Invisible Inkling

Eyeball Has Large Bites Out of It

Bam!

Snarfle snarfle.

Bam!

Snarfle snarfle.

The sounds wake me in the middle of the night. My glow-in-the-dark alarm clock says three a.m.

I grab my flashlight and head into the dining area.

Two pumpkins, eyeball and sea urchin, are smashed on the floor. Candy corn from sea urchin is scattered across the carpet. Eyeball has large bites out of it, distinct teeth marks. Sea urchin seems to have been jumped on.

Skull pumpkin is still on the table, but it’s rocking back and forth. Back and forth, as if it has a bandapat inside it. And then—a big bite mark comes from within. And another. The soft, whitish flesh of the peeled pumpkin disappears in seconds.

Skull is gone.

Inkling ate it.

“Stop!” I cry. Too late.

“Oh, but it’s so, so yummy!” moans Inkling. “I missed dinner.”

“You have to stop!” I reach for where I think he is but only manage to grab the end of his tail—then it slips out of my grasp. “Those are my sister’s pumpkins!” I look around wildly but can’t tell where he’s gone. “She worked on them all afternoon. She’s been planning them for weeks!”

The eyeball on the floor wiggles, and another bite comes out of it. “You don’t understand,” says Inkling, talking with his mouth full. “They’re pumpkins. Yummier than any other kind of squash.”

Still holding my flashlight with one hand, I feel blindly around the eyeball. I manage to connect with fur. I grab the scruff of Inkling’s neck and pick him up like a kitten.

“Put me down.”

“I saved Nadia’s pulp for you!” I scold.

“Pulp is nice, Wolowitz, but it’s not the same as a whole pumpkin.”

“I told you I’d get you one on Friday!”

“I’ll eat that one, too. Don’t worry.”

I am so mad. “I told you not to eat people’s jack-o’-lanterns,” I say, giving him a shake.

“These weren’t on anyone’s stoop. They were on the dining table like the delicious dinner they are!”

And with that, Inkling kicks my arm with his hard back feet, twists his neck, nips my hand—and hurls himself out of my grasp.

Ow!

That hurt.

For serious.

Inkling’s jumped back to the table, I can tell. The black cat pumpkin is rocking. “Stop!” I cry again, feeling around for him.

Fwap! Fwap! Fwap! The pumpkin rolls down the length of the dining table. Inkling grunts and growls at it, like it’s alive.

They fall to the floor and the pumpkin bursts. Inkling’s claws tear it the rest of the way open, and a giant bite appears.

I drop my flashlight and it blinks out. The room goes dark. I leap toward Inkling and the cat pumpkin. My feet slide out from under me. Suddenly I am rolling across the floor, holding the pumpkin, holding fur.

The pumpkin crumples.

Inkling squeals.

His back feet kick my stomach. We’re all fur and pumpkin goo, kicking and wrestling in absolute darkness. I’ve got one of his ears and I’m pulling on it. He seems to have a mouthful of my hair.

We’re rolling and fighting. I’m trying to get the pumpkin from him, to see if there’s any way to save it, when—

Ow! I hit my head on a chair leg.

That really hurt. Ow, ow, ow.

I let go of Inkling. I drop the pumpkin, stop rolling, and lie there for a second.

I put my hand up to my head to see if I’m bleeding.

Hm. Not sure. My head is wet, but it could be pumpkin goo or even Inkling spit.

Yuck.

I hear claws skitter across the floor.

“Wait!” I yell at Inkling. “You can’t leave me to take the blame for this! Plus, I might be bleeding!”

He doesn’t return.

I collapse back and stare into the darkness. My parents’ voices float out from behind their bedroom door.

“I’ll go,” says Mom.

“Why is he up?” moans Dad.

“Who knows.”

“Find out why he’s up,” says Dad. “Did I tell you he has an imaginary friend?”

(You remember, right? That’s another lie I tell to cover up for Inkling.)

“The friend’s name is Wood Erk,” Dad continues. “I think I sat on him a couple weeks ago. But then I forgot to find out how he’s doing.”

“You’re half asleep,” says Mom. “You’re not making any sense.”

Her feet come into the dining area and she flips on the overhead light. I am lying in a pile of smashed cat pumpkin, next to a shattered sea urchin pumpkin. The skull is gone. The eyeball has several distinct bites out of it.

Bites!

Oh no.

If Mom sees the bite marks, she’ll know they aren’t mine.

Quickly, before she can see them, I throw myself on top of the eyeball, punching it with my fists.

Ow!

Okay, it’s a lot tougher than I thought.

I try again.

Ow, ow!

That’s not gonna work. I grab the pumpkin and heave it against the wall with all my strength. It hits with a thump and smashes to bits.

“Hank!” Mom runs over and grabs me by the shoulders. “Stop! Calm down! What are you doing?”

I don’t have an answer.

What am I going to say? I’m covering up evidence of the huge pumpkin gluttony of my invisible bandapat?

Can’t say that.

“All Nadia’s pumpkins!” Mom moans. “What were you thinking?”

“It wasn’t me!” I blurt. It’s true, so it’s what pops out of my mouth.

“Oh yes it was, mister.” Mom marches me into the kitchen. “Don’t try to pretend any different.”

She pulls out a bucket, some rags, and a bottle of spray cleaner.

“It wasn’t me!” I say again. “I threw the eyeball, but I didn’t do the rest of it!”

“Yes, you did.” Mom shakes her head. “You were mad at her when you went to bed. Now you’ve ruined all her hard work to get back at her.”

“That’s not true!”

“Yes, Nadia was rude to you,” Mom says. “But spoiling all her artwork and making this huge mess? That’s not an appropriate response.”

“But—”

“If Nadia is rude, tell her you don’t like it. Even yell at her if you must. But don’t go bananas and smash her work.”

“I didn’t.”

I know what I’m saying doesn’t make sense. I should probably just shut up and take the blame, since I can’t explain the truth.

That Inkling.

Sometimes having an invisible bandapat is more trouble than it’s worth.

“I loved Nadia’s pumpkins,” I add lamely.

“You have a rotten way of showing it.” Mom fills the bucket, and hands me the spray cleaner. “Have the dining area spotless before you go back to bed,” she says. “And write a letter of apology to Nadia.”

When I look at my mom’s angry, tired face, I feel guilty.

Almost like I really did ruin Nadia’s pumpkins.

“I am sorry I woke you up,” I tell her. “And I’m sorry I made such a mess throwing the eyeball.” At least these things are true.

She doesn’t answer, but she pats my head. Then she pads back to the bedroom and shuts the door behind her.

Inkling.

He makes me lie.

He makes me look foolish.

He makes me look like a guy who’d smash someone’s artwork to bits.

Sometimes I wish he’d just go back to the Peruvian Woods of Mystery and leave me alone.

Suddenly, I am so, so tired. I’m not used to being up in the middle of the night. My pj’s are sticky with pumpkin, and the back of my head is sore. I have a few bruises, too. I sit on the floor of the kitchen, leaning against the fridge. I put my arms on my knees and my head on my arms.

Just for a second.

I’m closing my eyes just for a second. Then I’ll clean up this mess.