, not in the back of the closet, not on my pillow.

Nowhere.

Maybe he’s gone for good.

I should have understood about him not wanting to be visible.

I shouldn’t have grabbed him.

Shouldn’t have.

Shouldn’t have.

Shouldn’t have.

“Inkling!” I call. “Inkling, where are you?”

But there is no answer. No matter how many times I call.

The lunchroom is always loud on pizza day. More people buy their lunch than usual, and even some of the teachers stand on line.

“Gillicut’s going to rampage,” says Chin.

“What else is new?”

“I mean, he’s going to rampage extra. After what you said about his mom.”

“I know.” My stomach drops.

I have no plan. I have no protection. I have no Inkling.

I will be facing this rampaging Gillicut alone, which is probably what I deserve after all I’ve done—but it stinks anyway.

We pour into the lunchroom. Most of the kids follow Ms. Cherry into the pizza line, except Chin and I have box lunch. Chin because she only likes apple-butter-and-pickle sandwiches, and me because my parents won’t let me buy. We grab a table behind a large post in the center of the room, hoping Gillicut won’t see us.

No luck.

I’ve just unpacked my food and am biting into my apple when suddenly he is standing next to me, unloading his tray.

What? Why unload?

He’s never unloaded before.

Is he going to sit down with us?

Why would he sit down with us?

He does sit down. Makes himself at home. Like he’s welcome to eat lunch with us or something.

“Hey, Spank.” Gillicut waves his hand in front of my face. “Didn’t I tell you not to start eating until we’ve had our daily chat?”

I look up.

Not a lunch aide in sight.

“Sprinkie tax,” Gillicut says, reaching over to grab my Tupperware.

I hold my breath.

“I’ll take these, too,” he says, reaching for a bag of Cheddar Bunnies.

Gillicut dumps the bunnies on the table and shoves some in his mouth.

What’s he going to do next?

He must have some evil plan or he wouldn’t have sat down.

Chin has her arms protectively around her apple-butter-and-pickle sandwich.