Emily Jenkins - Invisible Inkling

“What am I?” asks Patne.

I squint at him. “Lord Baldy.”

He nods very seriously. “I am. You are absolutely right.”

“Is that because of what he looks like in his swim cap?” says Kim.

“Yes,” says Patne, still serious. “And I am evil because of how bald I am. I live in one of those big creepy mansions. I have lots of minions and a butler. I drive around in a limousine.”

“You have a lot of gadgets,” I tell him. “The minions make you gadgets.”

“Exactly. And the limousine can go underwater if I want it to. “

This is why I like Patne. When I like him. Underwater limousines are good.

“I am The Holy Terror,” announces Kim.

What? I thought I was making these up.

“How come?” asks Patne, lifting up his goggles to look at Kim.

“That’s what my mom calls me when I’m in trouble,” Kim explains.

Okay. That is a good name. “Are you a religious guy or something?” I ask.

“No, I’m like a giant toddler,” says Kim. “’Cause you know, that’s something parents say about kids when they’re rambunctious.”

“A giant toddler is awesome,” says Chin.

“I have temper tantrums and I always wear footie pajamas,” says Kim. “I have all these weapons that look like teddy bears and rattles, and I have a scream that can, I dunno . . . stop time? Yeah. I can stop time as long as I’m screaming, which is very useful in battle. But sometimes you can defeat me by giving me a lollipop.”

Fine. I would have made him Kimchi, like the spicy Korean cabbage thing. He could kill people with hot pepper in their eyes and supersonic farts from eating too much cabbage. But The Holy Terror is pretty good, I guess.

“Who are you, Hank?” Chin asks me.

I have been thinking about this. “Reptiliopolus,” I announce. It sounds grand and venomous.

“What?” Kim does not look properly impressed.

“I have fangs, like a poisonous reptile, and my weird scaly skin makes me angry and evil but also cool looking. I can swallow really big things, things way bigger than my head. Whole people even. And I ride around on a giant Gila monster lizard that does my bidding.”

“Reptiliopolus is not a good supervillain name,” says Kim. “It sounds like a city.”

“It is too a good name,” I say.

“Nah. How about SnakeMan?”

“No way.” I am not being stupid SnakeMan.

“Or Mr. Reptile?”

“That is the dumbest thing I ever heard,” I snap.

“Reptiliopolus sounds totally evil,” says Chin loyally. “Don’t give Hank a hard time, Henry.”

“Okay, fine,” says Kim. “Be Reptiliopolus if you like it so much.”

She Won’t Catch You. You’ll Be a Unicorn.

The next day, Dad makes six different batches of whoopie pie cakes, all of them too crunchy. Mom wraps piles of them in foil and sends me to deliver them to neighbors. I bring some to Seth Mnookin and Rootbeer across the hall. Some to Chin and her mom downstairs. Some to Mrs. Gold, the talky old lady in apartment 2E. Even to this neighbor on the third floor that I swear I’ve never seen before.

When I get back, Mom and Dad are having an argument. Or rather, Mom is having an argument, flailing her arms around and stomping. Dad pretty much never argues back. This time, he isn’t even listening.

“You’re never going to sell whoopie pie cakes to the restaurants that stock our ice cream,” Mom says. “We aren’t going to grow our business with cake! No one wants cake from us! We don’t even have commercial ovens!”

“That Betty-Ann,” Dad mutters. “Do you think she’s using corn syrup? I could tell if I tasted one of her pies. Hey, do you think I could put on a disguise and buy some from her?” Then he shakes his head. “No, she’d peg me for sure.”

“We should be spending our time talking to new restaurants,” argues Mom. “Or seeing if Union Market wants to carry pints. Maybe some of the specialty food shops would carry them, too. We should be doing that, not worrying about the truck lady.”

“Betty-Ann,” Dad corrects. “Her name is Betty-Ann.”

“I don’t care what her name is,” Mom says. “I care about finding ways to sell more ice cream this winter.”

“What if I sent Hank down wearing Nadia’s unicorn head?” Dad wonders.

“You’re obsessed!” Mom yells. “It’s driving me crazy.”

“Hey, Hank,” Dad says, “do you know where Nadia keeps that unicorn head she bought for Halloween?”

I do. But I tell him no way am I going to Betty-Ann’s truck again after what happened when I gave her the pints.

“You’ll be wearing the head,” Dad says. “She’ll never know it’s you.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Pretty please? This could be the answer, Hank. If we can uncover the secret to her ice-cream whoopie pie, we can defeat her once and for all.”

“What if she catches me?”

“She won’t catch you. You’ll be a unicorn. Come on, Hank. You gotta help me.”

Fine.

Bleh.

I get the unicorn head and put it on. It is rubbery smelling. I can only see through a small tunnel in the mouth.

This is a bad idea.

Dad is a lunatic.

I wear the unicorn head outside. A couple people stare at me as I walk up the block, but this is New York City. They see weirder things every day of the week.

I get in line and wait. Finally, I’m at the front. I try to disguise my voice. “Four pumpkin ice-cream whoopie pies,” I squeak.

“Coming up, horsie.” Betty-Ann smiles.

I hand my money to Billy. “I’m not a horsie; I’m a unicorn,” I explain. “I have a horn, see?”

“Sure, horsie,” says Betty-Ann, giving me the pies in a brown paper sack. “You tell your Big Round daddy I said he’ll never figure out my recipe, all right?”

She recognizes me! Aaghhhhh!

I sprint down the block, stumbling as I go. I screech around the corner, ripping off the head to get some air. I am certain Billy is going to tackle me from behind any minute and—

I am out of breath when I get to the park. Dad is waiting for me, sitting on a swing. “She’s onto us!” I yell as I sprint up. “She knew me by my voice, or my sneakers, or something. She said you’ll never figure out her recipe!”

Dad covers his face in his hands. Defeated.

I eye the edge of the park for Billy or Betty-Ann.

Nothing happens.

The silence is awkward.

“This is so embarrassing,” Dad finally moans.

“You’re not the one who had to wear the unicorn head,” I say, sitting down on the swing next to him.

Eventually, we unwrap the whoopie pies. They’re small, about the size of my palm. Each has a cute orange ribbon around it.

We are quiet as we take our first bites.

Oh.

They’re good. Really good.

Well, the ice cream isn’t as good as Dad’s. It’s thinner tasting, and the vanilla has a fake smell. But the cake part is—well, I’m so sick of pumpkin cakes, I thought I’d never eat another bite of one, but Betty-Ann’s are great. Dad chews his with a deep frown between his eyebrows. “I think it’s got corn syrup,” he says. “And maybe cloves?” He sniffs the cake thoughtfully. “No way are these organic.”

“Dad,” I say. “What if Mom’s right?”

“Right? In what way could she be right?”

“What if we should just ignore Betty-Ann? And whoopie pies? What if we did concentrate on selling pints to grocery stores or getting more restaurants to use us?”

“I want people in the shop, Hank,” says Dad. “We’re a neighborhood ice-cream store. I don’t want to spend my days packing pints for Union Market and never seeing anyone eat what I make. I want to build sundaes and watch people licking their spoons. I want to hear kids ask for double scoops. I want to give a baby a vanilla cone with fun orange sprinkles and see her face light up. Packing pints—that’s not running an ice-cream shop. That’s just making a product.”