INVISIBLE

INKLING

EMILY JENKINS

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

HARRY BLISS

For Ivy—E.J.

For Sofi—H.B.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Secret Stuff, for Serious

The Fur Beneath the Sink

We Sounded Like Secret Agents

Attack of the French Bulldog

Not Actually a Big Round Pumpkin

Theft of Cheesy Goodness

Get Some Squash in That Thing

There Is No Partial Credit

The Invention of Wood Erk

Sprinkie Tax

The Big Fur Fluff-Up

The Squash Situation Becomes Desperate

I Am Not an Ambassador of Goodwill

Terror in the Aisles of Health Goddess

Invisible Blood

A New Plan

Land o’ Pumpkins

I Play a Mean Trick

Rampage

All Tomato Sauce and Anger

Little Dude, Don’t Bite

Destroy This Postcard

I Figured I’d Come for Lunch

About the Authors

Author’s Note

Copyright

About the Publisher

Secret Stuff, for Serious

Hi, you.

When you’re done reading this, can I ask you a favor?

Please don’t tell my parents about Inkling.

And don’t tell my sister Nadia, either.

Or Sasha Chin from downstairs.

Actually, please don’t tell anyone that I’ve had an

invisible bandapat living in my laundry basket for six weeks, eating my family’s breakfast cereal and playing with my pop-up-book collection.

Inkling needs to stay hush-hush.

For serious.

The only reason I am telling you right now is that if I don’t tell somebody, I really think my brain might explode.

And that would not be pretty.

From

Hank Wolowitz

The Fur Beneath the Sink

A thing about me is, I have an overbusy imagination. Everyone says so.

And it’s true. I’m not saying I don’t.

I imagine airplanes that argue with their pilots, drinks that change the color of your skin, and aliens who study human beings in science labs—all when I’m supposed to be doing something else.

Like cleaning my room.

Or listening.

But here’s a thing about the invisible bandapat who’s been living in my laundry basket. He is not imaginary.

Inkling is as real as you, or me. Or the Great Wall of China.

I know that’s hard to believe. I could hardly believe it myself when I first met him.

My family is the Wolowitz family. We own an ice-cream shop a couple doors down from our apartment in Brooklyn, New York. The shop is called Big Round Pumpkin: Ice Cream for a Happy World.

The end of the summer before fourth grade, I’m hanging around the shop watching Mom, Dad, and Nadia set up for the day. That’s when I first notice the bandapat.

Mom is sweeping the stoop. Nadia is kneeling on the counter in a spangly purple skirt and enormous black boots, writing on the chalkboard. Dad has just finished churning a batch of his new fall flavor, white cherry white chocolate. He’s been making samples for a couple weeks, and now he’s got it good enough to sell to customers. That’s why Nadia is changing the flavor list that hangs over the counter.

A thing about my sister Nadia is, she has pretty handwriting.

A thing about me is, I have invented a lot of new ice-cream flavors.

Pepsi raisin chip.

Cotton-candy Gummi worm.

Poppy seed and waffle.

Sweet-potato pecan.

Don’t tell me what you think. I already know most people don’t like them.

My own family doesn’t like them.

Dad makes all the ice cream himself. He invented white cherry white chocolate, nectarine swirl, and Heath bar brownie. Mom invented chocolate-covered pretzel. Nadia made up cinnamon mocha and espresso double shot.

I have invented eight hundred different flavors—but not a single one has ever gone up on that chalkboard.

Marshmallow peep.

Caramel popcorn.

Dried pineapple.

Cheddar-bunny crunch.

It is true that after saying no to every other flavor I invented, Dad whipped up an experiment batch of Cheddar-Bunny crunch earlier this summer. I told him how every kid in Brooklyn eats these Cheddar-Bunny crackers for snack. Other salty things are good in ice cream—peanuts, pistachios or pretzel bits. Why not Cheddar Bunnies?

Chin from downstairs, my best friend Wainscotting, and I—we all three spent the rest of the afternoon barfing.

That’s why not Cheddar Bunnies.

Mom said could Dad please not waste time and resources making my weird ice-cream ideas any more. And he said okay.

After that, I stopped trying to help out in the shop so much. My sister works behind the counter on the weekends and in summer when it’s busy, but I’m too young, and no other job is as fun as inventing ice-cream flavors.