Invisible Inkling

“No. That’s cool, actually.” The penguin dads keep the pengies warm for months while the moms are out foraging. I read about it in my Creatures of Antarctica pop-up book.

“So, bandapat males have—well, the technical term is floppy bits. We have floppy bits on our undersides, and—”

“On your bellies?”

“Yes. The cubs hang out there in the cold weather. It gets very cold in the Ukrainian glaciers.”

“Is it a pouch?”

“No!” Inkling sounds exasperated. “I told you, it’s floppy bits. Anyway,” he continues, “I haven’t seen any other bandapats since our homeland in the volcanoes of Indonesia was destroyed by scientists. I have no one to bandapat around with. If I only had a cub, Wolowitz, I’d teach it everything.”

“Like what?”

“Like how to drop on enemies from high branches, and how to eat pumpkin without getting strings in its teeth. I’d show it how to backstroke and catch Oatie Puffs in midair.”

“You can show me how to catch Oatie Puffs if you want,” I offer.

“You’re missing the point!” Inkling shouts.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble.

“I’m done talking about this right now,” Inkling says. “But you owe me some canned pumpkin.”

Maybe I Took One Tiny Bite

Nothing is different just ’cause Patne came over to my apartment. He doesn’t seem to see me during lunch and spends recess playing soccer with Henry Kim and Bruno Gillicut. Gillicut used to take the best parts of my lunch every day. He hates me worse than black mamba poison but doesn’t bother me anymore since Inkling bit him on the ankle.

Still, it’s not like I’m going to go over and play soccer with them. Ever.

I eat with Chin and her friends Locke, Linderman, and Daley, like usual, but I don’t really want to play with them in the yard. All they do right now is imagine the costumes for a musical they want to perform. It even has kissing.

I find a ball and toss it against a wall by myself.

Today, Nadia picks me up and walks me home. She’s talking on and on about this new list of vocab words she’s got to study for the PSAT. It is not interesting. Then we reach our corner and—

There is a food truck.

A pink food truck.

A dessert truck.

Oh no.

Let me explain about food carts and trucks in New York City. Any busy place, you see them on the corners. Usually the carts sell hot dogs or shish kebabs. In winter they have hot pretzels and chestnuts. There are candied nuts sometimes, or muffins and doughnuts in the mornings. Then there are actual trucks, bigger than the carts. They sell waffles, Thai dumplings, kimchi tacos, Indian curry, you name it.

Now we see a food truck on our corner. There has never been one there before. It’s not just any food truck, either. It’s a big, bright-pink truck with Betty-Ann’s Whoopie Pies written in large white letters on the side of it.

There is a line of people clutching money. Some of them are our regular customers. A tall white lady with wavy gray hair and a hot-pink apron is leaning halfway out the truck’s window. She is wearing latex gloves and handing out whoopie pies. A young guy who looks like he might be her son wears a green apron. He works the cash register. They are wearing name tags: Betty-Ann and Billy.

Money changes hands. People unwrap their pies, which are tied up in wax paper with cute ribbons. They walk away with smiles on their faces.

I look at the menu posted on the side of the truck. Red velvet, chocolate, vanilla. The usual whoopie pie flavors. But my heart sinks when I see a sign posted at the bottom:

New!

ICE-CREAM WHOOPIE PIES

Chocolate and Pumpkin!

Nadia and I watch in shock. Kid after kid, parent after parent—they’re buying ice cream. From Betty-Ann.

Right down from our shop. Like we aren’t their friendly neighborhood ice-cream store anymore.

“We should have thought of that,” Nadia finally says. “Pumpkin ice cream was never going to work. What people want is pumpkin cake sandwiching normal ice cream.”

“How could we think of it?” I say. “We’re an ice-cream shop.”

We walk into Big Round Pumpkin. Mom and Dad are sitting there with nothing to do. There’s not a single customer inside.

After human dinner I bring Inkling a bowl of cooked kidney beans with a side of whipped cream—one of his favorite meals. We sit in my room playing Monopoly.

I have my money stacked in neat piles, but Inkling’s fake cash is spread out under him, wrinkling and moving as he walks over it. He is being the race car. I am being the Scottie dog.

Spoonfuls of kidney beans disappear down his gullet every now and then.

“What are we gonna do about this Betty-Ann lady?” Inkling asks me, after buying Park Place. “What’s our strategy?”

“I don’t know.”

“What kind of answer is that? She’s taking all Mom and Dad’s business! We have to do something!”

“I don’t know what to do!” I snap. Because really: I just want to play Monopoly and not think about my life.

“I think you should talk to Betty-Ann. Be adorable in your Wolowitz way and get her to move the truck.”