Invisible Inkling (8 page)

Rampage

F
riday. 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.

“May I sit here?” Ms. Cherry stands over us, holding a tray of pizza, cranberry juice, and fruit salad.

I breathe out.

If a teacher is going to sit with us, I should be safe. What can Gillicut do with Ms. Cherry sitting across from him?

“Sure,” I answer. Chin scoots over to make room.

“I've decided I should eat with my students on pizza day,” says Ms. Cherry, setting her food down and touching her complicated hair. She eases herself onto the bench. “I never get a chance to just chat with you guys!” She reaches over and pats my hand. “I love to connect with kids outside of the classroom.”

“Hello, Ms. Cherry,” says Gillicut, chewing my bunnies.

“Bruno, did Hank give you his ice-cream-shop sprinkles today?” she says, noticing the container.

I'm about to say “No!” when Gillicut kicks me under the table. “Thank you so much for the sprinkies, Hank!” He smiles. “Ms. Cherry, would you like some? They're rainbow.”

“Hank!” Ms. Cherry pats my hand again. “Did you decide to be an ambassador of goodwill? Because I think you
did
!”

“Not really,” I say. “I—”

“I love sprinkles,” says Ms. Cherry, picking up the Tupperware and peeking in. “My favorite ice-cream combo is peppermint with chocolate. Oh, and whipped cream. What about you, Sasha?”

But before Chin can answer, Ms. Cherry drops the container and screams.

All Tomato Sauce and Anger

M
s. Cherry bends over, yelling. She clutches her hair, which is rapidly unwinding, as if by magic. Her lunch tray skids across the table, spraying cranberry juice everywhere. She falls to the floor, yowling and thrashing as if some invisible—

Oh.

It's Inkling.

He is here, after all!

Despite what I did to him, he didn't leave me to face Gillicut alone.

Only: He has dropped on the wrong person. He dropped on Ms. Cherry!

The items on the tabletop skid to the ground as Inkling launches himself at Gillicut's pizza. He must grab the crust in his mouth because the slice lifts into the air, waving violently so that the triangle part
flaps.

Whomp!
It hits Gillicut hard across the face, smearing him with cheese and pepperoni.

And
whomp!
Back the other way with the crust side.

Gillicut is all over tomato sauce and anger. He tackles me and rolls me on the floor. I can see Ms. Cherry flailing, trying to pull herself to standing, high heels slipping on a puddle of cranberry juice. Gillicut and I land several feet from her, rolling onto the plastic carton of blueberry yogurt from my lunch. I can feel it burst under my head. Gillicut's hot face is right in mine. He's crushing me, and I can barely breathe. The yogurt is all in my hair. Chin yanks at Gillicut's shirt, trying to get him off me, but he bats her away.

Where is Inkling?

Why isn't he helping?

Oh, wait—I bet he stopped to eat Gillicut's pizza.

Yep.

Inkling is filling himself with cheesy goodness while Gillicut is rampaging on me! I kick and flail.

“Do you want me to teach you a lesson?” Gillicut asks.

“What a stupid question,” I squeak. “Like you could teach me anything.”

“I told you I'd make you pay.”

I don't answer, twisting my body to try to get out from under.

Gillicut's fingers pinch my neck and twist, hard—

Oh.

Ms. Cherry is standing over us.

Gillicut drops his hand.

“Boys!” says Ms. Cherry, sharply. “Are you two
fighting
?”

“Yes!” cries Chin. “They are!”

“No, we're not!” Gillicut stands up, releasing me. “It was all a big accident. A misunderstanding. I'm so sorry I fell over on you, Hank!”

He eyes Ms. Cherry but talks to me. I am lying on the floor in shock, cranberry juice and yogurt in my hair, sore in several places.

“Let me help you get some napkins,” says Gillicut, fake and hearty. “You have yogurt on your hair, and I think I have pizza on my face. Ha ha! I have pizza on my face, don't I?” He laughs. Actually laughs, while smiling at Ms. Cherry.

I am staring at Gillicut's thick calves beneath his shorts. His bony ankles going into sneakers without socks.

His ankles.

Horrible, mean, bully ankles.

I want to bite him.

I really do.

Want to lunge my head forward and bite Gillicut's ankle as hard as I can, waggling my head around to make it hurt more, the way Inkling told me.

But just like the other day in the park—
I
want to do it, but my teeth are too scared.

“Ahhhhhh!” Gillicut goes down, anyway, hitting the floor with a thud and flailing his legs around, kicking in pain.

Inkling!

He's not too scared to bite. I can see his teeth marks in Gillicut's ankle—

“Ahhhhhh!” He's throwing his legs around to get Inkling off him.

I start to sit up but, ow! Gillicut kicks me in the head and I go down again. Gillicut and Inkling and I are all tangled up now. There's fur in my face and a foot against my shoulder—

“Hank! This is deeply inappropriate!”

Miss Cherry looms.

Reaches down.

Grabs.

Seconds later, I am standing. She has me firmly by the shoulder.

Gillicut is on the floor.

I'm dizzy. My head aches where he kicked me.

I'm not even sure what happened. I have no idea where Inkling is.

“We don't bite our friends, Hank!” Ms. Cherry scolds.

What?

Before I know it, she's marched me out of the lunchroom and we're heading down the hall to the principal's office while a student “buddy” takes Gillicut to the nurse.

“I didn't bite anyone,” I say.

“Oh? How did Bruno get bitten, then?” Ms. Cherry says sarcastically. “Some invisible creature bit him?”

I know I can't explain Inkling to Ms. Cherry. But it doesn't matter, because she doesn't wait for an answer.

“I want you to remember our motto,” she goes on. “Strangers are friends you haven't gotten to know yet.”

“Gillicut isn't a stranger or a friend,” I say. “He's my enemy. I told you what he does to me.”

“You don't have enemies,” Ms. Cherry snaps. “You have friends and future friends. That's what you have.” Her blouse is stained, and her complicated hairdo is back up but lopsided.

I don't reply.

As I sit in the front office, waiting for the principal, I feel Inkling's warm body press against my leg. He's wheezing slightly, as if he's been running to catch up with me.

I reach down and pick him up as soon as Ms. Cherry departs to teach class.

“You fluffed up your fur real well,” Inkling whispers, his mouth near my ear. “I bet that Gillicut was scared stupid.”

Huh?

I reach up to feel my hair.

It's standing on end because of the yogurt.

“Thanks,” I say. I kick my feet against the bench. “And thanks for saving my life today.”

“Bandapat code of honor,” Inkling says. “Glad to do it.”

Little Dude, Don't Bite

I
am suspended for the rest of the day and sent home from school directly.

My parents are really, really mad at me. I have never seen them this upset.

It is not pretty.

When they calm down, Dad sits me down in the grown-up bedroom for a private talk.

“Little dude.” His eyes are sad and concerned. “Don't bite.”

“But—”

“Don't bite. No matter what happens. Ever.”

“I didn't bite him,” I say.

“There were teeth marks,” he says. “The school nurse found your teeth marks.”

“They were—”

I give up and go silent. I can't explain.

Dad rubs his scraggle beard. “In this family, we are pacifists,” he says finally. “There is always a peaceable solution, little dude. Always.”

“Okay.”

“That means no more biting, or you're in big trouble.”

“Okay.”

“I know he pinched you, and even knocked you down, but . . . It's like the laws of the outback took over that lunchroom or something. What you did was wrong.”

I see how sad he looks, how disappointed in me he is.

I think,
He doesn't even know I said that awful, awful thing about Gillicut's mom.

I hate knowing I'm the kind of person who'd hurt someone's feelings that way.

But I do know it.

And I can't erase it.

“I'm really sorry, Dad,” I say.

* * *

Saturday afternoon, Inkling is at the library looking at maps of upstate New York so he can find Land o' Pumpkins. Chin comes to the ice-cream store with her mom. She gets strawberry and hot fudge in a dish, and joins me in the overlook.

She says Gillicut had his ankle washed out with rubbing alcohol. Rumor from the kid who was his “nurse buddy”: He bawled like a baby. He got bandaged up and came back to class walking with a limp.

His father picked him up early.

I feel a twinge of remorse. It probably really hurt, if Gillicut was crying.

Chin says she tried to tell Ms. Cherry that Gillicut started it all, “but Ms. Cherry said that she was there, sitting at our table. She said she saw everything, thank you very much. Bruno fell over on Hank and apologized for the accident. He even offered to get napkins. Then, for no reason at all, Hank bit Bruno. End of story.”

I sigh.

There is no arguing with Ms. Cherry.

“What would you say, Chin,” I ask, “if I told you it wasn't me that bit Gillicut?”

“What?”

“It was my . . . um . . . invisible friend who bit him. And we planned the ambush. What would you say?”

Chin laughs. “I'd say, how dumb do you think I am?”

“Still, what if I told you I really did have an invisible friend?”

“I'd say you should have your eyes checked.”

“For serious.”

She eats a spoonful of ice cream. “I'd say, I'm not invisible.”

Wow.

Chin has been hanging out with me for almost a year, but she's never called me her friend until now.

I feel pretty cheerful at that.

“Hey,” she says. “Do you think your parents would let you walk with me to the corner store? I got my allowance today, and I really want a box of Altoids.”

I swear, I will never understand girls. Who would want Altoids when they could buy Oreos or Gummi worms?

“Yeah,” I say. “I bet they will.”

Then an idea comes to me.

A good idea. An important idea. I don't know why I didn't think of it before.

An idea to maybe make Inkling stay. Even though he's paid his Hetsnickle debt.

“Wait five minutes, 'kay?” I tell Chin. “There's something I realized I gotta do.”

I climb down the ladder and run to the cash register. Mom is working the counter, scooping cones and taking people's money. “I want a job,” I tell her.

It's something I should have said a long time ago.

“You do?” She wipes her hands on her apron.

“I want to earn extra money so I can go to the store with Chin,” I tell her. “And maybe pay off the Lego airport faster. And pay Nadia back for the pop-up book. Like, could I take out all the recycling for you? Bag it up? Bring it to the sidewalk for pickup?”

Mom looks down at me. Then at the full recycle bins.

“I shouldn't just be sitting around the overlook all the time,” I say. “I'm in the fourth grade.”

There is a line of customers.

Nadia is scooping and Dad is fixing a broken cooler. “Yes, actually,” Mom says. “That would be a huge help. How does a dollar sound?”

“How about five, to do it every day this week?” I say.

“Sure.”

“And maybe other days I could wipe counters? Or fill napkin holders? I want to earn some money of my own, regular.”

Mom smiles. “Yes, Hank. We could use your help, actually.”

I bag up the recycling from all three bins and lug it out. Then I spray the bins with air freshener and put in new bags. I even sweep up a napkin and two spoons on the floor so the recycle area looks really good when I'm done.

Mom gives me a five-dollar bill.

“Thanks for waiting,” I say to Chin. “I needed money.”

“Whatcha gonna get?”

“Squash,” I answer. “They have squash at that corner fruit market, right?”

“I dunno.”

“I'm pretty sure I saw acorn there, if not butternut.”

“I swear,” mutters Chin, shaking her head as we walk together down the block. “I will never understand boys.”