Invisible Inkling

Of course he’s for-serious lying—hello? Kangaroos don’t come from Ethiopia, and last time he mentioned home it was in the Ukraine—but it’s more fun to listen to him than to call him on it.

“Who ate the pumpkin finally?” I ask.

“Me, of course. Bandapats nearly always win in combat. Invisibility gives us an advantage.”

I can’t resist saying, “Except maybe with dogs, huh?”

“What?”

“Dogs, and their sense of smell. They can always tell where you are.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Rootbeer!” I say. “She can tell exactly where you are. Even when you’re up in a tree.”

“The rootbeer’s not a dog,” says Inkling.

“Yes, she is.”

“Listen, I have traveled all over the world, and I’ve seen dogs and dogs and dogs. This rootbeer is nothing like a dog. Her face is all squashed in and she has ears like a bat.”

I laugh.

“I’m fine with dogs,” Inkling claims, “but the rootbeer is another story. I have to steer clear of her.” He eats another piece of broccoli. “Anyway, I’m only sticking around until the Hetsnickle is paid.”

“Hetsnickle?”

“Hetsnickle was a famous bandapat. The debt of honor is named after her. You know, how I have to save your life because you saved me from that rootbeer? That’s the Hetsnickle debt.”

I nod, but I’m not thinking about the Hetsnickle. What I’m really thinking is:

I have an invisible friend.

It is not my imagination.

It is true, real life.

I have aninvisible friend.

Get Some Squash

in That Thing

In the early morning, before anyone else is up, I give Inkling a tour of the Wolowitz apartment. Dad’s seven hundred books, spilling off the shelves and piled on the floor. Nadia’s stash of cosmetics and hair products. The TV, the big worn sectional couch, Mom’s plants, and the photograph of me and Nadia when I was just a baby, blown up larger than life and hanging in the dining area.

“You got squash in that thing?” Inkling wants to know as I show him the refrigerator.

“I doubt it.”

“Why not?”

“No one in my family likes squash.”

“You don’t like squash?”

“Nah.”

“That’s completely insane,” says Inkling. “I swear, I will never understand human beings.”

“You can eat breakfast cereal or bread or leftovers,” I say. “But if you eat something special like strawberries or chocolate milk, my mom might notice.” I pour some Oatie Puffs onto the kitchen counter for him and set out a dish of almonds.

“Thanks,” he says. “But see if you can get some squash in that thing. I can’t stick around if there isn’t going to be squash.”

“I’ll try,” I tell him—but then I don’t think much more about it. Tomorrow is the first day of school. I notice Mom has put my backpack on the kitchen counter alongside a stack of folders and notebooks, plus the pencil case I picked out.

The first day of fourth grade.

Without Wainscotting.

Who will I sit with at lunch?

Who will I play with at recess?

“Do you miss your friends?” I ask Inkling. “I mean, your fellow bandapats in the Woods of Mystery or wherever?”

“Sure.”

“Do you write to them?”

“No.”

“How come? Don’t bandapats write?”

“We write.”

“So why don’t you write to them?”

“I don’t choose to discuss it.”

“What?”

“I don’t choose to discuss it.”

“Don’t choose to discuss what?” I persist. “Writing?”

“I told you before, Wolowitz. Bandapats are an endangered species.”

Oh.

I feel like a jerk now. But he’s said so many different things, I haven’t known what to believe.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

There’s no answer. Several Oatie Puffs disappear from the kitchen counter.

“Did you have a best friend?” I ask. “Someone you miss in particular?”

At first, he doesn’t answer. “I was very popular,” says Inkling finally. “Let’s leave it at that.”

“Come with me tomorrow,” I blurt out. “Come see what school is like.”

“What? No way.”

“You shouldn’t sit lonely at home all day,” I coax. “Plus, you know all about popularity. That would be a big help to me, actually, since my best friend moved away. You could give me advice.”

“Not happening,” Inkling says.

“Why not?”

“I hate crowds. Especially crowds of children. They’re dangerous for an invisible person.” Inkling makes a shivering noise. “All those feet.”

“Please?”

“If it’s a matter of life and death, I’ll come,” says Inkling. “Because of the Hetsnickle. Otherwise, I want to stay home and look at your pop-up books.”

“Come on, you’ll like it!” I say, even though I know that isn’t true.

“Is your life in danger?” Inkling demands.

“No,” I have to admit.

“Will there be squash at school?”

“No.”

“Will there be pizza?”

“Only on pizza Fridays.”

“Then this conversation is over,” Inkling says.

I hear a thump as he leaps from the kitchen counter to the floor. Then a soft pat-pat as he pads out of the room.

I think about following him, but I don’t.

The thought of facing fourth grade alone just makes me paralyzed or something.

There Is No Partial Credit

At school, the good news is that Sasha Chin from downstairs is in my class. When she sees me come into the room, she bangs a rhythm on the table where she’s sitting.