Invisible Inkling

Finally, the phone rings and Dad takes himself out to the front of the store to talk. I have to get this pumpkin for Inkling. Barefaced in front of Patne, there’s no other way. I grab a spatula and scrape the leftover pumpkin from the cans into my Ziploc.

“Why are you doing that?” Patne asks.

I have a lie prepared. I lie a lot now that Inkling lives with me. I feel bad about it—but what else can I do? “I’m gonna drop it out the fourth-floor window later,” I tell Patne. “See it splat.”

“Cool,” he says, lighting up. “I did that with applesauce once. But we only live on the second floor, so I didn’t get a really good splat.”

I picture it. “Another problem is, applesauce is tan.”

Patne nods. “You couldn’t see it on the pavement that well.”

“That’s why I think the pumpkin will be good,” I say. “Nice and orange. Chocolate pudding could work, too.”

“I’d rather eat the pudding,” Patne says. “Pumpkin’s good because you don’t want to eat it, and your dad’s not using those leftovers. So it isn’t a waste.”

“True,” I say. For a moment I’ve forgotten about Inkling and how he’s waiting for the canned pumpkin. It seems like I really am going to splat it—until Patne says:

“Can I come upstairs with you? Help with the splat?”

“No!” I blurt.

“Aw, come on. I won’t actually drop it. You can do that. I’ll just be there as a witness.”

“Not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

I can’t tell him I was lying about splatting the pumpkin. I can’t tell him I need to feed it to my invisible bandapat, who’s had to settle for cheap acorn squash since the last of the Halloween jack-o’-lanterns hit the trash. Can I?

No.

I have to make sure Patne doesn’t come upstairs. I have to make sure we don’t splat the pumpkin. I can’t let Inkling down.

Except: Patne is acting like he thinks I’m a person with good ideas. Like he wants to hang around with me, for once.

He doesn’t always act this way.

“Okay,” I tell him. “We can splat it together. There’s a good spot out my sister Nadia’s bedroom window.”

Dad comes back. The three of us taste the pumpkin mixtures that have been cooking on the stove.

Hm.

Meh.

Yuck.

They all taste like baby food.

Dad thinks the cream cheese–honey-vanilla one might turn out okay once it’s mixed with the custard, and sets that one in the fridge to chill. “But okay isn’t really good enough,” he says. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”

“Why not just skip pumpkin ice cream?” asks Patne. “Why not stick with regular flavors?”

“Ice-cream shops do great in the hot weather,” Dad explains as he sets up the big machine to churn a batch of espresso double shot that’s been chilling. “Once it gets cold out, we have trouble finding customers. Making flavors for the winter holidays really helps. People will come in for pumpkin at Thanksgiving or candy cane at Christmas.”

“Or latke-and-applesauce at Hanukkah,” I add. “We should make that, Dad.”

“I already told you no on that one, Hank,” Dad reminds me.

I remember. But I still think we should do a Hanukkah ice cream. I have lots of ideas written down in my flavor notebook. I just haven’t invented one good enough, yet. Maybe noodle kugel? Or creamed herring?

Okay, probably not creamed herring.

“Also,” Dad goes on explaining to Patne, “a lot of our business is selling ice cream to restaurants for seasonal desserts. If I can tell them I have pumpkin ice cream, not just vanilla, they’ll buy a lot. They’ll put it on pecan pie or other holiday treats they have planned. I need to make flavors that other ice-cream companies don’t have.”

“Big Round Pumpkin ice cream is at fifteen restaurants,” I tell Patne.

Dad coughs. “Only twelve now, actually.”

Oh.

I am pretty sure it was fifteen before.

“Two of them started making their own,” says Dad. “And one of them switched to a cheaper vendor.”

“Is that bad?” asks Patne.

“Let’s just say, I hope it’s not a trend,” says Dad. And he laughs—but he doesn’t sound happy.

Which Is More Fun, Alien Poo or Science?

Dad gives us an early lunch in the shop. Then my sister, Nadia, arrives for work, all sharp elbows and spiky hair. She barely talks to us as she ties on her apron and texts her boyfriend, Max. She and Dad open for customers. My job is dealing with garbage and recycling, but I can’t do that until late in the day. Dad sends me home to play.

Patne and I run the half block back to my family’s apartment. I am careful not to let the bag of pumpkin break open in my backpack.

Upstairs, Inkling’s nowhere I can find him. I check for movement by the plants. I feel in the laundry basket. I look for indentations in the couch pillows. Nothing.

I’d be surprised if he’s out. He doesn’t like to go by himself much. People step on his tail. Dogs try to eat him.

More likely he’s asleep on top of the kitchen cabinets. There’s a heating vent up there.

Mom’s busy on her laptop. Patne and I sneak into Nadia’s room with our bag of pumpkin.