Invisible Inkling

“Six dollars in the shop, but four fifty wholesale, like to restaurants or food trucks who buy a lot at a time.” My voice is shaky. Betty-Ann is fairly scary. “But these are a gift,” I say. “We thought you’d like to try what we make. No obligation.”

“Four fifty for a pint?” She pops the vanilla open and sniffs it.

“It costs a lot to make, with organic cream and stuff,” I say. “But taste it.”

Betty-Ann reaches for a spoon and takes a bite. For a moment, as the ice cream melts in her mouth, her sour expression turns sweet.

Is it working?

Yes! It’s working.

Betty-Ann will be won over by the yumminess of our ice cream and the generosity of our gift. Her whoopie pie truck will use Dad’s ice cream, and before you know it, she’ll tell all her food-truck friends. The sundae trucks and cupcake trucks, maybe even the kimchi-taco and curry trucks—all of them will sell Big Round Pumpkin.

Throughout New York City, people will be eating what we make. They will be amazed at how ice cream can taste when it’s made fresh and without chemicals. People will travel into Brooklyn just to try our full range of flavors. The shop will have lines out the door. We’ll have money for this cool new Lego airplane I saw, and—

“Shove off, kid,” barks Betty-Ann.

“Huh?”

“Shove off. You’re not buying anything, so get outta the way. I got customers.”

I look behind me. Sure enough, there’s a line of kids in soccer shirts, fresh out of practice. They’re waiting to buy whoopie pies.

“What part of ‘shove off’ do you not understand?” shouts Betty-Ann.

Now she is full-on scary.

I shove off.

“Four fifty a pint is criminal!” she yells at my retreating back. “I can pay three ninety-nine a quart. A quart!”

“Not organic!” I yell back at her as I run away. “Not local!”

“Not a success,” Inkling says in my ear when we’re safe inside my building. “I told you we should have biffed her.”

It’s This or Hip-Hop Dance

Saturday, Mom drags me to the pool at the gym over on Court Street—the one where Inkling sometimes swims after hours. (He says bandapats are related to the otters of the Canadian underbrushlands. Whether that’s true or not, they definitely love to swim.)

At the pool, it turns out Mom has signed me up for lessons.

A thing about me is, I don’t want them.

I’m not scared of the water. I just—I don’t like the way swim teachers blow whistles. Or the way they sort the kids into levels.

Last time I had lessons was in second grade. I was a Neon. After Neon you move up to Cuttlefish. Then Barracuda, then Hammerhead.

To be a Cuttlefish you have to swim the length of the pool and back without ever putting your feet on the floor.

A thing about me is, I can’t do that. My brain gets overbusy. I think: What if this warm steamy room was my bedroom? For a bed I could have an enormous hammock stretched out over the water. Going to sleep in it would feel like being deep in the jungle. In the morning, I could pull off my pajamas and jump straight in the water. I’d swim around instead of washing my face. Oh, but where would I brush my teeth? Not in the pool. That would be gross.

Maybe there’d be a long rack of heated towels up against one wall, and a sink—

Anyway, I’m thinking like that while I’m swimming. Before I know it, I’m standing still in the center of the lane looking at which wall would be best for the heated towel rack. The kid who’s swimming behind me is crashing headfirst into my back, and the teacher is blowing her whistle.

“Do I have to?” I ask Mom.

“It’s not a punishment, Hank. It’s fun.”

“Your idea of fun,” I grumble. In college, Mom was a field hockey all-American.

“Sporty stuff is good for you. Team stuff.”

I don’t mind sporty stuff. I just can’t remember the rules, and then everyone yells at me. It’s the yelling part I don’t like.

“I know you’re not in love with soccer,” Mom continues, “so I want you to try swimming. Once you finish Hammerhead, they have a team you can join.”

I look up at her, pleading in my eyes.

“It’s this or hip-hop dance,” Mom says. “There’s a boys’ class starting at the studio where Nadia takes.”

“Fine,” I say.

“Here’s the men’s dressing room,” Mom says. “Nadia is picking you up after class.” She hands me a bag with my swimsuit, goggles, towel, cap, and lock, plus a granola bar.

Inkling is in the bag. I can tell because he weighs nearly ten pounds. I can’t believe Mom didn’t notice.

When I get into the locker room, it’s empty, so I shake Inkling out of the towel, where he’s been rolled like a burrito. “What are you doing here?” I whisper.

“I’m not gonna swim. I just want to see you in action.”

“It’s not entertainment. It’s a class.”

“I just want to see!” he insists.

I sigh as I change into my suit. I put my clothes and my bag in a locker.