Invisible Inkling by Emily Jenkins Page A

do.”
    I climb down the ladder and run to the cash register. Mom is working the counter, scooping cones and taking people’s money. “I want a job,” I tell her.
    It’s something I should have said a long time ago.
    â€œYou do?” She wipes her hands on her apron.
    â€œI want to earn extra money so I can go to the store with Chin,” I tell her. “And maybe pay off the Lego airport faster. And pay Nadia back for the pop-up book. Like, could I take out all the recycling for you? Bag it up? Bring it to the sidewalk for pickup?”
    Mom looks down at me. Then at the full recycle bins.
    â€œI shouldn’t just be sitting around the overlook all the time,” I say. “I’m in the fourth grade.”
    There is a line of customers.
    Nadia is scooping and Dad is fixing a broken cooler. “Yes, actually,” Mom says. “That would be a huge help. How does a dollar sound?”
    â€œHow about five, to do it every day this week?” I say.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œAnd maybe other days I could wipe counters? Or fill napkin holders? I want to earn some money of my own, regular.”
    Mom smiles. “Yes, Hank. We could use your help, actually.”
    I bag up the recycling from all three bins and lug it out. Then I spray the bins with air freshener and put in new bags. I even sweep up a napkin and two spoons on the floor so the recycle area looks really good when I’m done.
    Mom gives me a five-dollar bill.
    â€œThanks for waiting,” I say to Chin. “I needed money.”
    â€œWhatcha gonna get?”
    â€œSquash,” I answer. “They have squash at that corner fruit market, right?”
    â€œI dunno.”
    â€œI’m pretty sure I saw acorn there, if not butternut.”
    â€œI swear,” mutters Chin, shaking her head as we walk together down the block. “I will never understand boys.”

Destroy This Postcard
    L ater that day I get a postcard from Wainscotting.
    Wolowitz!
    Everyone here calls me Alexander. They do not know that in reality I am a secret agent named Wainscotting.
    Do not tell them, okay?
    DESTROY THIS POSTCARD!
    Your friend forever,
    AW
    Getting the card makes me miss Wainscotting. A lot.
    But then I realize: I haven’t been thinking about him that much. Not all the time. Not the way I used to.
    I’ve been busy, I guess.
    With Inkling. With Chin after school. With my family.
    I write back, on one of Big Round Pumpkin’s publicity postcards.
    Alexander!
    (I call you that to keep your secret.)
    I thought I could not survive fourth grade without you.
    And.
    It.
    Has not.
    Been.
    Pretty.
    But: I am still here.
    Friends forever,
    HW
    I walk to the mailbox with Inkling on my back. He gobbled up the squash I bought him earlier, but my new cash flow didn’t convince him to stay. He’s still leaving for Land o’ Pumpkins first thing Monday morning on the train. He wants to be there for Halloween. Apparently they have something called a Pumpkin-Carving Extravaganza, and he doesn’t want to miss it.
    â€œI guess there won’t be any address where I can send you postcards,” I say. “Will there?”
    â€œNah,” says Inkling. “I don’t think so.”
    â€œCan you send me a postcard?”
    â€œMaybe one. To let you know I’m okay.”
    â€œThat’s it? Just one?”
    â€œStamps are hard to come by.”
    â€œI just—”
    I don’t know what to say. I know I can’t ask Inkling to stay.
    â€œAw, Wolowitz,” he says, patting my shoulder. “Don’t get mushy on me, now.”

    But I do get mushy.
    I mean, I cry a little.
    â€œI wish you a great time,” I finally tell him. “And a lot of really yummy pumpkins.”

I Figured I’d Come for Lunch
    M onday, I walk into the lunchroom alone. “Wolowitz! You want to sit with us?” Chin calls, as she heads off with the girls.
    I shake my head. “Maybe