Working draft of a kids' picture book, also curiously devoid of pictures, and as yet not, quite, right.

New Skin

Albert sat in his room. He wasn't feeling just quite right.

Summer was almost over. School started tomorrow. His new school clothes were hanging in his closet, a little too big so he could grow into them.

He looked around at his things. At his toys, and his books, and his games, and his rocks, and his treasures from the beach, and his pet snake Fiddlesticks with the pink eyes that ate mousecicles (frozen mice from the freezer). He didn't want to play with any of them. Nothing felt just quite right.

It was like...like...like he was too loose in his skin.

That was the feeling: he was too loose in his skin.

Albert pinched some skin on his arm. It pulled up like it was bubble gum. It was too loose. He looked in the mirror, and pulled both cheeks, the way his Aunt used to when he was little.

Definitely. Too loose. Now Albert knew what he needed.

Albert needed a new skin.

He went to talk to his parents in the kitchen. They were making soup. It smelled good, like Sunday afternoon.

"I need a new skin," Albert said.

"What's wrong with the skin you're in?" she asked.

"Too loose," Albert said.  "See?"  And he did the thing with his cheeks.

"Baby," (she called him Baby), "don't do that to your face. It'll stick like that."

"But I need a new skin."

"Really?" said his father. "Let me see." He pulled on Albert's nose like when they played the got-your-nose game. His fingers smelled like onions. But in a good way.

"Huh." Then his Father pulled on Albert's cheek. "Uh-huh." The he went back to his soup tasting. "You know, Monkey," (he called him Monkey), "we love you very much the way you are."

"I know," said Albert. "But--"

"And anyway," said his Father, "you can't just get a new skin. Not just like that. It doesn't work that way."

"How does it work then?" asked Albert.

"I don't know," said his Father. Albert's Mother shrugged. "We don't know. But we do know it doesn't work that way."

Albert rolled his eyes, being careful not to roll them too much because they might stick that way, you never know. He went to the freezer to get Fiddlesticks a mousecicle. His knees felt too low, like his leg bones were in tall, falling-down socks. He tried pulling them up, but it didn't work.

Albert went outside. His little sister was playing with her friends, the twins, Coco and Pilar. Maybe, Albert thought, they knew how it works. You never know. Little kids could remember, and see things that big kids couldn't anymore -- both good (like imaginary friends) and bad (like things under the bed).

"Hi," said Albert. His butt felt saggy and droopy, like a diaper.

"Hi Albert," said his sister. "We're playing store and I'm the store lady and you have to give me the money and after you give me the money then I give you the things. Do you want to play?"

"Sure," said Albert, putting his pretend money in her hand. "A new skin please."

"Oh," said his sister, "you can't get a new skin." She gave back his pretend money.  "It doesn't work that way."

"How does it work then?" He put the pretend money in his pocket.

"Well," said his sister, "there's the Skin Fairy. You take off your old skin, and you fold it nice and you put it under your pillow, and in the morning it's gone."

"Well," said Pilar (or maybe it was Coco, Albert couldn't tell), "but the Skin Fairy only takes the skin away. She doesn't leave you a new one, she just leaves a quarter or a sticker or a treat."

"Oh yeah," said Albert's sister.

"Well, there's Skinny Claus," said Coco (or maybe it was Pilar), "he brings new skins. But you have to be really good. And anyway, I think he only comes in wintertime."

All the little kids nodded.

"Charlie Smalls?" said his sister, "Charlie Smalls? He said he saw the Blister Bunny before that hides different colored skins to find but everybody knows he's just pretend."

"Charlie Smalls is not pretend!" said the twins.

"No, the Blister Bunny's pretend," said Albert's sister.

They all nodded, though they didn't seem sure.

"And Albert?" said his sister, "Grandpa has a lot, a lot of skin. He knows a lot of things, too. He's old as a tree, old as a rock. Ask him. You never know."

"Good idea," said Albert, and fished the pretend money back out of his pocket. "Here. Keep the change."

Albert wondered: how hard could it be, getting a new skin? Didn't people do it all the time? He remembered he still had a mousecicle in his pocket. He went upstairs to feed it to Fiddlesticks, but Fiddlesticks wasn't hungry. He gave Albert a pink-eyed look. Maybe Fiddlesticks wasn't feeling just quite right either.

Albert went and found his Grandfather on the couch. He wasn't snoring anymore, so he was done with his nap.

"Grandpa," said Albert, "I need a new skin."

"Already?" said his Grandfather. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully, sloooooowly, unfolded it.

"Yeah," and Albert did the thing with his cheeks. "See?"

"Ooh," said his Grandfather. "I do indeed." He blew his nose with a honk.

"So can I?" said Albert. "Get a new skin?"

"It doesn't work that way," said his Grandfather, and carefully, sloooowly folded up the dirty handkerchief, and put it back in his pocket.

Albert slumped. His arms felt like too-long-sleeves that he wanted to push up, but couldn't. "How does it work then?"

"I don't know," said his Grandfather. Then he lowered his voice. "But if you'd like a different skin, follow me." Then he winked.

Albert's Grandfather took him upstairs, then reached up to the ceiling and pulled on a ring Albert hadn't noticed before. Wooden stairs, narrow and steep as a ladder, folded down out of the ceiling. They climbed up. They were under the roof. It was hot, and dusty. There were stacks of boxes and suitcases and trunks, and a tall mirror leaning in the back. Albert sneezed.

"Somewhere..." said Albert's Grandfather, squinting, "somewhere...here!" And he wiped the dust off a big green trunk and opened it. There was an old plaid blanket on top. And underneath... skins. Lots of them, folded neatly.

"Wow," said Albert.

"These are from our family," said his Grandfather. "Some are very old."

He held up a little one.

"This one was yours, when you were small. You probably can't remember."  He was right. Albert couldn't. His Grandfather folded it up again. "You may find something here you like," he said, "You never know. I'll give you some privacy." And he left.

Albert picked out a few to try on. He held them up in front of the mirror. Then he took off his skin. He was cold.

He lifted up a boy's skin, about his size. It smelled like apples. He pulled it on, starting with the legs. It felt cozy, like pajamas fresh from the dryer. But kind of tight. He looked in the mirror. He was smiling. He stuck out his tongue in the spot where the teeth were missing. Still smiling. He tried his scary zombie face. It didn't work. Still smiling. It was the ears -- he couldn't stop smiling because the ears were too tight. That wouldn't do. Albert took off the skin.

Next he tried on a skin with a long, droopy mustache. It smelled like coffee. It was too big; the elbows and the knees weren't in the right places. It was comfortable like a bathrobe is comfortable, but Albert couldn't see very well out of it, so he took it off again.

Albert picked up another one. A girl's skin this time. It smelled like vanilla. Or cookie dough. He was curious. He looked around to see if anyone was watching. Nobody there. He tried it on, just for a moment. It didn't feel right at all. He took it off again.

He tried on more -- skins with freckles, skins with moles, hairy skins, skins the color of butterscotch, of peaches, of pizza crust, of chocolate kisses. He made faces in the mirror and funny voices came out of his mouth without even trying, but nothing felt just quite right. Some felt awful, even. Scratchy, or itchy, or heavy, or like the inside of a fish. Finally, he'd tried them all, and stood in his pink nothing, shivering a little.

Then he heard his Mother calling him.

"Albert, will take out the garbage please?"

"Just a minute!" Albert shouted.

He looked around. He hadn't been very careful folding the skins while he was trying them on, and he'd tried on a lot, and now they were laying all over the place. He looked and he looked, but -- but -- he couldn't find his own skin! The more he looked, the worse he felt.

"Albert!" his Mother called, more loudly this time.

"Coming!" yelled Albert, not sure what to do.

He couldn't go down like this, in his pink nothing. What could he do?

"Right now, Baby!" his Mother called, even more loudly.

What could he do? He had to have skin on. He picked up the easiest, most comfortable one, the one with the droopy mustache, and pulled it on. Even though it was big, and he couldn't see very well, it was warm, and didn't feel awful. He flop-flopped down the stairs.

"Coming!"

When Albert's Mother saw him, her eyebrows went up. She looked like she was going to laugh, but she didn't. Then she looked like she was going to cry, and she didn't. Instead, she held out her hand.

"Okay, Baby," she said, and stroked Albert's mustache a little, "okay."

Albert took out the garbage. He could see other kids playing. They all looked comfortable in their skins. Down the street, he could see the firehouse; the big doors were open, and he could see all the firefighter gear hanging on hooks next to the shiny red engine. Hanging like big, tough skins, ready for emergencies.

"Albert!" his sister said, "You found a new skin!"

"Is it from the Blister Bunny?" asked one of the twins.

"It's like a grownup," said the other.

 "No," said Albert, "it's not from the Blister Bunny, and it's not new, and I think I lost mine, I can't find it anywhere." He felt like he was going to cry, but the eyes didn't fit right, so he didn't. How could he go to school like this? All his friends would laugh.

Albert went back up to the attic to try and find his skin. He folded up every one he'd tried on, and put them back neatly in the trunk, and relief! He found it. It had fallen down between two boxes. It was dirty; Albert would need a bath. He changed back into his own skin again. It was warm. It smelled like him. It was still loose, but it was his. Albert felt much better, thought still just not quite right.

He went back down to his room. He looked over at Fiddlesticks. The mousecicle was gone.

"Good job, Fiddlesticks," he said.

Fiddlesticks looked back at him, unblinking pink.

"Fiddlesticks," he said, "School starts tomorrow. I need a new skin. No one can tell me -- how does it work?"

"Well," said the snake, just barely loud enough to hear through the glass. "I don't know."  Albert leaned in closer.

"What I do know is that it does work." Fiddlesticks stuck out his tongue once, twice. "And maybe how isn't important. And maybe," tongue once, "maybe that is your new skin. And maybe you are growing into it."

And that was it, Albert knew. That felt right. Not just quite right yet, but it would feel right later, like his new school clothes always did.

"So there's no Blister Bunny?" Albert asked, only half kidding.

Fiddlesticks stuck out his tongue.  "You never know."