“Oh yes it was, mister.” Mom marches me into the kitchen. “Don’t try to pretend any different.”
She pulls out a bucket, some rags, and a bottle of spray cleaner.
“It wasn’t me!” I say again. “I threw the eyeball, but I didn’t do the rest of it!”
“Yes, you did.” Mom shakes her head. “You were mad at her when you went to bed. Now you’ve ruined all her hard work to get back at her.”
“That’s not true!”
“Yes, Nadia was rude to you,” Mom says. “But spoiling all her artwork and making this huge mess? That’s not an appropriate response.”
“But—”
“If Nadia is rude, tell her you don’t like it. Even yell at her if you must. But don’t go bananas and smash her work.”
“I didn’t.”
I know what I’m saying doesn’t make sense. I should probably just shut up and take the blame, since I can’t explain the truth.
That Inkling.
Sometimes having an invisible bandapat is more trouble than it’s worth.
“I loved Nadia’s pumpkins,” I add lamely.
“You have a rotten way of showing it.” Mom fills the bucket, and hands me the spray cleaner. “Have the dining area spotless before you go back to bed,” she says. “And write a letter of apology to Nadia.”
When I look at my mom’s angry, tired face, I feel guilty.
Almost like I really did ruin Nadia’s pumpkins.
“I am sorry I woke you up,” I tell her. “And I’m sorry I made such a mess throwing the eyeball.” At least these things are true.
She doesn’t answer, but she pats my head. Then she pads back to the bedroom and shuts the door behind her.
Inkling.
He makes me lie.
He makes me look foolish.
He makes me look like a guy who’d smash someone’s artwork to bits.
Sometimes I wish he’d just go back to the Peruvian Woods of Mystery and leave me alone.
Suddenly, I am so, so tired. I’m not used to being up in the middle of the night. My pj’s are sticky with pumpkin, and the back of my head is sore. I have a few bruises, too. I sit on the floor of the kitchen, leaning against the fridge. I put my arms on my knees and my head on my arms.
Just for a second.
I’m closing my eyes just for a second. Then I’ll clean up this mess.
My Fur Looks Fantastic When I Leave
I wake. The clock in the kitchen reads five a.m. I’ve been asleep sitting up.
My neck is sore and sticky.
I jolt to my feet. Where is my bucket? My spray cleaner?
Mom is always awake by six, and if everything isn’t clean, I’ll be in even more trouble than I already am.
I dash about the kitchen stupidly, then rush into the dining area to check out the damage.
It’s spotless.
No trace of pumpkin. No trace of scuffle.
The table shines with polish, and the carpet is scrubbed.
On the table is a letter, typed and printed out from the computer.
Dear Nadia,
I am very sorry for ruining your dangerous pumpkins.
You always take me out for pizza and you are smart. Even if you did borrow my sweatshirt without asking, I think you’re a good big sister.
Forgive me.
“Inkling?” I whisper.
“You look terrible,” he says, from somewhere behind me.
“There you are!”
“Terrible,” he repeats. “Pale. Sticky. Bags under your eyes. But your hair? Amazing. You should wear it like that regular.”
I touch my hair. It’s crunchy from pumpkin, sticking out all over my head. “I’ll think about it.”
Inkling must have jumped onto the dining table, because the letter to Nadia lifts up and waves. “I figure she’ll think the letter’s from you,” Inkling says. “But it’s really from me. I do feel bad about what happened.”
“You should.”
“It’s just—Wolowitz, you don’t understand how it is when bandapats see pumpkins. In our hearts, we’re wild animals. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter that I can speak Yiddish and Mandarin—or that I’ve traveled the globe. It doesn’t matter that you humans have art projects and clean apartments. Sometimes, everything else in the world disappears but me and a pumpkin.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say.
“Also, I was really hungry,” explains Inkling. “I missed dinner.”
“Where did you go last night?”
“To the gym.”
“What?”
“To the gym, all right? I went to the gym. You know, that one on Court Street with the revolving door.”
“Why?”
“I needed some exercise. Cooped up all day in here, or getting carried around the neighborhood by you—a bandapat can get into poor condition.” A dishrag leaps off the table and begins wiping a sticky spot on the floor. “I’m practically the last of my kind, Wolowitz,” Inkling says as he scrubs. “I can’t afford to get sick. I gotta take care of myself.”
“But what do you do there? Do you go on a treadmill?”
“That’s like a hamster wheel. No self-respecting bandapat would ever get on a hamster wheel.” The rag trots into the kitchen, and I follow it. It leaps onto the counter and folds itself neatly in quarters.
“So what do you do?” I ask again.
“I swim! After the place shuts down, I can still get in through the basement window. Bandapats are excellent swimmers. I bet you didn’t know that.”
I didn’t.
“We’re related to the otters of the Canadian underbrushlands,” Inkling continues. “We float like you wouldn’t believe.”
“How many times have you gone swimming?” I ask.
“This was just my second time. But I plan to go regularly. They have free hair gel in there,” Inkling adds. “And dryers, too. My fur looks fantastic when I leave.”
I touch my pumpkin hair again. “I should take a shower,” I say. “Thanks for cleaning up.”
“Oh, it was nothing.” Inkling coughs apologetically. “But don’t look in that cupboard to the left of the dishwasher.”
Of course, I go over and open the cupboard.
Ugh.
It’s full of soggy towels and pumpkin mush.
“Oh, lovely,” I say.
“Well, you should clean up something yourself. You did smash the eyeball.”
“Only to protect you!” I sigh and begin pulling stuff out of the cupboard. I run the water and rinse the towels out.
“I would have eaten that eyeball later,” Inkling sulks. “You could have saved it.”
When Nadia gets up, she is not at all happy to find the apology letter instead of her four pumpkins.
Not. At all. Happy.
I feel really bad about what happened. She doesn’t need to swear at me. Or throw stuff. Or cut up my red hoodie with the kitchen scissors.
Dessert Is, Like, the Main Thing My Dad Believes In
Ms. Cherry is my fourth-grade teacher. She has complicated hair and wears high heels. She has a fake jolly voice. She’s not my favorite person.
Wednesday morning, Dad is coming to Ms. Cherry’s classroom to talk about making ice cream. Different parents are visiting to lecture on what they do for work. Chin’s mom came and talked about being a food photographer. Locke’s mom talked about being a lawyer.
Dad drives me and Inkling to school in the ice-cream store truck. For his classroom visit he’s got a lot of gear.
We are silent in the truck. Inkling is in the back with me. He doesn’t usually like coming to school, but he wants to see Dad’s presentation.
Dad parks. “Little dude?” he says, like it’s a question.
“Yeah?”
“I know you must have been angry at Nadia to smash her pumpkins like that,” Dad says. “And I know you said sorry. But I have to remind you: violence is never the answer.”
Dad is a pacifist. That means no fighting, no war, and give peace a chance. It also means I can’t have a lightsaber.