Invisible Inkling (9 page)

Destroy This Postcard

L
ater that day I get a postcard from Wainscotting.

Getting the card makes me miss Wainscotting. A lot.

But then I realize: I haven't been thinking about him that much. Not all the time. Not the way I used to.

I've been busy, I guess.

With Inkling. With Chin after school. With my family.

I write back, on one of Big Round Pumpkin's publicity postcards.

I walk to the mailbox with Inkling on my back. He gobbled up the squash I bought him earlier, but my new cash flow didn't convince him to stay. He's still leaving for Land o' Pumpkins first thing Monday morning on the train. He wants to be there for Halloween. Apparently they have something called a Pumpkin-Carving Extravaganza, and he doesn't want to miss it.

“I guess there won't be any address where I can send you postcards,” I say. “Will there?”

“Nah,” says Inkling. “I don't think so.”

“Can you send
me
a postcard?”

“Maybe one. To let you know I'm okay.”

“That's it? Just one?”

“Stamps are hard to come by.”

“I just—”

I don't know what to say. I know I can't ask Inkling to stay.

“Aw, Wolowitz,” he says, patting my shoulder. “Don't get mushy on me, now.”

But I do get mushy.

I mean, I cry a little.

“I wish you a great time,” I finally tell him. “And a lot of really yummy pumpkins.”

I Figured I'd Come for Lunch

M
onday, I walk into the lunchroom alone. “Wolowitz! You want to sit with us?” Chin calls, as she heads off with the girls.

I shake my head. “Maybe tomorrow.”

I don't want to sit with them because even though Locke, Linderman, and Daley are fairly nice, I don't know how today is going to be.

Is Gillicut going to come and demand his sprinkles, like before?

Or something worse?

Whatever he's going to do, I don't want him to do it in front of those girls.

I pick an empty table in a corner and open my lunch box. My back is to the wall, so I can see Gillicut when he approaches. I take out my yogurt and begin to mix it to the perfect purple color.

Blueberry yogurt. Blueberry yogurt.

Is he coming over? I glance up, but I don't see him.

I will myself to stay calm.

Blueberry yogurt. Blueberry yogurt.

He's hurt you before, and you've survived
, I think.

Blueberry yogurt. Blueberry yogurt.

I look up to see Gillicut—and he's walking with his tray to the other side of the lunchroom. Way far away from me. He sits down with a kid called Joo and opens his milk.

He sees me looking at him.

We lock eyes.

He looks down.

And then I realize:

Gillicut's not taking my sprinkles.

He is not coming over at all.

Not today, and not tomorrow.

Because Gillicut is scared of me now.

Scared.

Of me.

He thinks I bit him. And biting—it's scary. And kinda weird. Much more violent than the twist-pinching and kicking and stuff that he's been doing to me.

It doesn't matter that it wasn't really me.

He's afraid.

My shoulders relax. The room looks brighter.

The future shines.

As I take a bite of yogurt, I hear a thump and feel Inkling's furry body scrambling from the chair next to me onto the table.

“You're here!” I say. My face bursts into a grin. “I thought you went to Land o' Pumpkins. We said good-bye.”

“Well, I figured I'd come for lunch,” he answers.

“Did you miss your train upstate? Will you be able to get another?”

“I was on my way to the station,” says Inkling, “and I got to thinking you might need my help with Gillicut today.”

“You paid the Hetsnickle on pizza Friday,” I say. “You know you don't owe me anymore.”

“Nah. See, pizza Friday wasn't the Hetsnickle.” Inkling snorts. “I realized that this morning. All I did was bite a nine-year-old on the ankle.”

“So?”

“In the Mexican swamplands, where I come from, that would be nothing but a warm-up to a day of combat.”

“But—”

“I still owe you, Wolowitz. Dropping on Gillicut was nothing compared to what
you
did for me when that rootbeer attacked,” says Inkling. “Or when people mauled me at the Health Goddess. Or even just when your dad sat on me. What you do for me all the time, actually.”

“Does this mean—” I am scared to say it, almost. “Does this mean you aren't leaving?”

Inkling leans against me. “Bandapat code of honor. I can't leave until that Hetsnickle is well and fully paid. Plus, now that you've got a job, I think my squash worries are over.”

I realize: He doesn't owe me.

He
wants
to stay.

He wants to be here, with me, more than he wants a whole patch full of pumpkins. More than he wants the Halloween Pumpkin-Carving Extravaganza.

“What's for lunch?” Inkling asks.

I look.

My yogurt, a ham sandwich, dried apricots, Cheddar Bunnies, and water. A large yellow apple and a Tupperware of rainbow sprinkles.

All for me to eat in peace.

I open the container and push the sprinkles toward Inkling. “Have some.”

The Tupperware lifts, and a small avalanche of sprinkles pours into Inkling's mouth. Then they go invisible. “Thanks,” he says, chewing. “Don't mind if I do.”

A thing about Inkling is, he hogs whatever food he gets.

A thing about Inkling is, he shows up when you need him.

A thing about me is, I have an invisible friend.

And that means—

Anything could happen next.

Author's Note

Invisible Inkling
is set in an imaginary Brooklyn neighborhood—a combination Cobble Hill, Boerum Hill, and Park Slope. The ice-cream shop in the story is inspired by Blue Marble, which has the best strawberry ice cream I've ever tasted. I made up almost all the details of Big Round Pumpkin, but you still might want to learn more about Blue Marble: www.bluemarbleicecream.com. The park, the school, the pizza place, the Thai restaurant, and the health food store—all are based on places I go regularly, even though they've been fictionalized.

About the Authors

Emily Jenkins
has written the chapter books TOYS GO OUT and TOY DANCE PARTY, plus a lot of picture books, including THE LITTLE BIT SCARY PEOPLE, SKUNKDOG, THAT NEW ANIMAL, and FIVE CREATURES. Her favorite ice-cream flavor is
dulce de leche
. No sprinkles. If she has an invisible friend, she's not telling. You can visit her online at www.emilyjenkins.com.

Harry Bliss
is the
New York Times
bestselling illustrator of DIARY OF A FLY, DIARY OF A WORM, and DIARY OF A SPIDER by Doreen Cronin; A FINE, FINE SCHOOL by Sharon Creech; and WHICH WOULD YOU RATHER BE? by William Steig. He is also an award-winning, internationally syndicated cartoonist and cover artist for the
New Yorker
magazine. Harry Bliss lives in Vermont. You can visit him online at www.harrybliss.com.

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Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

Invisible Inkling
Text copyright © 2011 by Emily Jenkins
Illustrations copyright © 2011 by Harry Bliss

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Jenkins, Emily, date

   Invisible Inkling / Emily Jenkins ; illustrated by Harry Bliss. — 1st ed.

      p. cm.

      Audience: Ages 7–10.

      Summary: “When Hank Wolowitz runs into trouble in the form a of lunch-stealing bully, he finds an unlikely ally in an invisible refugee pumpkin-loving bandapat named Inkling”— Provided by publisher.

      ISBN 978-0-06-180220-1 (trade bdg.)

      1. Bullying—Juvenile fiction. 2. Imaginary companions—Juvenile fiction.
3. Ice cream parlors—Juvenile fiction. 4. Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.)—Juvenile fiction. [1. Bullies—Fiction. 2. Imaginary playmates—Fiction. 3. Imaginary creatures—Fiction. 4. Ice cream parlors—Fiction. 5. Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction.] I. Bliss, Harry, date. II. Title.

PZ7.J4134In   2011

813.54—dc22

[[Fic]]

2010046238
CIP
AC

EPub Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780062084514

11 12 13 14 15 LP/RRDB 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First Edition