Invisible Inkling

I shake my head. I am not adorable. “Mom talked to her already. “

“She did?” Inkling rustles his Monopoly money.

“Yeah. Mom said, excuse her please, but Betty-Ann was taking all Big Round Pumpkin’s customers. She said, couldn’t they find a peaceable solution here?”

Inkling nods and I continue: “Mom told her there were lots of places Betty-Ann could park the truck that would support local businesses instead of hurting them. How would Betty-Ann feel about moving to Clinton and Sackett, by the public library? Or outside the hospital’s pediatric unit? Or to the new playground on Pier Six?”

Inkling huffs. “Let me guess: Betty-Ann told her to shove off.”

“How did you know?”

Inkling rolls the dice and moves his race car around the Monopoly board before answering. He takes a Community Chest card and goes to jail. “I did a little spying for you,” he finally says. “I know you don’t like me to listen in on human conversations, but in this case I thought it was important.”

“What did you do?” I move the Scottie, land on Go, and collect $200.00.

“Nothing fancy,” says Inkling. “I climbed into the truck and wedged myself into a shelf. Listened in on Betty-Ann and Billy.”

“What did you find out?”

“Betty-Ann says ‘shove off’ a lot. Whenever Billy asks a question? ‘Shove off.’ Like, she thinks he’s supposed to already know the answer, or he shouldn’t be interrupting. And when the guy from the chocolate shop on Court Street came by? You know, the dude with the extra-long scraggle beard? He tried to talk to her about ingredients, friendly and everything. ‘Shove off.’”

“She sounds mean.”

“And let me tell you this,” says Inkling. “She’s selling more pumpkin ice-cream pies than anything else. It’s her most popular item.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You didn’t steal one, did you?”

“Well, maybe I took a tiny bite of one,” says Inkling. “Maybe I wrapped it up again perfectly so no one would notice.”

“Inkling!”

“I had to taste it, Wolowitz. I had to get the full picture of what was going on.”

I sigh. “Was it any good? Could we do better at Big Round Pumpkin?”

He clucks his tongue. “I’m not one to judge. You know I don’t like ice cream. And as for the pumpkin, what are you humans thinking? It was all mixed with cinnamon and spices and sugar. Sugar, when the pumpkin is naturally so sweet and delicious! I don’t understand it.”

“Did you find out anything else?”

“Before she came here, Betty-Ann used to park the truck by the Cranberry Street playground in Brooklyn Heights. Then the weather got cold and she decided that she could make more money moving here. Our neighborhood has a lot of schools.”

“What else?”

“She makes the whoopie pies in a kitchen somewhere across the Brooklyn Bridge. Also, she’s not a very nice person.”

“I figured that.”

Inkling rolls doubles and gets the race car out of jail. “How about we drop on her from a tree branch?” he suggests. He always thinks the laws of the outback apply in Brooklyn.

“That’s not gonna help,” I say.

“Yes it will.”

“I’m not dropping on an old lady.”

“Okay. What if we bite her on the ankle? That’s worked before.”

“No.”

“I could haunt her food truck.”

I shake my head no.

“Pop out from a rabbit warren and biff her?”

Now I don’t even know what he’s talking about—but it doesn’t matter. “Inkling!” I shout. “I have a strategy!”

Four Fifty a Pint Is Criminal

The next day after school, I pick up Inkling and we head over to Big Round Pumpkin. I wash my hands and pack a pint of vanilla and a pint of salted caramel, the flavor grown-ups like best. I pack them the way Mom does, decorated with a pumpkin sticker on top of each container. Then I walk out and wait on line in front of Betty-Ann’s truck.

When I get to the front, I notice Billy isn’t there. Betty-Ann is alone. She leans out the window, all smiles. “Hi there, handsome,” she says. “What’ll it be?”

“She’s in a good mood,” whispers Inkling, on my shoulder.

“Hi there,” I say.

“Say ma’am,” whispers Inkling. “Old people like it when you say ma’am.”

“Hi there, ma’am,” I say.

“What can I get you?” she asks.

“Nothing, ma’am. I have a gift for you from the folks over at Big Round Pumpkin,” I say, pointing to the shop.

I can’t believe I just said folks. What am I, southern?

Folks is a weird word when you write it down.

Folks.

Folks.

Folks.

If you look at it too long, it starts to seem evil. Like when you say folks, maybe you don’t just mean “people.” Maybe you’re uttering an incantation that will call up an army of zombies.

Sorry. My overbusy imagination again.

Back to Betty-Ann.

“Why are you giving me a gift?” she asks, looking suspicious.

I am killing her with kindness, but I don’t tell her that. Instead I say, “We think when you taste how good it is, you’ll want to put our ice cream in your whoopie pies. I mean, I’m sure you’re using a delicious brand already, but what we make at Big Round Pumpkin is something special. Plus, it’s all organic and has local ingredients.”

Betty-Ann snatches the ice cream from my hands. “How much you sell a pint for?”