Invisible Inkling

For Your Top Secret Squash Project

Bam bada bam bam!

That’s how Sasha Chin knocks on our door.

I knock back:

Bam bada bam bam!

That’s how she knows it’s me who’s about to open it.

Today, Tuesday, she knocks after dinner. She’s holding an armful of some kind of vegetable and smiling. “Look what I got you!”

She’s also holding the leash of Rootbeer, the French bulldog who lives across the hall with our neighbor Seth Mnookin. “We’re dog sitting,” Chin explains. “Seth is out of town till tomorrow.”

I bend down and Rootbeer snarfles my hands. Inkling still isn’t home, so I let Chin bring her inside. She trots into the kitchen and starts eating crumbs off our floor.

Chin shoves the armful of vegetable at me. “They’re not like a present or anything,” she says, “but my mom made me go to the farmers’ market with her. I knew these would be great for your project!”

“My what?”

“Your top secret project! You know, how you’re always buying squash?”

I take the vegetables from Chin’s arms: purple and green leaves with big, dirty blobs at the ends. “What are they?”

“Beets!”

“These are beets?” We take them to the kitchen and I look more closely. Under the dirty skin, the blobs are purple-red. “I’ve only had beets at my grandma’s,” I say. “They were cut up in little circles.” I make a blech face.

“You have to wash them before you use them,” she says.

I push a low stool over to the sink. We stand on it together. I take the rubber band from the beets and start cleaning them. The juice rubs off.

“Slam-bang!” Chin cries. “You look like you’re bleeding!”

Oh. I do.

As I stare at my hands, an idea hits me.

True, I scribbled all over my ice-cream flavors notebook. Yeah, I promised myself I’d never write in it again. But I can’t help thinking:

If you wanted to make blood ice cream without artificial food coloring, beet juice would be great.

I dry my hands and dig my notebook out of the recycling pile where I trashed it. I scrawl the words beet juice next to the loose tooth entry.

Chin isn’t paying attention. She’s wrapping the clean beets in paper towels. “What are you being for Halloween?” she asks.

“A faint-banded sea snake,” I tell her.

“What’s that?”

“Only the most poisonous snake in the entire world. It’ll kill you quicker than a rattler, or a cobra, or anything. One of those could take out a crew of unicorns, easy.”

Chin nods. “I’m going to be Coppélia.”

“What’s that?”

“You know, the wooden doll from the Coppélia ballet. She has red dots on her cheeks and this dress with a square neckline and little German decorations. You know!”

No, I don’t.

But I don’t really care.

Instead I’m thinking: Maybe I should ask Chin if I can trick-or-treat with her.

Inkling is right. It would be better than going with Nadia.

And safer.

But would Chin want me there, when she’s being all frilly and Coppélia with Locke, Linderman, and Daley?

“Anyway,” says Chin. “Back to the beets. I’ve never seen you get a purple one, so I brought these.”

“Purple what?”

“Squash, silly!”

That stupid project again.

My face feels hot. “Beets aren’t squash,” I say to Chin. Covering up my embarrassment.

“Yes, they are.”

“No. They’re like, a root vegetable or something.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yeah.”

“Fine. Have it your way.”

“Look,” I say, pointing to the greens sticking out from the paper towels on the counter. “It’s like a carrot. This part grows up, and the beet grows down in the ground.”

“You didn’t even say thank you,” Chin says.

Oh.

She’s right.

“Whatever.” She’s not looking me in the eye. “I’m sorry they weren’t squashy enough for you.”

“What?”

“Rootbeer!” she calls. “Rootbeer! Come!”

Rootbeer trots in from the living room, dragging her leash.

“Are you leaving?” I ask. “You just came over.”

“Yeah, well.” Chin’s mouth looks tight. “If you don’t want to tell me your secret project, that’s your business, but I have other friends to hang out with who actually say thank you when I give them presents; plus, they trust me.”

“I trust you!” I cry.

It’s true. Chin is a person you can trust.

“Not enough to tell me about your project. Fine. Whatever. I don’t need to know.”

What can I say? I don’t have a project.

And to explain why I’ve been lying, I’d have to tell her about Inkling.

I promised I’d keep his secret. “I’m sorry,” I say.

Chin still doesn’t look me in the face. She grabs Rootbeer’s leash and goes home.

Guess I’m not trick-or-treating with her.