Invisible Inkling

Then I asked for a rattlesnake. It would be a lot smaller than a mamba.

Still no.

Then I asked for a hedgehog.

No.

“Just a bitty hedgehog,” I said. “A pygmy one.” Pygmy hedgehogs are tiny, and you can feed them cat food. Or mealworms. Or vegetables. Nadia showed me stuff about them on the internet.

Mom sighed.

I told her they’re only the size of an egg and they just need a rabbit hutch to live in.

“No!” Mom barked. All right, then.

When Mom starts barking, it’s time to stop asking.

You see, there’s no way she’d say yes to Inkling. He is much bigger than a pygmy hedgehog, and he eats a lot more than a rattlesnake.

That’s why I’m asking you: please, please, please, promise not to say anything to anyone after you’re done reading this. It’s like a classified document.

From

Hank Wolowitz

LISTEN UP!

INKLING IS NOT A PET.

N-O-T NOT.

THE IDEA OF HIM BEING A PET IS AN INSULT TO HIS DIGNITY.

IN FACT, INKLING IS THE BEST FRIEND A BOY COULD EVER HAVE. HE SWIMS A RECORD-BREAKING BACKSTROKE. HE HAS TRAVELED FROM THE VOLCANOES OF INDONESIA TO THE DESERTS OF NORWAY.

WHAT ELSE? HE IS EXTREMELY WITTY, BRAVE, CUTE—AND YET SENSITIVE TO THE FEELINGS OF OTHERS. ALSO, AN EXCELLENT MONOPOLY PLAYER.

INKLING IS NOT A LIAR.

HE IS NOT A SECRET AGENT.

HE IS ALSO REALLY, REALLY NOT A PET.

Sorry.

Inkling wrote that when I left my room for a minute.

They All Taste Like Baby Food

I totally need to get hold of some canned pumpkin. I am going to hijack some when Dad’s not looking. I’ve got a Ziploc bag in my pocket.

Pumpkin is Inkling’s favorite food. Now that Halloween is over, it’s been hard to find. I don’t know if he’ll like canned, though. Canned pumpkin is precooked and mashed. Bandapats like their squash raw. Still, it’s worth a try, right? This morning, Dad is trying out pumpkin-ice-cream recipes down in the kitchen of our family’s ice-cream shop, Big Round Pumpkin: Ice Cream for a Happy World.

Did you know that despite the name Big Round Pumpkin, our shop has never sold pumpkin ice cream?

Dad has tried and tried to make some. It always comes out gross.

Now, it’s close to Thanksgiving. Brooklyn food shops are making pumpkin pies, pecan squares, apple dumplings. Time to try again.

I promised Inkling I’d snag some leftover canned pumpkin for him to taste. But so far this morning, I’ve missed every chance. Probably because Joe Patne is here, helping us cook.

Patne makes me nervous.

A thing about Patne is, he used to be my friend. He’s come to my birthday parties and I’ve been to his. He was on my owl-pellet team at Science Fellow summer camp. Then he started going to after-school programs every day. I hardly ever saw him anymore. Now he’s friends with this guy Henry Kim, who treats me like some tagalong kindergartner.

My best friend, Wainscotting, moved away just before fourth grade started. Without him, I’m not exactly Lord Popular. I do have Sasha Chin from downstairs. She and I built the Great Wall of China out of matchsticks together. Now we’re working on the Taj Mahal. But aside from Chin, I don’t have any other visible friends.

My dad invited Patne over without even asking me.

Here in the ice-cream-shop kitchen, we made a custard ice-cream base. Now three pots of canned pumpkin are cooking: one with vanilla, cream cheese, and honey; one with nutmeg and cinnamon; one with melted chocolate. The shop doesn’t open till noon, so there are no customers yet. Dad stirs the pots with wooden spoons. Patne and I eat orange sprinkles from small plastic dishes.

The nearly empty cans of pumpkin are sitting on the counter. Calling me.

But Dad is always here. Stirring. Making jokes. Watching.