invisible bandapat living in my laundry basket for six weeks, eating my family�s breakfast cereal and playing with my pop-up-book collection.

Inkling needs to stay hush-hush.

For serious.

The only reason I am telling you right now is that if I don�t tell somebody, I really think my brain might explode.

And that would not be pretty.

From

A thing about me is, I have invented a lot of new ice-cream flavors.

Pepsi raisin chip.

Cotton-candy Gummi worm.

Poppy seed and waffle.

Sweet-potato pecan.

Don�t tell me what you think. I already know most people don�t like them.

My own family doesn�t like them.

Dad makes all the ice cream himself. He invented white cherry white chocolate, nectarine swirl, and Heath bar brownie. Mom invented chocolate-covered pretzel. Nadia made up cinnamon mocha and espresso double shot.

I have invented eight hundred different flavors�but not a single one has ever gone up on that chalkboard.

Marshmallow peep.

Caramel popcorn.

Dried pineapple.

Cheddar-bunny crunch.

It is true that after saying no to every other flavor I invented, Dad whipped up an experiment batch of Cheddar-Bunny crunch earlier this summer. I told him how every kid in Brooklyn eats these Cheddar-Bunny crackers for snack. Other salty things are good in ice cream�peanuts, pistachios or pretzel bits. Why not Cheddar Bunnies?

Chin from downstairs, my best friend Wainscotting, and I�we all three spent the rest of the afternoon barfing.

That�s why not Cheddar Bunnies.

Mom said could Dad please not waste time and resources making my weird ice-cream ideas any more. And he said okay.

After that, I stopped trying to help out in the shop so much. My sister works behind the counter on the weekends and in summer when it�s busy, but I�m too young, and no other job is as fun as inventing ice-cream flavors.

Anyway, I first notice Inkling that day at the end of the summer in Big Round Pumpkin. There�s nothing for me to do while everyone is setting up because two days ago, Wainscotting moved away to Iowa City.

Forever.

Against his will.

I don�t know how I�m going to face fourth grade without him. We have been in the same class together since pre-K.

But I don�t want to talk about Wainscotting. It makes my throat close up.

I want to tell you about Inkling.

It�s hot that day. Sweaty, smelly, New York City Labor Day weekend hot. I open the freezer and lean my face into the cold. �Hank, please,� says Mom as she puts fresh bags in the recycling bins.

I close the freezer and just lean against it.

Then I go into the kitchen and lie down on the cool tiles near the big sink.

�You�re underfoot, little dude,� says Dad as he makes his way from the fridge to the front of the store. He�s got a large tub of ice cream under each arm.

I know I am underfoot.

But I am so, so bored.

I don�t know what to do.

I roll over onto my stomach and press my cheek against the floor.

Oh.

There is a Lego propeller underneath the sink.

My Lego propeller that I have been looking and looking for. My City Rescue Copter can�t be complete without it.

I reach for it�and my hand touches fur.

Fur.

It is so weird a feeling that I snatch my hand back.

Look around. Squint at the darkness under the sink.

Nothing furry there. Just the pipes and a bucket with a sponge in it.

I put my hand back.

Secret Agents

A thing about me and Wainscotting was, we always called each other by last names. In fact, we called everyone by last names, ever since we went to Science Fellow camp the summer after second grade. It was last names all the time there.

Instead of Hank, I got to be Wolowitz.

Alexander got to be Wainscotting.

We thought we sounded like secret agents.

Only, yeah.

I forgot.

I don�t want to talk about Wainscotting.

I notice Inkling again the next day. During her afternoon break, Nadia convinces me to quiz her on her vocab words up in the Big Round Pumpkin overlook. She wants to know them by the start of eleventh grade because of all these tests she has to take for college. Nadia takes words and spelling very seriously. She used to win bees.

The overlook is a loft at the back of the ice-cream shop. My parents keep stuff there that they hardly ever need: holiday trim and spare parts for the machines. You climb up to it on a ladder. There�s not much room to stand, but there�s an old coffee table, a scrap of carpet, and a bookcase. Best, there�s a window that looks out on the store from above.

From the window, you can see that the shop floor and all the lamps are pumpkin orange, but the counters and tables are white. The walls have photographs of jack-o�-lanterns, blown up much larger than they are in life. The tubs of ice cream look like little spots of color in an orange and white world.

I like to guess what people will order, based on what they�re wearing, how they walk, what accent they have. �What about that guy with the long hair?� I ask Nadia as she�s climbing up the ladder.

She joins me at the window. �The one with the tan shorts?�

�Yeah. I think he�s cinnamon mocha.�

�He does look like he hangs around in coffee shops,� Nadia agrees. �Those guys usually go for coffee flavors. But I think he�s a vegan. He won�t want any milk. So�.�.�. raspberry sorbet.�

�Raspberry is girlie,� I say.

Nadia smacks me on the arm. �Flavors are not girl flavors or boy flavors.�

�It�s pink. Men never order pink ice cream.�

�Really?�

I nod. I like to watch people. Notice things about them. It�s interesting. �Lots of the regular customers always get the same thing,� I tell Nadia.

�You always get the same thing.�

That�s true. I get cookie dough with chocolate sprinkles. But other people have favorites, too. �Wainscotting always got plain chocolate,� I say. �Chin from downstairs gets strawberry with hot fudge. Mom, lemon sorbet.�

�Dad?�

�Heath bar brownie with butterscotch sauce and hot fudge, whipped cream, and a cherry on top. That�s his favorite. But he likes to mix it up.�

Nadia and I chase up the stairs to the fourth floor to find the dog growling at�

An empty corner of the hallway.

No cat. No squirrel.

Nothing.

�You�re barking at air, loony dog,� says Nadia, half laughing, half angry. She grabs Rootbeer�s leash, but the dog pulls against her.

�Treats!� coaxes Nadia, straining for the door of Mnookin�s apartment. �Rootbeer, I have liver treats for you inside.�

The dog keeps growling at the corner.

I wave my hand through the empty space. �See, Rootbeer? It�s empty��but my hand, expecting to swing through air, hits a trembling ball of fur.

I look.

There�s nothing.

Nothing I can see.

But my hand is touching something, something warm.

Fur again.

Oh, oh, oh.

There is. Something. Invisible.

Here.

This is the thing I felt under the sink. Only now, trembling in the corner.

The thing that ate the waffle cone.

It has to be.

That thing is here. Terrified �cause Rootbeer wants to kill it.

My head spins. The dog�s drooling jaws are just a foot away.

Instinctively, I stroke the soft fur of the invisible thing.

It is lost, probably.

The creature�s small forepaws reach up and grip my wrist, and I bend down, saying loudly, �Nothing here, see, Rootbeer? Don�t bark at the air.�

The invisible thing climbs nimbly into my arms and wraps its front legs around my neck. I hold its warm, frightened body, trying to look like I am doing nothing much with my hands.

I kick the air of the corner where the creature has been sitting. �Nothing,� I say again. �Silly dog.�

Nadia pulls on Rootbeer�s leash and reaches her key toward Seth Mnookin�s apartment door, but suddenly the dog isn�t lunging at the corner. She�s coming at me. I back up as the invisible creature hugs me, heavy and shaking with terror.

�Save me,� it whispers in my ear.

I�m so shocked, I nearly fall down.

It can speak.

English.

The invisible creature claws my neck in fear, and I stumble back against the wall. �Put Rootbeer in Seth�s apartment,� I tell Nadia. �Quick.�

Big Round Pumpkin

While Nadia fluffs up her drooping hair in our bathroom, I go to my room. I set the invisible creature gently on the pillow of my bottom bunk bed. There�s a slight dent where it�s sitting, but otherwise I can�t tell it�s even there.

�You okay?�

I feel strange speaking to the air, but the creature answers right away. �Alive!� it cries in a hoarse but energetic voice. �Alive, alive, alive!�

�Yeah,� I say, in wonder. �You are.�

�Alive!�

I can�t believe this is happening. I have a rush of questions. �Are you hurt? Did Rootbeer bite you? Do you need a Band-Aid?�

And: �Why can�t I see you? What kind of creature are you?�

And: �You�re a boy, right? You sound like a boy.�

And: �Are there lots of your kind all over Brooklyn and we just don�t know it? How do you make yourself invisible?�

The creature ignores everything. �Let me tell you this,� he says. �I owe you, big-time. You saved my life.�

�Can you appear and disappear? What do you look like? Are you bleeding? Are you even real?�

�Of course I�m real,� the creature snaps. �We�re having a conversation, aren�t we?�

�Yes, but��

�No buts. I�m here. I�m real. Get used to it. What�s your name?�

�Wolowitz. I mean, my first name is Hank, but I�d rather you call me Wolowitz.

�Wolowitz! I�m Inkling.�

Wow.

I am having a conversation with an invisible animal. A normal conversation, just like I�d have with a human.

I wish Wainscotting was here for this.

�Is Inkling your first name or your last?� I ask.

�It�s my name,� he says. �Lots of people have just one name.�

�Only pop stars.�

Inkling changes the subject. �What you did for me just now, Wolowitz? Fantastic. A heroic rescue. I am in your debt.�

�It wasn�t much,� I say. �Anyone would have done it.�

�Are you kidding? It was life or death with that�what did you call it?�

�Rootbeer,� I say.

�It was life or death with that rootbeer,� says Inkling. �I�m in your debt until I can return the favor. We bandapats have a code of honor.�

�Come on!� I say.

�Cheesy goodness,� he mumbles, between bites. �Inkling likes the cheesy goodness.�

�You�re going to have to get off the table as soon as Nadia comes back,� I whisper.

�Now then!� he says. �Cheesy goodness!� The entire pie starts scooting across the table again.

�No!� I reach for it, but Inkling�s too fast. The pizza flops onto the floor and zips across the tile, under two tables and several chairs, around a cooler full of drinks, and into the darkest corner of Giardini�s.

In seconds, it is gone.

All that�s left is the slices on our plates.

�Hank, my man,� says Nadia, returning. �Way to hog the pizza. You eat that fast, you�ll make yourself sick, you know.�

�It wasn�t me,� I say. �It was��

She squints her eyes at me. �It was what? Your invisible friend?�

I start laughing, because it�s true. And my life has become so strange and so happy so quickly that I can�t stop. I laugh and laugh until Nadia has to hit me on the back and make me drink a glass of water.

At home that night, Inkling tells me I have to keep him secret. Over the years, humans have endangered bandapats by trapping them and locking them in hush-hush science labs. The scientists are searching for the source of bandapat invisibility, but it�s never been found. And in the labs, the bandapats waste away and die from sadness. �Promise me you won�t say a word, Wolowitz,� Inkling begs. �Because I can�t have that happen to me. I can�t be a science experiment. It would break me.�

I promise, and tell him we also have to keep him secret because of Mom�s �no pets� policy. �Never, never� is the rule. She says seven hundred books, two kids, and Dad all together in our apartment�that�s already more than she can handle.

We shake hands on it, Inkling and I. It is strange shaking hands with an invisible creature. His paw is rough on the bottom and divided into pads.

What does he look like?

Fluffy.

Stout.

Soft ears, a large tail, and padded feet with hard little claws.

That�s all I can tell, so far.

Maybe he�ll tell me more, later. Maybe he�ll let me touch his face.

While Mom, Dad, and Nadia are on the living room couch watching E.T. that night, I make Inkling a bed in my laundry basket. I feed him a bowl of cereal and some leftover broccoli for dinner. �That rootbeer didn�t hurt me any worse than a kangaroo I fought once,� he says, munching.

�You fought a kangaroo?�

�Oh, they�re all over the outback of Ethiopia,� Inkling says. �I dropped on one that was hopping home with a huge, yummy-looking pumpkin. Waited in a tree and just dropped when the roo was least expecting it. There was big-time combat. She defended her pumpkin to the very last. But in the end, no bloodshed. Just aches and pains.�

Of course he�s for-serious lying�hello? Kangaroos don�t come from Ethiopia, and last time he mentioned home it was in the Ukraine�but it�s more fun to listen to him than to call him on it.

�Who ate the pumpkin finally?� I ask.

�Me, of course. Bandapats nearly always win in combat. Invisibility gives us an advantage.�

I can�t resist saying, �Except maybe with dogs, huh?�

�What?�

�Dogs, and their sense of smell. They can always tell where you are.�

�I don�t know what you�re talking about.�

�Rootbeer!� I say. �She can tell exactly where you are. Even when you�re up in a tree.�

�The rootbeer�s not a dog,� says Inkling.

�Yes, she is.�

�Listen, I have traveled all over the world, and I�ve seen dogs and dogs and dogs. This rootbeer is nothing like a dog. Her face is all squashed in and she has ears like a bat.�

I laugh.

�I�m fine with dogs,� Inkling claims, �but the rootbeer is another story. I have to steer clear of her.� He eats another piece of broccoli. �Anyway, I�m only sticking around until the Hetsnickle is paid.�

�Hetsnickle?�

�Hetsnickle was a famous bandapat. The debt of honor is named after her. You know, how I have to save your life because you saved me from that rootbeer? That�s the Hetsnickle debt.�

I nod, but I�m not thinking about the Hetsnickle. What I�m really thinking is:

I have an invisible friend.

It is not my imagination.

It is true, real life.

I have aninvisible friend.

in That Thing

In the early morning, before anyone else is up, I give Inkling a tour of the Wolowitz apartment. Dad�s seven hundred books, spilling off the shelves and piled on the floor. Nadia�s stash of cosmetics and hair products. The TV, the big worn sectional couch, Mom�s plants, and the photograph of me and Nadia when I was just a baby, blown up larger than life and hanging in the dining area.

�You got squash in that thing?� Inkling wants to know as I show him the refrigerator.

�I doubt it.�

�Why not?�

�No one in my family likes squash.�

�You don�t like squash?�

�Nah.�

�That�s completely insane,� says Inkling. �I swear, I will never understand human beings.�

�You can eat breakfast cereal or bread or leftovers,� I say. �But if you eat something special like strawberries or chocolate milk, my mom might notice.� I pour some Oatie Puffs onto the kitchen counter for him and set out a dish of almonds.

�Thanks,� he says. �But see if you can get some squash in that thing. I can�t stick around if there isn�t going to be squash.�

�I�ll try,� I tell him�but then I don�t think much more about it. Tomorrow is the first day of school. I notice Mom has put my backpack on the kitchen counter alongside a stack of folders and notebooks, plus the pencil case I picked out.

The first day of fourth grade.

Without Wainscotting.

Who will I sit with at lunch?

Who will I play with at recess?

�Do you miss your friends?� I ask Inkling. �I mean, your fellow bandapats in the Woods of Mystery or wherever?�

�Sure.�

�Do you write to them?�

�No.�

�How come? Don�t bandapats write?�

�We write.�

�So why don�t you write to them?�

�I don�t choose to discuss it.�

�What?�

�I don�t choose to discuss it.�

�Don�t choose to discuss what?� I persist. �Writing?�

�I told you before, Wolowitz. Bandapats are an endangered species.�

Oh.

I feel like a jerk now. But he�s said so many different things, I haven�t known what to believe.

�I�m sorry,� I say.

There�s no answer. Several Oatie Puffs disappear from the kitchen counter.

�Did you have a best friend?� I ask. �Someone you miss in particular?�

At first, he doesn�t answer. �I was very popular,� says Inkling finally. �Let�s leave it at that.�

�Come with me tomorrow,� I blurt out. �Come see what school is like.�

�What? No way.�

�You shouldn�t sit lonely at home all day,� I coax. �Plus, you know all about popularity. That would be a big help to me, actually, since my best friend moved away. You could give me advice.�

�Not happening,� Inkling says.

�Why not?�

�I hate crowds. Especially crowds of children. They�re dangerous for an invisible person.� Inkling makes a shivering noise. �All those feet.�

�Please?�

�If it�s a matter of life and death, I�ll come,� says Inkling. �Because of the Hetsnickle. Otherwise, I want to stay home and look at your pop-up books.�

�Come on, you�ll like it!� I say, even though I know that isn�t true.

�Is your life in danger?� Inkling demands.

�No,� I have to admit.

�Will there be squash at school?�

�No.�

�Will there be pizza?�

�Only on pizza Fridays.�

�Then this conversation is over,� Inkling says.

I hear a thump as he leaps from the kitchen counter to the floor. Then a soft pat-pat as he pads out of the room.

I think about following him, but I don�t.

The thought of facing fourth grade alone just makes me paralyzed or something.

�Sorry,� I say again.

His huge Gillicut face is right on top of mine, and I�m scared he might actually murder me, he seems so mad.

Kaminski blows her whistle. �Break it up, boys. Sportsmanship, remember?�

Gillicut steps away. �Later, Spankitty Spankpants.�

�Later what?� I ask, my legs shaking.

�I. Will. See. You. Later,� he says.

�Erk.�

�Erk is an unusual name, though. How did you come up with it?�

�Dad��

�It must be his last name, though, am I right? �Cause you call everyone by last names. So what�s his first?�

�Would you move?�

�Wood Yoomove Erk, that�s his name?� Dad laughs. �I love the way your mind works, little dude.�

�Dad!� I shout. �Stand up!�

�Okay.� Dad scratches his head and stands. �Oh no! I was sitting on Erk, wasn�t I?�

�Yes!�

Dad bends over and looks at the empty spot where he was sitting. I can�t tell if Inkling is there or not. �I�m sorry, Erk,� he says, slow and sweet. �I�ll be more careful in future.�

I roll my eyes. �Don�t talk to him like he�s a baby, Dad. Sheesh.� (For a moment I�ve forgotten that Wood Erk doesn�t exist, not even in my imagination.)

Dad pats my shoulder. �Look, I know Erk is probably kind of a private thing. I won�t talk to him any more or ask you questions. Why don�t we just watch some TV together? I don�t have to start cooking dinner for another half hour.�

I feel the couch next to me. Inkling is gone.

�Thanks, Dad,� I say. �That would be great.�

I hope Inkling�s okay.

�Can I sit down again now?� Dad asks.

�Sure,� I tell Dad. �Right here.�

Dad plops back down with a sigh and flips on the TV.

Food channel. That�s what he always picks.

�Dad?� I ask, after a minute of watching this gray-haired lady make meat loaf. �When you were a kid, were you good at sports?�

I�m thinking he�ll say no. I�ve never seen him play a sport in my life.

I actually want him to say no.

�I was good at Hacky Sack in college,� Dad answers.

�What�s Hacky Sack?�

�You stand in a circle, and everyone keeps a beanbag up in the air using only their feet.�

�Did people ever get all mad and stuff if you, like, failed to keep the beanbag up in the air?�

Dad flexes a muscle. �Not at me. I was the Hacky Sack master.�

�So they didn�t want to�I don�t know�see you later and rip your tongue out of your head �cause you messed up?�

�No way.� Dad laughs. �I ruled that little beanbag.�

Oh.

I decide not to tell him what happened in gym class today.

But no. He just eats them both at once and grabs my Tupperware container full of chocolate sprinkles.

�These are mine, too,� he says, mouth full. �How come ya got sprinkies?�

�Sprinkles?� I say. �My parents own an ice-cream store.�

�You get sprinkies every day?� Gillicut asks.

�A lot of days, I guess.�

Why am I telling the truth? I think. I should be lying right now.

But it�s too late. Gillicut pours the sprinkles into his mouth. He tosses the empty Tupperware on the floor, then trots across the room to the lunch line.

My shoulders sink and my eyes fill.

I find the Tupperware over by a garbage can and pick it up. When I get back to my table, Chin is there. �Spanky Pantalones?� she says, laughing. �I heard that.�

I can�t believe she�s laughing. That guy just took all my dessert.

I don�t answer her. Just keep myself busy opening my yogurt and finding my spoon.

Blueberry yogurt. Blueberry yogurt.

That�s my favorite, and if I just think about that, I won�t cry in front of everyone.

Chin watches me.

�Sorry,� she says after a minute of me not answering her. �For laughing.� She breaks off half of her chocolate-chip granola bar and pushes it across the table to me. �Since he took your cookies.�

�Thanks.�

We eat for a while.

I have the granola bar first, in case Gillicut returns.

Chin eats an apple-butter-and-pickle sandwich, like she does every day.

Then she bangs a rhythm on the table. Bam dada bam! Dada bim bam bang!

I�m still a little mad at her for laughing, but I bang the same rhythm back.

�You know what we should build after the Great Wall of China?� Chin asks. (We are building a Great Wall of China from matchsticks, when there�s nothing else to do.)

�What?�

�Taj Mahal. Taj Mahal would be slam-bang.�

And for a second, I think: Maybe fourth grade won�t be so bad without Wainscotting.

Maybe it�ll be good, even.

But then Gillicut is back, setting his tray of garbage on our table. �Did yah cry �cause you lost your sprinkies, Spanky Baby?�

�No.�

�Good thing. �Cause now you�ve got a sprinkie tax.�

�What?�

�Sprinkie tax goes like this,� Gillicut says, speaking slowly as if I�m dumb. �Every day, you bring me sprinkies in your lunch box. Only, not the chocolate ones. I want rainbow.�

�Hank doesn�t live at Big Round Pumpkin,� says Chin. �He doesn�t have rainbow sprinkles, like, sitting in his refrigerator.�

We do have sprinkles sitting in our refrigerator, actually. Dad is a big one for late-night ice-cream feasts, especially when he�s trying to invent new flavors. But I keep this to myself.

�So? He can get them, easy.� Gillicut yanks the neck of my T-shirt back so it�s tight against my throat.

I choke, my breath comes in gulps�

But Gillicut releases my shirt before the lunch aides have time to notice what he�s doing. Then he takes his tray and dumps his trash in front of me. A pile of paper napkins, a Styrofoam plate full of unwanted baked beans, a banana peel, an oozing milk carton. All on top of my lunch.

I think: if I throw out Gillicut�s garbage today, I�m probably going to be doing it every day for the rest of the school year.

Every day. Touching his slimy baked-bean garbage and his used paper napkins. �Throw it out, Spankitty Spankpants!� Gillicut bends over and whispers. �Throw it out or I�ll rip your ears off and feed them to the science-lab hamsters.�

He grabs the oozing garbage from the table and shoves it into my arms.

Fourth grade isn�t going to be good after all.

with me.

�You shouldn�t come into the bathroom with people,� I say. �People like privacy in the bathroom.�

�You�re just stealing volumizer putty,� says Inkling.

�I know, but��

�Whatever. I swear, I will never understand human beings.�

�Just don�t come into the bathroom unless the door�s open, okay?�

�Got it. Now go on. Put more in. You want to get a really big fluff-up.�

I put more in.

Right before lunch I go to the boys� room at school and mush the putty through my hair until it stands on end all over my head.

I look insane. I know I do. But maybe insane is good, you know? Maybe insane is what it takes to scare away someone like Gillicut.

Entering the cafeteria, I turn my neck side to side, displaying my fur fluff as Inkling taught me. I keep my shoulders low and my gaze fierce. It�s a display of size and health, and it�s supposed to make your enemies back down.

�Spikey Spankopolis. You been to the beauty parlor?� Gillicut comes up from behind.

�No,� I say, with great seriousness. �I have not.�

�Did the beauty-parlor lady stick your finger in an electric socket?� he asks. �Or did you see your own ugly face in the mirror, and now you can�t live down the shock?�

�No,� I say again. I can tell the fluff isn�t working, but I try to see the plan through to the end. Inkling promised it would work if I�d just commit myself and not wimp out. �I have bigger hair than you, Gillicut,� I say loudly. �In fact, your hair is small and weak looking, compared to mine.�

He bursts into a fit of giggles. Pointing at me.

Becomes Desperate

Inkling and I settle into a happy routine. At least, it makes me happy. We get up early and watch science videos while eating breakfast cereal. He leans against my leg while we watch, telling me wild stories about bandapat life in Ethiopia, or the Woods of Mystery, or wherever he�s supposed to be from.

Sure, he�s a liar, but at least he�s never boring.

When the rest of my family wakes up, Inkling climbs onto a high shelf in the kitchen and watches us as we eat and talk and get ready for the day. Every now and then I toss him up an Oatie Puff and he eats it in midair. In the afternoons we play Monopoly or Blokus in my room, and I tell him everything that�s going on.

of Goodwill

No squash, no solution from Inkling. Over the next week, Gillicut gets not only five Tupperwares of rainbow sprinkles�one each day�but a nectarine, two bags of sandwich cookies, a bag of Cheddar Bunnies, a yogurt drink, pretzels, raspberries, a Luna bar, and a box of dried cranberries.

The Monday after, Chin convinces me I should I talk to the lunch aides.

�Don�t tattle,� says the old, blind lady. �You boys work it out.�

�Tell him not to,� says the bored lady in the sunglasses.

�Tell him I�m writing his name down,� says the cranky lady with the orange hair.

But writing his name down doesn�t help. Gillicut is on a rampage. And he�s not dumb: He kicks under the table, pinches while he�s smiling, and never makes a move until the aides are busy with someone else.

Tuesday, I talk to my dad about the problem, when he�s reading to me before bed.

�There must be a peaceable solution to this conflict, little dude,� he says. �Can you think of a peaceable solution?�

I shake my head.

Dad sighs. He�s a pacifist, which means he doesn�t believe in war, karate lessons, or toy guns. �Did you try saying �Please leave me alone�?� he asks.

�Yes.�

�Did you try saying �Back off�?�

�Yes.�

�But the guy didn�t back off?�

�No.�

�Oh, little dude,� my dad says. �That�s rough.�

�I know,� I say. He takes my hand and squeezes.

�Let me think on it,� he says.

Wednesday, I talk to Ms. Cherry. I tell her how Gillicut goes on the rampage.

She says, �I�ll mention it to the lunch aides.�

I tell her they already know.

She says, �I�ll talk to his teacher��Mr. Hwang down the hall. And, �Let me know if it happens again, �kay?�

Okay.

And then it does happen again. And again.

Friday, I go to see Ms. Cherry during recess when she has more time to listen. I explain how Gillicut�s a bully and a dirtbug and a caveperson.

Ms. Cherry is sitting at her desk, eating a wrap sandwich. A bit of mayo blobs on her upper lip. I think that�s why teachers don�t like to eat in front of us kids. In case they look silly.

�Mr. Hwang already talked to Bruno and to Bruno�s dad,� says Ms. Cherry. �He said absolutely: no more kicking and no more taking lunch items from other kids. Bruno agreed.�

�But he took my lunch today!� I protest.

�He did?�

�Yes!�

�Well, I�ll tell Mr. Hwang. But let me share something with you, Hank.� Ms. Cherry pats her complicated hair.

�What?�

�Mr. Hwang thinks Bruno could use some friends. Since the summer, his parents don�t live together anymore. He�s just with his dad, and he�s been going through a rough time. He needs everyone to be nice to him.�

No.

�Maybe if you offer to share your sprinkles, he�ll offer to share something back. You could reach out!�

No, no.

�You can switch the situation around. You can be an ambassador of goodwill.�

No, no, no.

�Remember, Hank,� says Ms. Cherry. �Strangers are friends waiting to happen. We don�t use words like bully and dirtbug and caveperson to talk about our friends, now, do we?�

And then, answering herself: �No. We don�t. If you are using words like that with Bruno, the way you just did talking to me�well, then you�re giving him a hard time, aren�t you?�

�How did it go with Ms. Cherry?� Inkling asks later as we move our pieces around the Monopoly board. He�s eating kidney beans with whipped cream on top, his new favorite dinner.

�Bleh,� I say.

�What happened?�

I am too tired to tell the whole story. �Ms. Cherry understands Everyday Math,� I tell Inkling. �But she does not understand people.�

�I don�t understand people, either,� says Inkling, collecting the money on Free Parking. �Not liking squash, wanting to be alone in the bathroom, all that stuff is incomprehensible.�

You understand us when it matters, I think.

But that�s too mushy to say out loud.

Instead, I buy Park Place and build four houses.

of Health Goddess

On the weekend, Mom goes to Health Goddess, the natural-food store near our home. It�s run by friends of my parents.

�Come on,� I tell Inkling. �I�m gonna get you a squash now.� He climbs onto my back, warm and heavy, and we go with Mom. I stroll through aisles of bean soup, almond butter, and other foods I don�t like until we get to the produce section.

As we round the corner, Inkling�s legs kick with excitement. He breathes hard in my ear.

And then I see it, too.

Squash! Piles and piles of squash! Tan ones, green ones, yellow. Even striped.

I read the signs: butternut, acorn squash, banana squash, and delicata.

�Mom!� I call. She is looking over the apples, selecting ones without bruises. �Can we get some squash?�

She crinkles her nose at me. �Hmm. What do you need it for?�

�Just to eat,� I say, innocently. �I feel like squash. You know, um, for dinner.�

�Hank, you know you don�t like squash. When we had it at Aunt Sophia�s, you made gagging noises.�

�Tastes change. Maybe I like it now.�

�That was only two months ago.�

�Maybe I like it cooked a different way!�

�It was baked with brown sugar and butter.�

Inkling whispers in my ear. �Bandapats eat it raw.�

�You don�t have to cook it,� I tell Mom.

�You can�t eat raw squash,� she says. �Nobody eats raw squash, except maybe zucchini. Is that what you want, Hank? Zucchini?�

Inkling speaks fiercely in my ear: �No! No zucchini!�

�No!� I tell Mom. �I want��

�Butternut,� Inkling whispers.

�Butternut!�

Mom narrows her eyes at me. �You want to eat raw butternut squash for dinner.�

�Yes!� I cry. �Please?�

�No.� She selects a bunch of apples and puts them in a bag. �That�s ridiculous, Hank. It�s not even edible raw. I know you won�t like it, and I don�t want to waste money. Let�s buy broccoli.� She turns decisively and walks to the other end of the produce section, where she begins filling bags with green vegetables.

Inkling is panting on my back, muttering: �Squash here, squash there, squash piled high. But squash for Inkling? No squash for Inkling.�

�Calm down,� I say, under my breath. �I�ll come shopping another day with Dad. Maybe I can get him to buy some.�

�Want the squash. Need it now. Squash! Squash!�

�Keep your voice down!� I hiss.

Inkling begins muttering again�more to himself than to me. �Butternut. Acorn. Butternut. Acorn�.�.�. Butternut!�

Suddenly, Inkling is not on my back anymore.

Where is he?

Oh.

Oh no.

There is a butternut squash with two bites out of it scootching down the aisle of Health Goddess.

As if it hopes no one will notice it.

Mom runs over from the broccoli and grabs my arm. �Hank, don�t freak out,� she says, �but I think there�s a rat in here. See that squash moving across the floor?�

�Oh, I�m sure it�s not a rat,� I say, but I can�t think of another reason the squash would be moving.

�Well, if it�s not a rat, it�s some other vermin. We can�t have that here in Health Goddess.� She runs to a corner of the market and grabs a broom. �Shoo!� she cries, chasing the squash.

Whack! She hits it hard, once.

The squash stops moving.

The squash wiggles, feebly, as if injured. Is Inkling okay?

Whack! Mom hits it again.

�Mom, stop!�

Erik, the guy who owns Health Goddess, runs over to see what�s up. �There�s a rat under that squash,� Mom tells him. �You can�t see it, but it�s there. Get another broom!�

Several customers are gathering round. Two are shrieking and standing on wooden produce boxes. One dad has scooped up his three-year-old, clutching the kid like there�s a lion loose in the market.

The squash is trying to move across the floor again, heading toward the door.

Whack! Mom hits it again.

�Stop!� I cry.

And slam! Erik comes back with a mop and hits it from the other side. �Did you see it?� he yells. �I can�t see it!�

Whack! Mom again.

�Don�t hurt him!� I yell. But no one is listening to me. People are shrieking �Rat! Rat!� and �Get it out of here!� and things like that.

Slam! Erik lands a good one on the top of the butternut. Half of it breaks off.

Then the other half begins limping down the aisle�if squash can limp�and Mom runs after it. �Shoo! Out you go!�

Mind after school. It�s where you stay late with the drama teacher and do projects. I like it because the drama teacher never complains about my overbusy imagination. He actually likes my overbusy imagination.

I go because Dad can�t pick me up until the after-school rush is over at Big Round Pumpkin, and on Wednesdays Nadia has PSAT study all afternoon. When he�s off work, Dad picks up Chin, too. He arranged it with her mom at the start of the school year. I heard him on the phone saying stuff about �fostering their friendship� and how Hank �seems lonely since Alexander moved away.�

I�d be annoyed, except Chin is fun to hang around with. Our Great Wall of China in matchsticks is nearly done, and she�s already sent away for instructions on how to do a Taj Mahal. On Theater of the Mind days, we usually play alien schoolchildren in the park across the street, and then Dad takes us for Thai food. In alien schoolchildren, which I invented, Chin is a mean teacher and I am a variety of weirdo aliens she has to teach. The aliens all have cool powers they use to make trouble for the mean teacher. Superlong tentacles shoot out of their bodies and grab the chalk out of her hands; or brain control makes her think she is shrinking to the size of an ant when really she is normal.

Today, Chin and I race to climb this really big rock at one end of the park, because that�s the best place to play alien schoolchildren. Dad heads over to chat with some other parents in the far corner where the picnic tables are.

Inkling pauses for dramatic effect. �You�ve got to pounce.�

�What?�

�Climb up in a really big tree and wait until Gillicut comes by. Then�kah-blam! You drop right on top of him, and you take his sprinkles! Like me when I nabbed that pumpkin off that kangaroo.�

�Gillicut doesn�t have any sprinkles,� I say. �That�s why he takes mine.�

�Take his whole lunch box then.�

�He buys lunch.�

Inkling thinks. �I know. Wait for pizza Friday, then get in the tree and kah-blam! Take his pizza!� He lowers his voice, coaxing. �And if you don�t want to eat it yourself, you can always give it to me. You know I like pizza, Wolowitz.�

�There are no trees in the lunchroom,� I tell Inkling.

�What?�

�It�s indoors. There aren�t any trees.�

�Oh. Yeah. So what are you going to drop from?�

�I�m not dropping.�

�Are there pipes in the ceiling?� Inkling asks. �Could you drop from a pipe?�

�Yes, there are pipes. But no, I could not.�

Inkling sits in silence for a moment. �I could,� he says at last. �A pipe�s not that different from a branch, and I�ve dropped from more branches than you can count.�

�Maybe I should apologize for what I said about his mom,� I say. �And keep bringing him sprinkles like he wants. Maybe then I�ll live through the school year.�

�Are you kidding?� Inkling cries. �No! This Gillicut needs to be dropped on. When he�s done with you, he�s gonna start taking sprinkles from the first graders. Then the kindergartners. Then the bitty preschoolers. We have to stop him before he goes on a preschooler rampage.�

He could be right.

�I�m coming to school with you, pizza Friday,� Inkling announces. �Got that?�

�You hate crowds. You�re squash deprived.�

�True. But I like pizza. Anyhow, I gotta risk it. It�s the only way I can pay the Hetsnickle. Friday at noon, right? I�ll be there on the pipe.�

I nod.

A thing about Inkling is, he doesn�t take no for an answer.

�I just saw you in the store window,� I gasp.

�No, you didn�t.�

�Yes, I did.�

�You saw a rootbeer.�

�No.�

�Then you saw a squirrel.�

�No squirrel is that big.�

�You saw nothing, Wolowitz. Stop imagining.�

�I saw you!� I say. �But barely. Won�t you let me see you some more?�

�Never.�

�Inkling!� I say. �Please? Now that I know I can actually see you, I can hardly stand it.�

�I can�t take the chance, Wolowitz. Bandapats are nearly extinct. If they put me in a lab or a zoo surrounded by mirrors, I don�t think I can take it, that�s all. I can�t live that way.�

�Pretty please?� I beg.

�No, no, no,� says Inkling. �This conversation is over.�

the bathroom now,� I yell.

�Good-bye already,� says Nadia, putting her headphones back on.

I get settled in the bathroom. I don�t touch Nadia�s hair stuff, but just to tease her I put the eyeliners in the cup where the toothbrushes live. I�m only in there for a minute or two when I see the door swing.

Ha ha!

I pounce. Fur and muscle flail in my hands.

Ha ha again!

�Let go, you crazy human!� Inkling barks, wiggling madly.

I keep holding on. �I�m just going to look at you!�

�Put me down!� He twists and flails. �You�re insulting my dignity!�

Ignoring his struggles, I put one hand under Inkling�s backside, and with the other I grab the scruff of his thick neck. He�s kicking hard with his back feet, snorting. I know he has a right to be mad�but I can�t stand it anymore.

I need to know what he looks like.

I need to know his face, the way I know the faces of my family. I need it now, before he leaves me for Land o� Pumpkins. I need it�today�because yesterday I was meaner than I�ve ever been to anyone; and �cause tomorrow, Gillicut may kill me.

Keeping tight hold of Inkling�s wiggling body, I climb onto a chair I�ve pushed in front of our medicine cabinet.

�My teeth are by your neck, Wolowitz!� cries Inkling. �I can bite your neck if I want to! Bandapats have serious teeth!�

�Be quiet,� I whisper. �You don�t want Nadia coming in here.�

�My serious teeth are right by your neck!�

But I know he won�t hurt me.

He would never hurt me. I trust Inkling completely, which is why I need to see him so badly. I lift his squirming body and: There we are, in the mirror.

Me, just how I always look.

Inkling, twitching and snapping.

He�s reddish orange with black stripes around the neck. Big black eyes. Creamy white ears. Stripy rings down his fat tail.

His face isn�t shifty or clever or content. It�s�.�.�. friendly. Even though he�s struggling in my arms.

flaps.

Whomp! It hits Gillicut hard across the face, smearing him with cheese and pepperoni.

And whomp! Back the other way with the crust side.

Gillicut is all over tomato sauce and anger. He tackles me and rolls me on the floor. I can see Ms. Cherry flailing, trying to pull herself to standing, high heels slipping on a puddle of cranberry juice. Gillicut and I land several feet from her, rolling onto the plastic carton of blueberry yogurt from my lunch. I can feel it burst under my head. Gillicut�s hot face is right in mine. He�s crushing me, and I can barely breathe. The yogurt is all in my hair. Chin yanks at Gillicut�s shirt, trying to get him off me, but he bats her away.

Where is Inkling?

Why isn�t he helping?

Oh, wait�I bet he stopped to eat Gillicut�s pizza.

Yep.

Inkling is filling himself with cheesy goodness while Gillicut is rampaging on me! I kick and flail.

�Do you want me to teach you a lesson?� Gillicut asks.

�What a stupid question,� I squeak. �Like you could teach me anything.�

�I told you I�d make you pay.�

I don�t answer, twisting my body to try to get out from under.

Gillicut�s fingers pinch my neck and twist, hard�

Oh.

Ms. Cherry is standing over us.

Gillicut drops his hand.

�Boys!� says Ms. Cherry, sharply. �Are you two fighting?�

�Yes!� cries Chin. �They are!�

�No, we�re not!� Gillicut stands up, releasing me. �It was all a big accident. A misunderstanding. I�m so sorry I fell over on you, Hank!�

He eyes Ms. Cherry but talks to me. I am lying on the floor in shock, cranberry juice and yogurt in my hair, sore in several places.

�Let me help you get some napkins,� says Gillicut, fake and hearty. �You have yogurt on your hair, and I think I have pizza on my face. Ha ha! I have pizza on my face, don�t I?� He laughs. Actually laughs, while smiling at Ms. Cherry.

I am staring at Gillicut�s thick calves beneath his shorts. His bony ankles going into sneakers without socks.

His ankles.

Horrible, mean, bully ankles.

I want to bite him.

I really do.

Want to lunge my head forward and bite Gillicut�s ankle as hard as I can, waggling my head around to make it hurt more, the way Inkling told me.

But just like the other day in the park�I want to do it, but my teeth are too scared.

�Ahhhhhh!� Gillicut goes down, anyway, hitting the floor with a thud and flailing his legs around, kicking in pain.

Inkling!

He�s not too scared to bite. I can see his teeth marks in Gillicut�s ankle�

�Ahhhhhh!� He�s throwing his legs around to get Inkling off him.

Wolowitz!

Everyone here calls me Alexander. They do not know that in reality I am a secret agent named Wainscotting.

Do not tell them, okay?

DESTROY THIS POSTCARD!

Your friend forever,

AW

Getting the card makes me miss Wainscotting. A lot.

But then I realize: I haven�t been thinking about him that much. Not all the time. Not the way I used to.

I�ve been busy, I guess.

With Inkling. With Chin after school. With my family.

I write back, on one of Big Round Pumpkin�s publicity postcards.