Emily Jenkins - Invisible Inkling

“Of course. What could be better than a pygmy hedgehog?”

“Nothing!” shouts Nadia.

“Nothing!” I cry.

Inkling bops me on the ear. (He’s riding on my back.) Ow!

“I mean, a pygmy hedgehog sounds all right, as far as pets go,” I say, backtracking. “An invisible talking creature from the Peruvian Woods of Mystery would be much better. If such a thing existed, which it totally does not.”

“Sometimes you are not a normal person, Hank,” says Nadia.

“You tell me that all the time,” I answer. “It’s not new information.”

Jacquie lives in a brownstone in Park Slope, which is a neighborhood a half-hour walk from our place. It’s a pretty area: big town houses in rows. The wide sidewalks are lined with trees. Inkling even climbs off my back and trots alongside me for some of the walk, though on our home streets he’s scared of getting stepped on.

Jacquie opens the door of her house wearing shorts and a bathing-suit top even though it’s cold outside. She’s got a ski hat on her head. Dance music is blasting so loud she doesn’t say hi, just waves at us to come in. The hedgehogs are in a huge cage near the entrance to the backyard.

Once she turns the music down, Jacquie tells us about them. “They need lots of space,” she says, “plus a plastic running wheel.” There’s also a litter box, tubes for them to crawl through, a couple of boxes lined with washcloths for the hedgehogs to nest in, a bowl of lettuce and another of cat food, plus a bottle of water like you’d give to a hamster.

At first I can’t see the hedgies. They’re hiding in the boxes. They’re nocturnal, Jacquie explains, but they’ll wake up if we tempt them with food.

I feel Inkling’s thick furry body leaning against me as I peer into the boxes. The hedgies are so small! So spiny!

“They’re babies,” Jacquie tells us. “It’s better to adopt them as babies because they get used to being handled.”

Jacquie pulls some carrots out of her fridge and gives them to Nadia. “Put them in, and I’ll tap the box gently,” she says. “I think they’ll wake up.”

And they do! Two tiny, sleepy-eyed hedgehogs come out of the boxes, waddling toward the carrots eagerly. The darker one is Derek and the lighter one is Teakettle.

“I can’t believe you named your hedgehog after Derek,” laughs Nadia.

“Who’s Derek?” I ask.

“Jacquie’s ex-boyfriend,” says Nadia. “Why would you want to remember that idiot every time you look at your hedgie?”

Jacquie shrugs. “He looks like Derek, don’t you think?”

Nadia squints her eyes. “Sort of. If Derek was a hedgehog.”

I swear, I will never understand girls.

Teakettle abandons his carrot midbite. He toddles across the cage, past me to where Inkling is. His nostrils flare in and out.

He can smell Inkling!

I can’t smell Inkling, but Rootbeer sure can. Other dogs can, too. Teakettle must be the same.

He comes a little closer and then starts acting strange. He sticks his tongue out and turns his tiny neck. He starts licking his quilly body, twisting into funny shapes. He’s drooling all over himself.

“Your hedgie’s going crazy!” Nadia says. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I think he’s anointing,” says Jacquie.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“He hasn’t done it before. I only read about it.”

“But what is it?”

“Something they do when they like a certain smell or taste,” says Jacquie. “They twist around and cover themselves with foamy spit.”

“Yuck,” I say, but I laugh.

“What is he smelling that he likes?” wonders Nadia.

“Maybe the carrots?” suggests Jacquie.

“He walked away from his carrot.”

“Then maybe your perfume?”

Nadia shakes her head. “He’s not even looking at me. It’s Derek that likes me.” She reaches her hand into the cage and strokes Derek’s spiny back gently.

I know what Teakettle likes, of course. Inkling. But I keep my mouth shut.

Derek toddles over and starts munching on Teakettle’s abandoned carrot.

Teakettle stops anointing himself. He head-butts Derek.

Derek drops the carrot and head-butts back. They butt each other, making chirping noises. Hedgie fight!

Derek goes for the carrot again, and Teakettle hisses like an angry cat. Derek munches the carrot anyway. Teakettle lunges as much as he can on his tiny hedgie legs. Derek turns into a ball. He somehow stretches this— floppy bit —he stretches his floppy bit over his own back feet. Then he tucks his head in, becomes a ball, and just rolls .

Teakettle butts the Derek ball around the cage a bit.

Derek won’t unroll.

“Teakettle showed him who’s boss,” says Jacquie.

“Yeah. Can you imagine if you could pull a flap of your own belly skin over your legs?” says Nadia. “So gross.”

“Ew,” says Jacquie.

“Emperor penguins do it,” I say. “They have that floppy bit they use to cover the baby penguins and keep them warm. But they don’t roll up in a ball or anything. They just tuck stuff in.”

Derek is still rolled into a ball. Jacquie reaches in and takes Teakettle out of the cage. “You’re a very important hedgehog,” she lectures. “You have defended your carrot. But don’t scare your friend Derek that way. It’s not nice.”

“He doesn’t understand you,” says Nadia.

“You never know,” I say. “Animals might speak English.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Maybe they speak Yiddish and Mandarin, too,” I go on. “Maybe they can write and play Monopoly. Maybe they just don’t do it in front of us. Did you ever think of that?”

“Hank!” Nadia is crinkling her forehead at me.

“What?”

“We’re over at Jacquie’s house. Just act normal, okay?”

“Huh?”

“Normal. Pretend if you have to. Okay?”

Fine. I march over to the dining table and sit in one of the chairs there. I open my math book and don’t talk to either of them.

“I already know he’s not normal, Nadia,” says Jacquie sweetly. “You don’t have to stress.”

I’m Going to Bake Her into Submission

When Saturday rolls around again, Betty-Ann is still stealing our customers. Inkling is moping about his lack of bandapat friends. Mom is planning Thanksgiving dinner, Nadia is practicing vocab, and I am surviving fourth grade—but it isn’t always pretty.

Inkling watches me in swim class. I can’t stop him. He’s way too smart to get caught inside my locker another time, and once I’m in the pool I have no control over what he does. I think he sits in the bleachers with the parents of the little kids.

Now, you might think your invisible bandapat would spare your feelings when he knows you’re a stupid Neon and everyone else is a Hammerhead, or because he’s seen the way it is with Kim and Patne in the locker room. You might think your invisible bandapat would be all, “I have no idea why they made you be a Neon; you’re a great swimmer.” Or, “I’ve seen Henry Kim in the pool; he’s not that much better than you.” Something encouraging like that.

You would be wrong.

Inkling laughs and laughs. “You swim like a cat,” he says, when he finally gets his breath. “You swim like a house cat.”

We are sitting in a tree in the park across from Public School 166. After swim class, Nadia and I walked over there with Patne, Chin, Kim, and their parents. Inkling and I are on a branch in a low tree, looking down at people riding skateboards and playing on the big rock. Patne, Chin, and Kim are on the tire swing.