Invisible Inkling

Rampage

Friday. Pizza day.

When I get up, Inkling’s not in the laundry basket, not in the back of the closet, not on my pillow.

Nowhere.

Maybe he’s gone for good.

I should have understood about him not wanting to be visible.

I shouldn’t have grabbed him.

Shouldn’t have.

Shouldn’t have.

Shouldn’t have.

“Inkling!” I call. “Inkling, where are you?”

But there is no answer. No matter how many times I call.

The lunchroom is always loud on pizza day. More people buy their lunch than usual, and even some of the teachers stand on line.

“Gillicut’s going to rampage,” says Chin.

“What else is new?”

“I mean, he’s going to rampage extra. After what you said about his mom.”

“I know.” My stomach drops.

I have no plan. I have no protection. I have no Inkling.

I will be facing this rampaging Gillicut alone, which is probably what I deserve after all I’ve done—but it stinks anyway.

We pour into the lunchroom. Most of the kids follow Ms. Cherry into the pizza line, except Chin and I have box lunch. Chin because she only likes apple-butter-and-pickle sandwiches, and me because my parents won’t let me buy. We grab a table behind a large post in the center of the room, hoping Gillicut won’t see us.

No luck.

I’ve just unpacked my food and am biting into my apple when suddenly he is standing next to me, unloading his tray.

What? Why unload?

He’s never unloaded before.

Is he going to sit down with us?

Why would he sit down with us?

He does sit down. Makes himself at home. Like he’s welcome to eat lunch with us or something.

“Hey, Spank.” Gillicut waves his hand in front of my face. “Didn’t I tell you not to start eating until we’ve had our daily chat?”

I look up.

Not a lunch aide in sight.

“Sprinkie tax,” Gillicut says, reaching over to grab my Tupperware.

I hold my breath.

“I’ll take these, too,” he says, reaching for a bag of Cheddar Bunnies.

Gillicut dumps the bunnies on the table and shoves some in his mouth.

What’s he going to do next?

He must have some evil plan or he wouldn’t have sat down.

Chin has her arms protectively around her apple-butter-and-pickle sandwich.

“May I sit here?” Ms. Cherry stands over us, holding a tray of pizza, cranberry juice, and fruit salad.

I breathe out.

If a teacher is going to sit with us, I should be safe. What can Gillicut do with Ms. Cherry sitting across from him?

“Sure,” I answer. Chin scoots over to make room.

“I’ve decided I should eat with my students on pizza day,” says Ms. Cherry, setting her food down and touching her complicated hair. She eases herself onto the bench. “I never get a chance to just chat with you guys!” She reaches over and pats my hand. “I love to connect with kids outside of the classroom.”

“Hello, Ms. Cherry,” says Gillicut, chewing my bunnies.

“Bruno, did Hank give you his ice-cream-shop sprinkles today?” she says, noticing the container.

I’m about to say “No!” when Gillicut kicks me under the table. “Thank you so much for the sprinkies, Hank!” He smiles. “Ms. Cherry, would you like some? They’re rainbow.”

“Hank!” Ms. Cherry pats my hand again. “Did you decide to be an ambassador of goodwill? Because I think you did!”

“Not really,” I say. “I—”

“I love sprinkles,” says Ms. Cherry, picking up the Tupperware and peeking in. “My favorite ice-cream combo is peppermint with chocolate. Oh, and whipped cream. What about you, Sasha?”

But before Chin can answer, Ms. Cherry drops the container and screams.