Invisible Inkling

Terror in the Aisles

of Health Goddess

On the weekend, Mom goes to Health Goddess, the natural-food store near our home. It’s run by friends of my parents.

“Come on,” I tell Inkling. “I’m gonna get you a squash now.” He climbs onto my back, warm and heavy, and we go with Mom. I stroll through aisles of bean soup, almond butter, and other foods I don’t like until we get to the produce section.

As we round the corner, Inkling’s legs kick with excitement. He breathes hard in my ear.

And then I see it, too.

Squash! Piles and piles of squash! Tan ones, green ones, yellow. Even striped.

I read the signs: butternut, acorn squash, banana squash, and delicata.

“Mom!” I call. She is looking over the apples, selecting ones without bruises. “Can we get some squash?”

She crinkles her nose at me. “Hmm. What do you need it for?”

“Just to eat,” I say, innocently. “I feel like squash. You know, um, for dinner.”

“Hank, you know you don’t like squash. When we had it at Aunt Sophia’s, you made gagging noises.”

“Tastes change. Maybe I like it now.”

“That was only two months ago.”

“Maybe I like it cooked a different way!”

“It was baked with brown sugar and butter.”

Inkling whispers in my ear. “Bandapats eat it raw.”

“You don’t have to cook it,” I tell Mom.

“You can’t eat raw squash,” she says. “Nobody eats raw squash, except maybe zucchini. Is that what you want, Hank? Zucchini?”

Inkling speaks fiercely in my ear: “No! No zucchini!”

“No!” I tell Mom. “I want—”

“Butternut,” Inkling whispers.

“Butternut!”

Mom narrows her eyes at me. “You want to eat raw butternut squash for dinner.”

“Yes!” I cry. “Please?”

“No.” She selects a bunch of apples and puts them in a bag. “That’s ridiculous, Hank. It’s not even edible raw. I know you won’t like it, and I don’t want to waste money. Let’s buy broccoli.” She turns decisively and walks to the other end of the produce section, where she begins filling bags with green vegetables.

Inkling is panting on my back, muttering: “Squash here, squash there, squash piled high. But squash for Inkling? No squash for Inkling.”

“Calm down,” I say, under my breath. “I’ll come shopping another day with Dad. Maybe I can get him to buy some.”

“Want the squash. Need it now. Squash! Squash!”

“Keep your voice down!” I hiss.

Inkling begins muttering again—more to himself than to me. “Butternut. Acorn. Butternut. Acorn . . . Butternut!”

Suddenly, Inkling is not on my back anymore.

Where is he?

Oh.

Oh no.

There is a butternut squash with two bites out of it scootching down the aisle of Health Goddess.

As if it hopes no one will notice it.

Mom runs over from the broccoli and grabs my arm. “Hank, don’t freak out,” she says, “but I think there’s a rat in here. See that squash moving across the floor?”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not a rat,” I say, but I can’t think of another reason the squash would be moving.

“Well, if it’s not a rat, it’s some other vermin. We can’t have that here in Health Goddess.” She runs to a corner of the market and grabs a broom. “Shoo!” she cries, chasing the squash.

Whack! She hits it hard, once.

The squash stops moving.

The squash wiggles, feebly, as if injured. Is Inkling okay?

Whack! Mom hits it again.

“Mom, stop!”

Erik, the guy who owns Health Goddess, runs over to see what’s up. “There’s a rat under that squash,” Mom tells him. “You can’t see it, but it’s there. Get another broom!”

Several customers are gathering round. Two are shrieking and standing on wooden produce boxes. One dad has scooped up his three-year-old, clutching the kid like there’s a lion loose in the market.

The squash is trying to move across the floor again, heading toward the door.

Whack! Mom hits it again.

“Stop!” I cry.

And slam! Erik comes back with a mop and hits it from the other side. “Did you see it?” he yells. “I can’t see it!”

Whack! Mom again.

“Don’t hurt him!” I yell. But no one is listening to me. People are shrieking “Rat! Rat!” and “Get it out of here!” and things like that.

Slam! Erik lands a good one on the top of the butternut. Half of it breaks off.

Then the other half begins limping down the aisle—if squash can limp—and Mom runs after it. “Shoo! Out you go!”

I run after her and try to grab her arm, but she’s fast, and she hits it again with her broom. Whack!

The half squash shatters into many, many pieces.

Mom looks down. No rat in sight. “Did it run outside? Hank, did you see it?”

I ignore her and drop to my knees, feeling around on the floor for Inkling.

He must be hurt. He might even be bleeding or have a broken bone.

“Maybe it was just a baby rat. Maybe it was a lost chipmunk,” Mom is saying.

I touch the floor, the shelves, the corners, feeling around like a blind person.

“Hank, what are you doing?”

“Cleaning up the squash,” I say, pushing some blobs of butternut around on the floor.

“Oh.” Her face breaks into a smile. “That’s nice. Since when are you such a helpful kid?”

She turns and begins talking to Erik about how the baby rat or chipmunk is probably still somewhere in the market, and it’s really fast. That’s why neither of them got a good look at it. They need to put out no-kill peanut-butter traps.

I go back to running my hands along the floors, searching for Inkling. He must be wounded, or he’d come to me. And he must be scared to make any noise, because now Erik’s on the lookout for a rat.

My hand finally hits quivering fur and I can feel Inkling, shaking and limp, squeezed between two bins of granola. I’m so relieved I want to cry, but instead I pick him up. He crawls slowly onto my back, moving as if he’s bruised all over.

Keeping him gently in place with one hand, I pick up the unshattered half of the butternut squash that’s lying in the produce section. “Excuse me, Erik?” I say, interrupting his chat with Mom. “Since you probably can’t sell this, would it be okay if I took it home?”

He tells me yes, and Inkling and I head outside and wait on a bench for Mom to finish her shopping.

“Yummy, yummy squashy goodness,” Inkling mumbles to himself, as the butternut disappears in small, eager bites. He makes grunting noises as he eats.

In minutes, the whole thing is gone. Inkling burps in satisfaction.

When she comes outside, Mom asks me what happened to that squash I asked Erik for.

“I took a bite and you were right,” I tell her. “I don’t like it after all. I threw it in the trash. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I knew you wouldn’t like it.” She laughs. “I guess you learned a lesson, huh?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “I did.”