Invisible Inkling

A New Plan

We are half a block from Rice, the Thai restaurant we always go to. I am trailing behind.

Thinking about Gillicut and what he’s going to do to me next day at school.

About how I could say such a cruel thing. How it just popped out of my mouth, one of the meanest things a person can say to another person.

About Chin, and how she stood up for me.

I am inside my head, hardly noticing my feet on the sidewalk or the cars going by, when: “Wolowitz! Let me out!”

A voice is right in my ear.

What?

“It’s hot in here!”

Inkling is hiding in my backpack.

He’s never been in my backpack before.

How did he get in there?

When did he get in there?

I unzip it. There’s a thud, and then a pitter-pat, and I know he’s walking along beside me.

“I came during Theater of the Mind,” says Inkling, in explanation. “I wanted to see that Gillicut for myself. Plus, there was nothing good on television.”

Ahead of us, Dad and Chin open the door to the restaurant. “We’re going in, okay, Hank?” Dad calls. “Come inside.”

I wave to say I’ll catch up to them.

“How did you find me?” I ask Inkling. He has always refused to come to school before. Too scared of crowds.

“I made my way to Big Round Pumpkin from the heights of the Himalayan mountains. I think I can find your elementary school that’s three blocks away from your apartment.”

Oh.

“Anyway,” says Inkling. “Gillicut is a dirtbug and a caveperson.”

I sigh. “Yeah.”

“I saw what happened in the park.”

I nod.

“You were right. He hates you. And he’s really big and mean, and now that you said his mommy doesn’t want him, he hates you even more.”

Yeah, I know.

“So.” Inkling pauses dramatically.

“So what already?”

“So despite the fact that I’m seriously squash-deprived, I see the urgency of your problem. I’ve got a new plan.”

Dad pops his head out of Rice. “Hank! You can’t just stand around on the street. Come in and look at the menu.”

I have to go in without finishing the conversation. We order crispy spring rolls and vegetable dumplings and fried tofu. I feed Inkling under the table.

“You’re hogging the dumplings, Hank,” complains Chin.

I can’t explain that Inkling has been poking my leg really hard and even grabbing dumplings off my plate. I try and feed him the rest of my tofu, but he just pops up and snags the last dumpling when Chin is in the bathroom and Dad is talking to the waiter.

After dinner we all play Boggle for a bit in Chin’s apartment; then Dad and I head home. I have to shower and brush my teeth and get into bed. I don’t have time to talk to Inkling until late.

Now we sit by the window, looking down at the streetlamps and the lights from the shops that are still open at night.

“What’s your new plan?” I ask.

Inkling pauses for dramatic effect. “You’ve got to pounce.”

“What?”

“Climb up in a really big tree and wait until Gillicut comes by. Then—kah-blam! You drop right on top of him, and you take his sprinkles! Like me when I nabbed that pumpkin off that kangaroo.”

“Gillicut doesn’t have any sprinkles,” I say. “That’s why he takes mine.”

“Take his whole lunch box then.”

“He buys lunch.”

Inkling thinks. “I know. Wait for pizza Friday, then get in the tree and kah-blam! Take his pizza!” He lowers his voice, coaxing. “And if you don’t want to eat it yourself, you can always give it to me. You know I like pizza, Wolowitz.”

“There are no trees in the lunchroom,” I tell Inkling.

“What?”

“It’s indoors. There aren’t any trees.”

“Oh. Yeah. So what are you going to drop from?”

“I’m not dropping.”

“Are there pipes in the ceiling?” Inkling asks. “Could you drop from a pipe?”

“Yes, there are pipes. But no, I could not.”

Inkling sits in silence for a moment. “I could,” he says at last. “A pipe’s not that different from a branch, and I’ve dropped from more branches than you can count.”

“Maybe I should apologize for what I said about his mom,” I say. “And keep bringing him sprinkles like he wants. Maybe then I’ll live through the school year.”

“Are you kidding?” Inkling cries. “No! This Gillicut needs to be dropped on. When he’s done with you, he’s gonna start taking sprinkles from the first graders. Then the kindergartners. Then the bitty preschoolers. We have to stop him before he goes on a preschooler rampage.”

He could be right.

“I’m coming to school with you, pizza Friday,” Inkling announces. “Got that?”

“You hate crowds. You’re squash deprived.”

“True. But I like pizza. Anyhow, I gotta risk it. It’s the only way I can pay the Hetsnickle. Friday at noon, right? I’ll be there on the pipe.”

I nod.

A thing about Inkling is, he doesn’t take no for an answer.