Emily Jenkins - Invisible Inkling

I narrow my eyes at him. “You didn’t steal one, did you?”

“Well, maybe I took a tiny bite of one,” says Inkling. “Maybe I wrapped it up again perfectly so no one would notice.”

“Inkling!”

“I had to taste it, Wolowitz. I had to get the full picture of what was going on.”

I sigh. “Was it any good? Could we do better at Big Round Pumpkin?”

He clucks his tongue. “I’m not one to judge. You know I don’t like ice cream. And as for the pumpkin, what are you humans thinking? It was all mixed with cinnamon and spices and sugar. Sugar, when the pumpkin is naturally so sweet and delicious! I don’t understand it.”

“Did you find out anything else?”

“Before she came here, Betty-Ann used to park the truck by the Cranberry Street playground in Brooklyn Heights. Then the weather got cold and she decided that she could make more money moving here. Our neighborhood has a lot of schools.”

“What else?”

“She makes the whoopie pies in a kitchen somewhere across the Brooklyn Bridge. Also, she’s not a very nice person.”

“I figured that.”

Inkling rolls doubles and gets the race car out of jail. “How about we drop on her from a tree branch?” he suggests. He always thinks the laws of the outback apply in Brooklyn.

“That’s not gonna help,” I say.

“Yes it will.”

“I’m not dropping on an old lady.”

“Okay. What if we bite her on the ankle? That’s worked before.”

“No.”

“I could haunt her food truck.”

I shake my head no.

“Pop out from a rabbit warren and biff her?”

Now I don’t even know what he’s talking about—but it doesn’t matter. “Inkling!” I shout. “I have a strategy!”

Four Fifty a Pint Is Criminal

The next day after school, I pick up Inkling and we head over to Big Round Pumpkin. I wash my hands and pack a pint of vanilla and a pint of salted caramel, the flavor grown-ups like best. I pack them the way Mom does, decorated with a pumpkin sticker on top of each container. Then I walk out and wait on line in front of Betty-Ann’s truck.

When I get to the front, I notice Billy isn’t there. Betty-Ann is alone. She leans out the window, all smiles. “Hi there, handsome,” she says. “What’ll it be?”

“She’s in a good mood,” whispers Inkling, on my shoulder.

“Hi there,” I say.

“Say ma’am ,” whispers Inkling. “Old people like it when you say ma’am .”

“Hi there, ma’am,” I say.

“What can I get you?” she asks.

“Nothing, ma’am. I have a gift for you from the folks over at Big Round Pumpkin,” I say, pointing to the shop.

I can’t believe I just said folks . What am I, southern?

Folks is a weird word when you write it down.

Folks.

Folks.

Folks.

If you look at it too long, it starts to seem evil. Like when you say folks , maybe you don’t just mean “people.” Maybe you’re uttering an incantation that will call up an army of zombies.

Sorry. My overbusy imagination again.

Back to Betty-Ann.

“Why are you giving me a gift?” she asks, looking suspicious.

I am killing her with kindness, but I don’t tell her that. Instead I say, “We think when you taste how good it is, you’ll want to put our ice cream in your whoopie pies. I mean, I’m sure you’re using a delicious brand already, but what we make at Big Round Pumpkin is something special. Plus, it’s all organic and has local ingredients.”

Betty-Ann snatches the ice cream from my hands. “How much you sell a pint for?”

“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.