Invisible Inkling Dangerous Pumpkins
Emily Jenkins
Illustrations by
Harry Bliss
Dedication
For the Weston Daley family—E.J.
For Chloe & Griffin—H.B.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
The Bandapat in the Laundry Basket
Did You Know There’s This Holiday Called Halloween?
Probably Only Small Ponies, Though
We Can’t Have Blood Ice Cream
You Are Easy Prey
I Can’t Take All the Tutus
Do You Have to Be Such a Little Brother All the Time?
For Your Top Secret Squash Project
Hank Took My Pulp
Eyeball Has Large Bites Out of It
My Fur Looks Fantastic When I Leave
Dessert Is, Like, the Main Thing My Dad Believes In
Can’t I Be an Art Lover?
Dangerous Pumpkins
Suddenly, It Tips Over
They Have an Echolocation Device
Scary Isn’t In This Year
Dead Ballerinas
It’s Really Not Funny, Max
PuuuuuUuuuumpkins
That’s Not a Normal Thing to Do, Hank
It’s Good to Embrace Joy
A Note from the Author
Back Ad
About the Author and Illustrator
Praise
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
The Bandapat in the Laundry Basket
Hi, you.
I have a reminder.
You probably don’t need a reminder. But Inkling is making me write one.
He says I should remind you, and he also says I have to use capital letters so it looks especially bossy.
Here goes:
WHEN YOU’RE DONE READING, PLEASE DO NOT TELL ANYONE ABOUT THE INVISIBLE BANDAPAT LIVING IN MY LAUNDRY BASKET.
Inkling is breathing down my neck right now.
He has pizza breath.
Oh, bleh.
He says I need to say it again. For serious, and more bossy, even.
Okay, already.
Do not tell! About the invisible bandapat!
Oops. Forgot the capitals.
DO NOT TELL! ABOUT THE INVISIBLE BANDAPAT!
Inkling has to stay hush-hush because bandapats are nearly extinct. Evil scientists want to capture the few that are left in the world. The scientists snatch the bandapats and lock them in secret labs full of mirrors so they can observe them. They want to find out what makes the bandapats invisible.
Meanwhile those poor trapped bandapats—it’s depressing. Though I don’t for-serious know that it’s true. After all, one day Inkling claims he’s from the redwood forests of Cameroon, and the next day he says he’s from the Peruvian Woods of Mystery.
Also, when I look those places up on Google Maps with Dad, it turns out they don’t exist.
Inkling says they do too.
I say, “Cameroon exists. Peru exists. But the redwood forests and the Woods of Mystery? Not so much.”
“When you’ve been to Cameroon yourself,” says Inkling, “then you can tell me how it has no redwood forests. Until then, talk about stuff you actually know.”
“What about when you said you lived off pumpkins that grew in the glaciers of Antarctica?”
“What about it?”
“Well, I looked that up, too. There are no Antarctic pumpkins!”
Inkling snorts. “Google Maps, Schmoogle Maps,” he says.
He never does get his stories straight, but he likes me to write about him. He likes the story you’re about to read especially, because it has quite a lot of jack-o’-lanterns. And Inkling eats them.
You’ll see.
But be warned.
It isn’t pretty.
From
Hank Wolowitz
Did You Know There’s This Holiday Called Halloween?
A thing about me is, I hate Halloween.
A thing about Inkling is, he never even heard of it until three weeks ago. Then he got crazy excited.
See, bandapats like to eat squash. In fact, they need to eat squash. If they don’t get it, their fur gets matted and their legs go weak.
Also, they get cranky.
Pumpkins are their favorite.
Problem is, it’s not easy to get squash in Brooklyn. Where I live is all brownstones and brick town houses, little neighborhood shops, restaurants, and traffic. It’s part of New York City! There are no pumpkin patches.
I buy what squash I can for Inkling, but I don’t have a lot of cash. Also, the guy at the corner market wonders why I spend all my money on large vegetables.
My friend Sasha Chin from downstairs wonders about it, too.
So does Dad.
I told them all I was doing a top secret squash project for Halloween.
That was a lie.
I tell a lot of lies now that Inkling lives with me. Like, I told Dad I had an imaginary friend. And I let everyone think I bit this dirtbug Gillicut at school, when really Inkling bit him. I told my sister, Nadia, I was starting to be allergic to dogs. That’s because Inkling’s afraid of Rootbeer across the hall.
With telling so many lies, you’d think I’d know better than to tell that one about the top secret squash project. Lying that you’re doing a big project is extremely dumb. People are going to want to see it. I can’t even invent a fake project at the last minute. Inkling’s eaten every squash I bought.
I hate being a liar mainly because it’s wrong. It makes me feel bad about myself. But I’ll be honest with you: it wouldn’t be so hard if I was actually a good liar.
Anyway, when Inkling first found out about Halloween, he was all, “Wolowitz! Did you know there’s this holiday called Halloween?”
Well, hello?
We’d been playing Blokus in my bedroom. Inkling waved the strategy tip sheet at me. It flapped in the air as if by magic. “Did you know human beings actually hollow out pumpkins and throw away cups and cups of squash?” he asked.
“I’ve heard of that, yeah.”
You would not believe how excited he was. I could hear him breathing hard when he talked about it. He didn’t even care about the trick-or-treating. Or the candy. Or the special ice-cream flavors.
Now, it’s the Saturday before Halloween weekend. Carved pumpkins begin appearing on the stoops of buildings in our neighborhood. Inkling starts heavy breathing when he sees the first one. We’re walking down the block, him on my back. He’s clutching my shoulders with his claws, he’s so hyper.
When we turn the corner, there are six jack-o’-lanterns clustered on one stoop. Big ones and small ones, grinning wildly. Inkling starts mumbling to himself. “Ooh, pretty pumpkins. Pretty, pretty pumpkins. Hello! You are waiting for Inkling, aren’t you? There for my lunch. Yummy, yummy!”
“Excuse me,” I say. “Those are not yours.”
“Oh yes they are,” he says in my ear. “Yummy, yummy. Pretty, pretty.”
Inkling is riding on my back because he doesn’t like to walk around our neighborhood. There are too many dogs and feet. It’s dangerous for a small, invisible person.
We are going to the corner fruit market to buy some radishes and lettuce for my mom. I bought Inkling a squash there yesterday, like I do every Friday when I get paid—but it wasn’t a pumpkin. Acorn squashes are a lot cheaper than pumpkins. If I buy an acorn squash, I have enough money left over for candy.
“People carved those jack-o’-lanterns,” I tell Inkling. “They’re works of art.”
“They’re abandoned on the street!”
“No, they’re not. They’re decorations.”
“It’s like I dreamed Halloween would be. Pumpkins lining the streets of Brooklyn.” He starts muttering again. “Yum-yum, pumpkins. Oh, little pumpkins, you are just made of yum, aren’t you?” Then louder: “Go on, Wolowitz. Get me one.”