Invisible Inkling

Did You Know There’s This Holiday Called Halloween?

A thing about me is, I hate Halloween.

A thing about Inkling is, he never even heard of it until three weeks ago. Then he got crazy excited.

See, bandapats like to eat squash. In fact, they need to eat squash. If they don’t get it, their fur gets matted and their legs go weak.

Also, they get cranky.

Pumpkins are their favorite.

Problem is, it’s not easy to get squash in Brooklyn. Where I live is all brownstones and brick town houses, little neighborhood shops, restaurants, and traffic. It’s part of New York City! There are no pumpkin patches.

I buy what squash I can for Inkling, but I don’t have a lot of cash. Also, the guy at the corner market wonders why I spend all my money on large vegetables.

My friend Sasha Chin from downstairs wonders about it, too.

So does Dad.

I told them all I was doing a top secret squash project for Halloween.

That was a lie.

I tell a lot of lies now that Inkling lives with me. Like, I told Dad I had an imaginary friend. And I let everyone think I bit this dirtbug Gillicut at school, when really Inkling bit him. I told my sister, Nadia, I was starting to be allergic to dogs. That’s because Inkling’s afraid of Rootbeer across the hall.

With telling so many lies, you’d think I’d know better than to tell that one about the top secret squash project. Lying that you’re doing a big project is extremely dumb. People are going to want to see it. I can’t even invent a fake project at the last minute. Inkling’s eaten every squash I bought.

I hate being a liar mainly because it’s wrong. It makes me feel bad about myself. But I’ll be honest with you: it wouldn’t be so hard if I was actually a good liar.

Anyway, when Inkling first found out about Halloween, he was all, “Wolowitz! Did you know there’s this holiday called Halloween?”

Well, hello?

We’d been playing Blokus in my bedroom. Inkling waved the strategy tip sheet at me. It flapped in the air as if by magic. “Did you know human beings actually hollow out pumpkins and throw away cups and cups of squash?” he asked.

“I’ve heard of that, yeah.”

You would not believe how excited he was. I could hear him breathing hard when he talked about it. He didn’t even care about the trick-or-treating. Or the candy. Or the special ice-cream flavors.

Now, it’s the Saturday before Halloween weekend. Carved pumpkins begin appearing on the stoops of buildings in our neighborhood. Inkling starts heavy breathing when he sees the first one. We’re walking down the block, him on my back. He’s clutching my shoulders with his claws, he’s so hyper.

When we turn the corner, there are six jack-o’-lanterns clustered on one stoop. Big ones and small ones, grinning wildly. Inkling starts mumbling to himself. “Ooh, pretty pumpkins. Pretty, pretty pumpkins. Hello! You are waiting for Inkling, aren’t you? There for my lunch. Yummy, yummy!”

“Excuse me,” I say. “Those are not yours.”

“Oh yes they are,” he says in my ear. “Yummy, yummy. Pretty, pretty.”

Inkling is riding on my back because he doesn’t like to walk around our neighborhood. There are too many dogs and feet. It’s dangerous for a small, invisible person.

We are going to the corner fruit market to buy some radishes and lettuce for my mom. I bought Inkling a squash there yesterday, like I do every Friday when I get paid—but it wasn’t a pumpkin. Acorn squashes are a lot cheaper than pumpkins. If I buy an acorn squash, I have enough money left over for candy.

“People carved those jack-o’-lanterns,” I tell Inkling. “They’re works of art.”

“They’re abandoned on the street!”

“No, they’re not. They’re decorations.”

“It’s like I dreamed Halloween would be. Pumpkins lining the streets of Brooklyn.” He starts muttering again. “Yum-yum, pumpkins. Oh, little pumpkins, you are just made of yum, aren’t you?” Then louder: “Go on, Wolowitz. Get me one.”

“No.”

“Get two. Get big ones.”

“I’ll buy you one at the store, but you can’t eat the jack-o’-lanterns on the stoops.”

“Buy it.”

“I can’t now. It’s not my own money. I have to buy radishes and lettuce. You have to wait until I get paid.”

“Now! Now!”

I reach back and grab Inkling by the scruff of his thick, furry neck. I yank him around and hold him in front of me. I look where I think his eyes are. “You know I don’t get paid till Friday,” I bark. “You have to control yourself!”

“Hank?” A voice startles me. “Hank, whatcha doing?”

It’s Joe Patne, a kid from my class. Standing there with his dad. Looking at me like I’m a crazy person.