Invisible Inkling

Back when she was eight, Nadia asked to have her room painted pink. It’s still pink, but now she’s got a gray wool blanket on her white princess bed. There are stacks of books and boxes of art supplies all over the floor.

I haven’t been in Nadia’s room for ages. She’s always yelling at me for going in there and messing with her stuff, only it isn’t me. It’s Inkling. On Nadia’s dresser is a stash of hair products. When the apartment is empty, Inkling likes to fluff up his fur with them and admire himself in the mirror.

Patne and I lean out the window. The sidewalk, four flights below, is damp from this morning’s drizzle. A perfect dark gray.

Patne has the Ziploc and is squeezing the pumpkin back and forth inside it. “There’s something gross about this,” he says. “I can’t believe we ate some earlier.”

“We didn’t like eating it.”

“Yeah, but right now it doesn’t even seem like a food. It seems like . . .”

“Alien poo,” I say.

“Yes!”

“Actually, Martian poo.” I say. “’Cause Mars is the orange planet, and all the Martian plants are orange. Eating them makes the Martian poo orange!”

“Actually Mars is the red planet,” Patne corrects.

Oh. “Well, Jupiter, then,” I suggest.

“There’s no evidence of life on Jupiter,” Patne says. “The whole planet is made of gas.”

“Who cares about evidence?” I yell. “We have a Ziploc full of alien poo to drop on the sidewalk. The question is not, Where’s the evidence? The question is, Which is more fun, alien poo or science?”

Patne doesn’t answer.

A thing about me is, I have an overbusy imagination. People complain about it a lot. Especially people like teachers and parents; people who like facts, and paying attention, and cleaning my room when I say I will.

Maybe people like Patne, too. He’s looking at the floor like he doesn’t know what to do.

I did just yell at him.

I know I should probably say sorry. I know I definitely should. But I can’t say sorry when I’m confused about what I’m sorry for. Like is it, “Sorry I forgot that Mars is red and Jupiter is gas when I know outer space stuff is really important to you?” Or is it, “Sorry I yelled?” Or is it, “Sorry I acted like I knew what was important and you didn’t?”

If I’m being honest, I actually want Patne to say sorry to me. “Sorry I took all the fun out of your alien-poo idea. Sorry I made you feel like you weren’t sciencey enough to be my friend.”

But that’s not gonna happen, so I jump up and down, point out the window, and yell, “Splat splat splat!”

Patne leans out. He launches the Ziploc onto the sidewalk.

“Splat!” he yells.

The bag bursts. Orange mush sprays out across the sidewalk like an explosion—

—and all across Seth Mnookin, my neighbor.

We Thought It Would Make a Good Splat

Mnookin is wearing a suit. I have never seen him in a suit. Usually he looks like he just got up from a nap.

Now his suit is covered in pumpkin up to the knees.

His dog is, too. Rootbeer is barking and jumping at us, as if she could bite four stories up.

“Is that you, Nadia?” Mnookin calls, shading his eyes.

“No, sir. It’s Hank, sir,” I say.

“Did you just throw—oh, heck, what is that—did you just throw orange paint at me?” Mnookin asks.

“It’s only cooked pumpkin. I’m really sorry. My friend Patne is sorry too.”

“This is my only suit, Hank.” Mnookin sounds upset. “I have to be at a funeral in an hour.”

“I didn’t throw it on purpose,” I say. “My friend Patne didn’t throw it on purpose, either. It just slipped out of our hands.”

“I don’t have another suit,” Mnookin repeats, in a daze.

Suddenly, a hand grips the back of my shirt. Mom. “What’s going on, boys?”

“Our hands slipped,” I say. “Mnookin’s suit got splashed by accident.”

“What?” She leans out the window. “Seth! Are you okay?” She turns on me. “What’s on him, Hank? What did you throw?”

“Canned pumpkin.” I can’t look her in the eye.

“Come up to the apartment, Seth,” Mom calls down. “I can clean your suit if it’s only pumpkin. It shouldn’t stain.” Then she turns to me and Patne. “I will talk to you boys later.”

Mnookin and Rootbeer come up. Mom wipes the suit with a damp rag and a little dish soap. She makes me and Patne rinse Rootbeer in the tub, which is a lot harder than you’d think. The dog scrabbles so we can’t rinse her back feet. Then she runs away and won’t let us dry her. She leaves wet footprints in the kitchen as she snarfles around looking for scraps of food.

Mom gives us a bucket and scrub brush. We have to clean the sidewalk, too. “Sorry my mom is so cranky,” I say to Patne as we pour water on the cement.

“My mom is cranky, too,” he says. “Maybe even more than yours.”

I’m grateful to him for saying that.

After Patne goes home and Mnookin heads off, Mom sits me down on the couch. “Anything you want to say to me about what happened today?”

Sheesh. Why do grown-ups always ask that? Of course there’s not anything I want to say. I never want to talk about it again. I was hoping she’d forgotten about it by now.

I look at my thumbs.