Invisible Inkling

The Big Fur Fluff-Up

I know what you should do,” Inkling says. “You should bite Gillicut on the ankle.”

“There’s no biting allowed at school.”

“I bet there’s no sprinkle stealing allowed, either.”

“That’s true.”

“The trick is to chomp down really hard on the ankle with both the top and bottom teeth. Then waggle your head around to make it hurt more.”

I sigh.

“Come on.”

I sigh again.

“I can tell you’re not going to bite him,” says Inkling. “I can tell by your voice.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Then the least you can do is fluff up your fur to make yourself look bigger.”

I laugh. “What?”

“A big fur fluff-up is very scary to an opponent.”

“I don’t have fur.”

“On your head you do.”

“That’s hair.”

“So fluff it up. Gillicut will back right down once you show him how really fluffy you can get. You can use some of Nadia’s volumizer putty.”

“Volumizer what?”

“Putty. That stuff she puts in her hair that makes it stand up. She’s got it on the bathroom counter.”

“Fluffing my hair is not going to make Gillicut back down. It’s just going to get me in trouble with Nadia.”

I don’t add that no boys have fluffy hair at Public School 166.

“This isn’t the jungle,” I tell Inkling. “It’s the lunchroom.”

“Same thing.”

“Fluffy is different for humans.”

“Suit yourself,” says Inkling. “But I’m telling you it’s worth a try.”

In the morning I find Nadia’s volumizer putty and scoop some into a plastic bag.

“Put more,” says Inkling.

I jump. I didn’t know he was in the bathroom

with me.

“You shouldn’t come into the bathroom with people,” I say. “People like privacy in the bathroom.”

“You’re just stealing volumizer putty,” says Inkling.

“I know, but—”

“Whatever. I swear, I will never understand human beings.”

“Just don’t come into the bathroom unless the door’s open, okay?”

“Got it. Now go on. Put more in. You want to get a really big fluff-up.”

I put more in.

Right before lunch I go to the boys’ room at school and mush the putty through my hair until it stands on end all over my head.

I look insane. I know I do. But maybe insane is good, you know? Maybe insane is what it takes to scare away someone like Gillicut.

Entering the cafeteria, I turn my neck side to side, displaying my fur fluff as Inkling taught me. I keep my shoulders low and my gaze fierce. It’s a display of size and health, and it’s supposed to make your enemies back down.

“Spikey Spankopolis. You been to the beauty parlor?” Gillicut comes up from behind.

“No,” I say, with great seriousness. “I have not.”

“Did the beauty-parlor lady stick your finger in an electric socket?” he asks. “Or did you see your own ugly face in the mirror, and now you can’t live down the shock?”

“No,” I say again. I can tell the fluff isn’t working, but I try to see the plan through to the end. Inkling promised it would work if I’d just commit myself and not wimp out. “I have bigger hair than you, Gillicut,” I say loudly. “In fact, your hair is small and weak looking, compared to mine.”

He bursts into a fit of giggles. Pointing at me.

Soon a number of other kids are pointing and laughing, too.

Drat.

I should never have listened to Inkling. He thinks the laws of the lunchroom are the same as the laws of the Ethiopian Outback, but clearly:

They. Are. Not.

Gillicut holds his hand out to me. “Sprinkie tax, Spikey Spank.”

I give him my Tupperware of sprinkles.

I brought the rainbow kind. Just in case.

Gillicut leaves his hand out and gets my dried-fruit snack.

And then my chocolate milk.

Instead of eating what’s left, I run to the boys’ room and wash the putty out of my hair.

Every day after that, regular as regular, Gillicut takes whatever’s best in my lunch.