Invisible Inkling

The Invention of Wood Erk

Let me understand this soccer thing,” Inkling says. “I saw it once on television.”

I told him all about what happened at school the minute I got home. Now we’re sitting on the couch. I’m messing with one of my Lego helicopters, trying to get the doors to stay on right. But I’m not really concentrating.

“You find yourself a bunch of friends and buy a small pumpkin,” Inkling continues.

“No, you don’t.”

“Then you hack off the stem, save that to eat later, and paint it black and white.”

“No, no.”

“And you kick it—what? Until it smashes? The winner is the one who smashes the pumpkin?”

“No, no, no!”

“Does he get to eat it all by himself? Or does everyone share the pumpkin at the end?”

“It’s not a pumpkin. It’s a soccer ball.”

“Oh.” I can hear him scratching his ear with his back paw—thump, thump, thump—like a dog. “A ball. Really?” he finally asks.

“Really.”

“And you’re smashing it with your feet? I really don’t see the point of this game.”

“You’re getting it all wrong!” I say. “It goes like this—”

But then I shut my mouth.

Today’s events have made it painfully clear that I don’t understand soccer, either. “Gillicut hates me,” I moan. “That’s the real point of the story.”

“But I like you,” says Inkling. “I’m invisible! I can speak three languages. I am way cooler than Gillicut. So who cares?”

I say, “He said ‘See. You. Later’ in that way that means ‘See you later to rip your tongue out of your head, shorty.’”

“Listen.” Inkling leans against me on the couch. “You took down that fierce rootbeer unarmed. You rescued an innocent bandapat from harm and asked for nothing in return. No way are you scared of some guy who’s working himself up just because you kicked a black-and-white ball in the wrong direction.”

I pet Inkling’s soft fur, scratching his neck the way he likes.

“I might, though,” I say. “I might actually be very scared of that guy.”

“Who are you talking to, little dude?” Dad asks.

I jump.

I thought Inkling and I were alone in the living room, but here is Dad, standing in front of me. His hair is sticking up, and there’s a dribble of chocolate ice cream on his white shirt.

Hmm. Who am I talking to? “I—I have an imaginary friend,” I lie.

“Oh, wow.” Dad plops himself on the couch next to me.

On top of Inkling.

Oh no!

My dad is pretty big. He could squish Inkling for serious.

“Erk,” Inkling moans.

“I used to have an imaginary friend,” says Dad, leaning back and putting his arm around me. “Back when I was your age.”

“Erk.”

“Is that your friend’s name?” Dad asks. “Erk?”

“Yes,” I say. “Um, Dad? Would you mind standing up?”

“My friend’s name was Gary,” says Dad. “Good old Gary. I called him Gary ’cause I thought it was a cowboy name. He used to have a horse and everything. He really helped me out during some lonely times. Hey! I bet you’re feeling lonely with Alexander gone to Iowa City.”

“Erk.”

“Erk is an unusual name, though. How did you come up with it?”

“Dad—”

“It must be his last name, though, am I right? ’Cause you call everyone by last names. So what’s his first?”

“Would you move?”

“Wood Yoomove Erk, that’s his name?” Dad laughs. “I love the way your mind works, little dude.”

“Dad!” I shout. “Stand up!”

“Okay.” Dad scratches his head and stands. “Oh no! I was sitting on Erk, wasn’t I?”

“Yes!”

Dad bends over and looks at the empty spot where he was sitting. I can’t tell if Inkling is there or not. “I’m sorry, Erk,” he says, slow and sweet. “I’ll be more careful in future.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t talk to him like he’s a baby, Dad. Sheesh.” (For a moment I’ve forgotten that Wood Erk doesn’t exist, not even in my imagination.)

Dad pats my shoulder. “Look, I know Erk is probably kind of a private thing. I won’t talk to him any more or ask you questions. Why don’t we just watch some TV together? I don’t have to start cooking dinner for another half hour.”

I feel the couch next to me. Inkling is gone.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say. “That would be great.”

I hope Inkling’s okay.

“Can I sit down again now?” Dad asks.

“Sure,” I tell Dad. “Right here.”

Dad plops back down with a sigh and flips on the TV.

Food channel. That’s what he always picks.

“Dad?” I ask, after a minute of watching this gray-haired lady make meat loaf. “When you were a kid, were you good at sports?”

I’m thinking he’ll say no. I’ve never seen him play a sport in my life.

I actually want him to say no.

“I was good at Hacky Sack in college,” Dad answers.

“What’s Hacky Sack?”

“You stand in a circle, and everyone keeps a beanbag up in the air using only their feet.”

“Did people ever get all mad and stuff if you, like, failed to keep the beanbag up in the air?”

Dad flexes a muscle. “Not at me. I was the Hacky Sack master.”

“So they didn’t want to—I don’t know—see you later and rip your tongue out of your head ’cause you messed up?”

“No way.” Dad laughs. “I ruled that little beanbag.”

Oh.

I decide not to tell him what happened in gym class today.