of its pliable, swishing fins. As it swam, the black drifted up and became a cloud of swaying hair. The creature rolled over in the tub and spouted water at me from newly plump cheeks.
This, it said, is the equivalent of laughing. At you. You should see your face.
In the middle of a dream, one in which I was wiping water off my face, Jenny Haniver draped her arms over the side of the tub and asked me if I believed in monsters.
“There are so many different kinds,” she said. “You have the ones that look like what we are, like me, and then you have the other ones. It’s hard to decide which are more dangerous. I guess you could make an argument either way.” She lifted one arm off the tub and held it up as if she were admiring the softness of her skin. Then she reached out, pinched a few strands of my hair, and tore them off my head.
“Ow!” I said. This was more than I signed up for. I was going to kill Matthew, if I ever saw him again. I was going to throw him from the Ferris wheel, have him eaten by crabs, feed him to the platypus, turn him in to the museum, turn him in to his mother, leave him alone—all alone—with a dried-out bit of fish and bit of monkey, freshly reconstituted into a beautiful monster.
Jenny Haniver took something thin and sharp from her own hair. A needle, curved at one end and straight at the other. She threaded it with a strand of my hair and pointed to her side where a split had appeared, a seam bursting open even though there was nothing coming through.
“It wears out,” she said. “That’s a good thing to remember.”
When I woke up, the bathtub was empty. It smelled like fish and there was a clump of long, black hair caught around the opening of the drain. Puddles dotted the floor. I cleaned everything up before my parents could get out of bed.
Matthew’s voice flew out of the phone and hit me in the ear. “You have to get over here! Mr. Jabricot has something new that he’s going to try. He says we can be there. We can help. We can be the first people to see it. Do you even know how amazing that is?” I could hear him breathing hard into the phone, blowing big, whistling breaths down the line at me. I was pretty sure this wasn’t secret code for anything, except for the fact that Matthew, if left unattended, would collapse from the thrill.
“What about the Jenny Haniver?” I asked. How do you tell your friend that his stolen treasure walked itself out while you were sleeping? Or dragged itself out, on two arms and a flopping, shredding tail? How are you supposed to tell anyone something like that?
“Don’t worry about it. Mr. Jabricot knows everything. He thinks we’re hilarious.” Matthew laughed and I could hear someone else laughing behind him. “Come on. Hurry up.”
How are you supposed to talk to the person who you used to think was your best friend in the world? “Sure,” I said.
Mr. Jabricot let me in through a plain door on the back side of the museum. It opened onto a bland corridor and I followed Mr. Jabricot into it, past doors that were mostly closed. He was wearing his green hat again and a brown tweed jacket with felt patches over the elbows. He looked like a teacher or a librarian and, for some reason, the similarity made me want to laugh.
“So,” he said, “Jenny Haniver. What do you think about her story now?”
“It’s the same thing,” I said. “She gets sewn up. She turns into a monster. She leaves.”
“I think you’re lacking some inspiration.” Mr. Jabricot made two scolding clicks at the back of his throat. “Or, you’re lying. The moral of the story is: you can’t see anything unless you look at it inside another skin. Your friend can’t figure that one out, but I assume you’re smarter than he is.” He patted my shoulder.
I decided that I had been lying, but hadn’t realized it until he made me consider the possibility. I was about to apologize, but Mr. Jabricot opened the door at the end of the hall. The room inside was cold and smelled of plaster, chemicals, and the sharp, uncomfortable scent of strong disinfectant. There were shelves full of tools and bottles and boxes piled