When it’s nearly time to go to the contest, I head back to my room to put on my jacket. “Wait a minute,” says Inkling. The pages are turning on my medieval castles pop-up book, so I can tell he is on my bed. “I want to see this picture with the drawbridge that goes up and down.”
“You’re not coming,” I say.
“Am too.”
“No way. You got me in enough trouble already with the dangerous pumpkins. I can’t risk it.”
“Wolowitz! I was really hungry Tuesday night. But now? I ate that whole tiny, expensive pumpkin, plus broccoli with hot sauce, Oatie Puffs with chickpeas, and half a blueberry yogurt. I couldn’t eat a pumpkin if it rolled over and begged me to.”
“Oh, you can always eat a pumpkin.”
“On my life, I’m full. Just let me come with you!”
“You don’t like crowds. Why do you want to come if you’re not going to eat the pumpkins?”
Inkling huffs. “Can’t I be an art lover? Can’t I want to see if Nadia wins the contest?”
“Um…no.”
“Fine. I want your company, all right?”
“What?”
“Don’t make me beg, Wolowitz.”
“I’m not, I—”
“I just want to hang around with you. I’m lonely all day when you’re at school.”
Oh.
Well, if that’s how he feels, what can I say? “Fine,” I tell him, against my better judgment. “Come on, then.”
Dangerous Pumpkins
Nadia’s high school is in Manhattan. We have to take a subway to get there.
As we head in, Dad takes my hand. The gymnasium is packed with parents, teachers, teenagers. It’s dark. Everything’s lit only by the candles and flashlights inside the pumpkins that sit on tables lining the walls.
For-serious beautiful.
Nadia starts setting up her pumpkins and doing the paperwork to enter them in the contest. Mom and Dad are talking to Mara’s parents. I duck into the hall and whisper to Inkling, “Swear you won’t eat any pumpkins?”
“Well, maybe just a little loser one. No one will miss that.”
“Yes they will! People worked hard on these.”
“Oh, fine,” Inkling mutters.
“It better be,” I say.
“I said fine!” he barks. “But it’s a good thing I’m not hungry. Because there are some very, very exciting pumpkins here. Did you see the huge one in the corner?”
“Stay away from it,” I tell Inkling.
“Hey! Are you talking to Wood Erk?”
Oh no.
It’s Dad, leaning over me.
I didn’t notice he’d come into the hall.
“Wood wants to see the pumpkins,” I tell Dad. I grab his hand and pull him back into the gym.
Dad surveys the pumpkins. He bends down and smiles. “What do you think, Wood? Pretty dangerous, am I right?”
“Dad!”
“What?”
“You always talk to him like he’s a baby!”
Truth is, a lot of times, I forget that I don’t actually have an imaginary friend called Wood Erk.
“Sorry, Wood,” says Dad.
Then he looks me in the eyes. “You must be feeling sad about being so disconnected from Nadia lately,” he says.
“It’s fine.”
He pats my shoulder. “Imaginary friends tend to show up when we feel most alone. Did you know that?”
Oh, Dad.
You’re a nice dad, but you have no idea what’s really going on.
Except.
Yeah.
I am kind of alone. It’s not just that Nadia hates me. Wainscotting went to Iowa, Chin’s mad at me, and Patne wouldn’t sit with me.
So Dad’s a little bit right, even if there is no Wood Erk.
He must see my thoughts on my face, because he goes in for a hug all of a sudden. A big, Dad hug in the middle of the high school gymnasium full of families and pumpkins. It would be all nice and father-son, except for this:
I’ve got an invisible bandapat draped over my shoulders.
Oh no.
Avoiding Dad’s arms, just barely, Inkling scampers down, his claws digging into my back and then my waist. With what feels like a flip, he leaps off my body and grabs the back of my belt with his front paws. Hanging down.
At least, I think that’s what he’s doing.
I just know: my pants are falling.
Inkling is pretty heavy.
The pants are going down—and down!
Dad is hugging and not noticing.
I’m trying to bend down to get my pants, but Dad is squashing me and I can’t do it without pushing him away.
Aaaaaaa! My pants have hit the floor. I have to do something!
Teenagers are seeing my underwear.
Nadia’s friends.
Nadia’s teachers.
Why am I wearing Star Wars underwear? Why didn’t I just wear regular underwear like a normal person?
I twist away from Dad’s hug to yank my pants up—but I fall back because my stupid pants are around my ankles, and I can feel Inkling behind my heels. I hit the ground, hard.
Suddenly, It Tips Over
Dad yanks my pants back up.
I want to die of embarrassment, but somehow, I stay alive.
Dad starts talking loudly about Halloween when he was young, trying to get my mind off all Nadia’s friends seeing my underwear.
It’s not really working, but it’s nice of him to try.
Where’s Inkling?
I look for signs of him, but there’s nothing I can see. No wobbling pumpkins, no gently moving papers. I’m worried he’ll lose control and eat the huge pumpkin in the corner. I excuse myself and run my hands along the floor beneath the tables.
No luck.
It’s crowded now. Many people are in costume, since it’s the night before Halloween. Nadia’s friend Jacquie is dressed as a rock star, meaning she has on tight clothes and lots of makeup.
“What are you being right now?” she asks Nadia.
Nadia isn’t in costume. She’s wearing a short black skirt, enormous fuzzy boots, and a shirt with embroidery. “I’m just being awesome,” she retorts.
“Oh,” says Jacquie, confused. Then she talks for a while about her rock star costume. What hair products she used, how she decided what pants to wear. There’s glitter in her makeup.
At the end of the conversation, Nadia says, “Unicorns tomorrow night, right?”
“Sure.” Jacquie smiles. “But we don’t have to always dress alike, you know. Just ’cause we did when we were little.”
“I know that.” Nadia sounds hurt.
She cheers up when her boyfriend, Max, arrives. He’s dressed as a mad scientist, probably Dr. Frankenstein, wearing a white lab coat with all kinds of slimy things coming out of his pockets. He’s got a crazy white wig. Max’s friend, this boy Gustav, is Frankenstein’s monster.
“Hey, Jacquie,” Gustav says. “You’re looking good.”
“Shut up, Gustav,” she says. But she’s laughing.
I swear, I will never understand girls.
And really, where is Inkling? If he eats anything, I don’t know what I’ll do. I walk around the edge of the gym, calling his name whenever I think no one will notice.
I’ve got all the way to the start of the display, pretty much across the room from where my family is standing—when suddenly, the pumpkin nearest me tips over.
The one next to it falls, too, rolling off the table.
Inkling.
Another pumpkin tips. And another.
“Stop!” I cry.
But he doesn’t stop. He must be running the length of the tables that are set up all along the edges of the gym—knocking over pumpkin after pumpkin. They’re rolling and sometimes crashing to the floor—or wobbling, their candles going dark. Sometimes it seems like Inkling is running on top of them, leaping from pumpkin to pumpkin, pushing off with his hind feet. Other times it’s like he’s just scrambling down the table and knocking into them as he runs.