Free Invisible Inkling by Emily Jenkins

be insulting.”
    â€œI thought—”
    â€œAll bandapats are cute, and I am one especially cute bandapat. I’ve told you before. There should be no surprise.” I can hear him adjust his position in the basket.
    â€œFine,” I say. “I meant it as a compliment.”
    â€œI woulda been cuter if you hadn’t been holding me by the scruff,” complains Inkling. “I have a nice fluff of fur around my neck area. You couldn’t see it.”
    â€œWill you let me pick you up again?” I coax. “Let me hold you up to the mirror so I can get a better look at your cuteness?”
    â€œIn your dreams,” says Inkling.
    He’s still mad.
    â€œI’m sorry I grabbed you,” I say. “I’m sorry we fell down.”
    â€œI’m invisible , Wolowitz,” snaps Inkling. “That means I’m not visible , and not visible means you can’t see me. Not visible is how I like it to be and how bandapats have survived through the ages until we got endangered. Really, just what part of this did you not understand when you lured me into the bathroom with cereal and pop-up books—just so you could jump me?”
    â€œI tried to be gentle,” I protest.
    â€œOh!” Inkling’s voice is cross. “Thanks for being gentle when you were sneak-attacking me. Thanks for being gentle while you bullied me just like Gillicut bullies you. Thanks for being gentle while you manhandle me like I’m a stupid pet.”
    â€œI am sorry,” I say. “It seems so strange to spend all this time together and not know what you look like. Especially when you’re leaving.”
    â€œYou’re asking to look at me again, Wolowitz.”
    â€œYes, but—”
    â€œWhen I just said I like to be invisible! That doesn’t sound like sorry to me.”
    â€œI am too sorry.”
    â€œMaybe I should leave first thing tomorrow,” says Inkling. “Maybe I don’t owe you a Hetsnickle debt of honor anymore after all.”
    â€œFine,” I say. “I never asked you to owe me anything.”
    â€œFine, then. Now can you leave me alone? I’m extremely tired from being manhandled.”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œYes, fine.”
    â€œFine yourself,” I say.
    I get back in bed.
    I can’t sleep.
    And I can’t sleep.
    I lie there, thinking, I have an invisible friend, and he won’t accept my apology.
    I have an invisible friend, and he won’t talk to me.
    I have an invisible friend, but he doesn’t even like me anymore.
    I am a dirtbug and a caveperson, that’s why.

Rampage
    F riday. Pizza day.
    When I get up, Inkling’s not in the laundry basket, not in the back of the closet, not on my pillow.
    Nowhere.
    Maybe he’s gone for good.
    I should have understood about him not wanting to be visible.
    I shouldn’t have grabbed him.
    Shouldn’t have.
    Shouldn’t have.
    Shouldn’t have.
    â€œInkling!” I call. “Inkling, where are you?”
    But there is no answer. No matter how many times I call.
    The lunchroom is always loud on pizza day. More people buy their lunch than usual, and even some of the teachers stand on line.
    â€œGillicut’s going to rampage,” says Chin.
    â€œWhat else is new?”
    â€œI mean, he’s going to rampage extra. After what you said about his mom.”
    â€œI know.” My stomach drops.
    I have no plan. I have no protection. I have no Inkling.
    I will be facing this rampaging Gillicut alone, which is probably what I deserve after all I’ve done—but it stinks anyway.
    We pour into the lunchroom. Most of the kids follow Ms. Cherry into the pizza line, except Chin and I have box lunch. Chin because she only likes apple-butter-and-pickle sandwiches, and me because my parents won’t let me buy. We grab a table behind a large post in the center of the room, hoping Gillicut won’t see us.
    No luck.
    I’ve