Inkling Page 6

  “Lose something?” Vika asked, walking past him.

  Then he saw Soren’s shoes, one red, one with a big black moving splotch on it.

  Ethan hurried after his friend into the hallway.

  “That was incredible in there,” Soren said when Ethan caught up. “You didn’t tell me you brought him to school!”

  “I didn’t know,” said Ethan. “And he’s on your shoe. Don’t stop, just keep going.”

  Soren glanced down and gulped. “I don’t know how I feel about this, Ethan. What if he decides to . . . climb up?”

  Ethan looked around nervously. The lunchtime hallway was noisy and crowded and he doubted anyone would notice, but he wanted to go somewhere quiet, fast.

  “I’m freaking out a little, Ethan.”

  “Don’t freak out, okay? We’ll go to the bathroom.”

  “I’m freaking out! What if he swarms up my face!”

  Without warning, Inkling darted off Soren’s shoe, dodging around people’s feet, and slid right underneath the door of the art room.

  Ethan rushed over and tried the knob. The door was locked.

  Chapter 7

  It was the smell that had lured Inkling inside. How could he resist? The room positively blossomed with the scent of ink. Inkling followed it up onto a long table. Spread out in a row were dozens of pieces of paper. And on each was a huge splotch of black ink.

  He froze, stunned. He’d never dreamed there were others like him!

  He’d thought he was alone in the wide world.

  Was this what he was supposed to find? A place with creatures like him?

  Inkling raced to the nearest piece of paper. He wanted to touch the other ink splotch, but he thought that might be rude, so instead he wrote:

  GREETINGS!

  No reply. Inkling tried again, using the language he’d just learned from his latest book.

  I IS INKLING. WHO IS YOU?

  Again, not a flicker of response.

  YOU IS VERY UNFRIENDSOME, he wrote, and moved on to the next splotch, which was shaped like a crooked butterfly.

  HELLO! YOU IS LOOKING LIKE A WHOPSY BUTTERFLAPPER!

  Nothing. This time Inkling reached out with a tendril and politely tapped the other splotch. It didn’t move. Inkling nudged harder, and the part of the butterfly he touched just disappeared, slurped up inside him.

  Inkling backed off. With a squeeze of loneliness, he realized these were not creatures like him at all. They were just drawings, just ordinary bits of lifeless ink.

  He had no way of knowing that this was the work of second graders learning about action art. Some had splattered their paper with ink from a brush. Others had punched ink onto their paper with sponges. And still others had dripped ink onto one half of the paper, folded, squished, and unfolded it to see what pattern they’d made.

  Inkling rested for a moment, and his disappointment turned to annoyance.

  These pictures weren’t very good. They were messy. They didn’t look like anything at all—well, except that butterfly one.

  Inkling figured he might as well improve things a bit. He’d seen (and eaten) enough pictures by now to have lots of ideas. He got to work. The first ink splotch he turned into a picture of the moon with all its pockmarks and ridges. The second, a volcano exploding. Another splotchy mess he expertly transformed into a fireworks display against a city skyline.

  He was so involved in what he was doing that he didn’t notice the lights coming on and people entering the room.

  “Thanks, Mr. Sawyer,” Ethan said. “I left my study notes in here, and my test is next period.”

  “Hurry, please,” said the art teacher. “I’ve got a class coming in two minutes.”

  Ethan and Soren started looking. What Ethan saw was a room full of paper and canvases and brushes and artwork. A million places where Inkling could hide—and eat himself into something the size of the Titanic.

  “Wow, those are really good,” Soren said, pointing at the ink drawings on the table.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Sawyer, “those are the second graders’ . . .” He stepped closer and frowned. “But that’s not what we were doing. How did these . . .”

  Ethan’s eyes skated across the ink drawings and skidded to a halt at the last one. Because this one was moving. All the splotchy bits were shaping themselves into a horse rearing up on its hind legs.

  He put himself between the picture and Mr. Sawyer.

  “Maybe the ink just kind of soaked into the paper and got all smeared,” said Ethan helpfully. He backed up until he bumped against the table. With one hand he reached back until he felt the edges of the paper Inkling was on.

  “No,” said Mr. Sawyer, “I don’t see how this is possible. . . .”

  Ethan coughed and whipped the paper off the table, keeping it behind him. Mr. Sawyer didn’t notice. Leaning over another drawing, he peered closer.

  “I think these kids are all really talented!” said Soren, understanding what was going on. “You’re doing a great job, Mr. Sawyer!”

  Ethan glanced at the paper in his hand to make sure Inkling was still on it, happily drawing away. He folded it up and crammed it into his pocket.

  “Strangest thing,” muttered Mr. Sawyer.

  Ethan grabbed Soren by the sleeve and started dragging him out of the room.

  “Thanks, Mr. Sawyer!” said Ethan.

  The teacher looked up. “What about your study notes?”

  “I must’ve left them somewhere else.”

  Ethan marched to the bathroom with Soren. There was no one else inside. He pulled the paper from his pocket and unfolded it. Inkling shimmered.

  “You can’t just take off like that!” Ethan said to him.

  I IS HAVING A FROTHSOME ADVENTURE!

  “He’s talking all weird again,” Soren said.

  “Inkling, are you by any chance reading—”

  THE WHIZZ POPPING BOOK IN YOUR KNACKERSACK!

  Ethan burst out laughing. “The BFG! That’s exactly the way he talks! But, Inkling, why’d you run away from us?”

  I THOUGHT THERE WERE OTHERS. BUT THEY WERE JUST SLOTHSOME INK.

  It took Ethan a second to understand. “Yeah, just drawings.”

  I AM ALONESOME.

  Without knowing what he was doing, he patted Inkling—the same way he patted Sarah to reassure her after she tripped. It just seemed like the thing to do.

  “Well, you’re not really alonesome, because you have me,” Ethan said. “And I was worried I’d lost you. Please don’t run off again.”

  Inkling formed into a smiley face.

  “I didn’t even know you were in my backpack!”

  I WAS HIDING FROM THAT FANGDOODLE RICKMAN.

  “Well, I’m glad you did, because I couldn’t have drawn that gorilla alone!”

  YOU IS WELCOME. THAT HUMAN BEAN, VIKA, SHE IS A FILTHSOME KIDDLE.

  Ethan couldn’t help laughing. “I agree.”

  I CAN GOBBLEFUNK HER DRAWINGS IF YOU LIKE.

  “What? No, no, that’s okay. You’re helping me enough already.” He sighed. “Way too much.” The bell rang, and he started folding up the paper again. “I’m putting you back in my pocket now.”

  He and Soren left the washroom and headed to class.

  “Inkling’s pretty amazing,” Soren said. “The way he can just draw anything.”

  “And not just pictures,” Ethan said. “He can write—he remembers any word he erases.”

  Soren was quiet a moment, then said, “Hey, do you think Inkling would mind if I borrowed him?”

  Ethan glanced over in surprise. “What for?”

  “The history test next week. Inkling could read all my notes and then, you know, rewrite the answers for me.”

  “Are you serious?”

  There was a tangle of feelings in his head, but the strongest was that he absolutely did not want to share Inkling. He didn’t want Soren taking him home, or holding him, or even talking to him. Inkling was something special that belonged only to
him, Ethan.

  “I can never remember all those dates,” Soren was saying. “It’s not my fault I have a lousy memory! What do you say?”

  “But it’s cheating,” Ethan replied before he could stop himself.

  Soren looked genuinely hurt for a second and then muttered, “How’s it any different from what you’re doing?”

  Ethan scowled and kicked an empty drink box across the floor. Then he sighed and said, “It’s not.”

  “Inkling,” Ethan said after school, “could you teach me how to draw?”

  He was sitting at his desk, watching Inkling work on a new spread, transforming his penciled stick figures into beautiful images. He knew he’d never be good enough to do that.

  He also knew that he wasn’t going to throw out all the amazing work Inkling had already completed. Soren was absolutely right: he’d been cheating all along, and there was no point making excuses for himself. But maybe he could make it better by trying his hardest to learn, and draw as much of the graphic novel as possible.

  Inkling wrote:

  ABSOLUTELY! I CAN COACH YOU!

  Since getting home, Inkling had made a snack of the sports section of the newspaper, and the way he talked had changed again.

  “How should we do this?”

  JUST DO IT! I WILL ASSIST.

  Ethan uncapped his best marker, studying the next panel. In his imagination, he could picture it exactly.

  PLAY TO WIN!

  Ethan lowered his marker, and Inkling sent out a little tendril of ink to meet the tip as it touched the paper.

  This time, Inkling let Ethan take the lead. Frowning in concentration, Ethan roughed in the gorilla, trying to get the overall shape and posture right, the angry scowl on the ape’s face. He felt like everything he did was a mistake.

  GET IN THE GAME, ETHAN!

  “I’m doing my best!”

  EYES ON THE PRIZE!

  “It’s kind of hard to concentrate with you talking like that.”

  I CAN BENCH THE PEP TALK.

  As Ethan drew, Inkling would sometimes make whisker-thin lines to suggest a better way. If the mistakes were too big, and Ethan asked, Inkling erased them so he could take another try. Together they worked for twenty minutes, completely absorbed, and finished the panel.

  When Ethan put the pen down, he was pleasantly surprised by what he’d drawn. Even with Inkling helping him every step of the way, it wasn’t great. In no way was it great. But it was better than what he’d done several days ago.

  GOOD WORK, TEAM!

  “Thanks.” He looked back at Inkling’s previous panels. Despite the intentional smudges and messy bits, they were so much better than what he’d just done.

  “People will know,” he said, shaking his head. “They’ll know someone else did it.”

  In a quick whirl of inky fingers, Inkling danced across Ethan’s picture and left behind a much-improved drawing. It didn’t have quite the polish of the earlier work, but it looked more consistent.

  “I guess that’s how we’ll have to do it,” Ethan said with a resigned sigh. “But I work first, okay? And then you can make it better—and maybe I’ll improve as I go along.”

  OF COURSE YOU WILL!

  It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was the best one Ethan could come up with right now. He was determined: he’d make the graphic novel as much of his own as humanly possible.

  “Thanks again, Inkling. We’ll do some more later, okay?”

  At dinner, Sarah couldn’t stop talking about Lucy.

  Sarah only talked in stories. If you asked her how she was, or what she did at school, she just looked at you like you were the most boring person in the world. What she wanted to talk about was her favorite TV shows and books, usually all mixed together, over and over again. Tonight, there was a new character at least: Lucy the puppy. Lucy was chased by mean dogs; Lucy got thorns in her paws; Lucy was lost and scared and needed rescuing.

  Sarah’s speech wasn’t always clear, and when she got really excited, she held her hands in front of her and wiggled her fingers. Ethan was better at understanding her than Dad was, and he could tell Dad was getting frustrated by all the commotion.

  “Who’s Moosey?” Dad asked, pouring himself another glass of wine.

  “Lucy. It’s a puppy. On a show she likes,” Ethan lied.

  “Lucy is Sarah’s puppy!” Sarah insisted.

  “Is that your favorite show now?” Dad asked her.

  “Dada, Lucy is not a show. She is a puppy!”

  “Fine, okay,” said Dad, rubbing the spot between his eyes, hard.

  Sarah launched into a Lucy story she’d already told five minutes ago.

  “I wouldn’t mind just a few new stories,” Dad muttered.

  “They’re based on her favorite TV episodes,” Ethan explained. He’d heard them playing from the TV room so many times he could almost recite the lines and sing the songs.

  “This is making me crazy,” Dad said as Sarah prattled on. “It’s like she’s stuck.”

  Kind of like you, Ethan thought but didn’t say.

  “Maybe she watches too much TV,” Ethan said instead.

  Dad looked at him in annoyance. “Maybe you should play with her more, then.”

  “I do play with her! More than you!”

  “You’re a kid. Kids play. I’ve got to work.”

  Ethan held his tongue. Obviously Dad had had another bad day.

  “Karl’s dropping by later,” Dad said.

  “Carol!” Sarah shouted happily.

  Carol was Sarah’s babysitter, and Sarah adored her. Karl didn’t sound so different from Carol, especially if you said them quickly.

  “Not Carol,” Ethan explained carefully. “Karl.”

  Sarah looked at him sternly. “Sarah is very disappointed.”

  It wasn’t unusual for Dad’s publisher to pop by, look at the latest artwork, have a drink. Not so much in the last couple of years, but when Dad was doing the Kren series, Karl Worthington often showed up with good news and a bottle of champagne to celebrate an award, or a bestseller list, or being translated into Korean.

  Warily, Ethan asked, “Is Vika coming?”

  “I think he said he’s bringing her, yeah.”

  “Greaaaaaaat,” said Ethan.

  “You guys are still in the same class, right?” his father asked.

  “Yes!” Ethan said. “We’ve been in the same class forever!”

  “I thought you two could play with Sarah so Karl and I have a chance to talk.”

  Ethan breathed in, let it out. “Okay.”

  Chapter 8

  When the doorbell rang, Sarah ran down the hallway, shouting, “Carol!” and was disappointed all over again when Dad opened the door and Karl and Vika were standing there.

  Sarah squinted. She was a bit nearsighted.

  “Let’s try again,” she said, trying to close the door on them, as if next time might be different.

  Ethan disguised his laugh with a cough. This was exactly what he wished he could do to Vika.

  But Dad stopped Sarah and ushered Karl and Vika inside.

  “Sarah, you are so much taller!” Karl said. “How old are you?”

  “She’s nine!” Sarah answered.

  “Not yet you aren’t,” Dad told her. “One more sleep.”

  “She’s having a party!” Sarah said, and ran back to the TV room.

  “Hi, Mr. Rylance,” said Vika, pretending she was a normal person, smiling a normal smile.

  “Hi, Vika. Nice to see you again.”

  “How’s your latest book coming along?” Vika asked as they walked to the living room.

  Ethan sighed inwardly. Vika didn’t have a clue about living with an artist, especially one who was blocked.

  “Great!” Dad said. “Very well!”

  Ethan could hear the exclamation-mark lies in his voice. Vika and Karl must know anyway. If the work were going well, there’d be a new book to show, wouldn’t there? Or at least new artwork.

/>   “Great to hear!” said Karl. “Anything you could show?”

  “Not yet. I want to wait till it’s all finished and get a fresh reaction.”

  “Of course, absolutely.”

  It was weird watching adults lie to each other, Ethan thought. Dad was lying, and Karl knew he was lying, but everyone just kept pretending.

  “Ethan’s doing some amazing artwork at school,” Vika said.

  Ethan was horrified that Dad couldn’t see her fake smile and the gleam from her archenemy teeth.

  “Great,” said Mr. Rylance distractedly.

  “His style really takes after yours.”

  “Oh?” said Mr. Rylance, smiling vaguely at Ethan. Ethan had told Dad tons of times about the graphic novel project—and asked him for help!—but Dad had obviously forgotten the whole thing.

  “They’re doing graphic novels at school,” Mr. Worthington said helpfully.

  “Right, right,” Dad said. “Two artists in the family, heaven help us.”

  “Have you seen it?” Vika persisted.

  “No, Ethan hasn’t shown it to me. But I’m glad it’s going well. . . .”

  Karl beamed at Ethan. “Taking after your old man, huh? I’ll be signing you up next.”

  “You’ll be signing me up next,” Vika said firmly.

  “Goes without saying,” her dad replied.

  “Hey, Ethan,” said his father, “why don’t you and Vika go watch some TV or something, keep an eye on Sarah.”

  “Sure,” said Vika perkily. “Sounds great.”

  “Oh, and, Ethan,” Dad added, “maybe Vika would like a drink of something.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, walking to the kitchen.

  At the fridge, without looking at Vika, he asked, “What would you like to drink?” He sounded like the GPS in Dad’s car.

  “What do you have?”

  He opened the fridge door, hating her. “There’s cranberry juice.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Orange juice.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Milk.”

  “I’m lactose intolerant.”

  “Ginger ale.”

  “Do you have any lime water?”

  “No.”