(A stagehand comes on stage unrolling a length of string from the backstage area. The string ends at the center of the stage. The stagehand walks off. A woman enters. She carries a little box and walks along the string like it were a tightrope. She comes center stage and looks out.)

Silverfish. I love that word. That way it feels in the mouth when you say it. Silverfish. The way it tastes! Silverfish. Go ahead. Slow and soft like you’re whispering it to a baby. Silverfish. When I told my mom I wanted a silverfish, she thought about it. And guess what? She said yes! So we went to the pet store. I was so excited. We went to Papa Jim’s on that street where we buy our tamales. But she took me to the fish section. I told her a silverfish isn’t a fish. “But, here’s one,” she said, pointing to a big one swimming around. “And those are also silver,” she said, tapping on another tank. “These are little, you can get two.” That’s when I realized my mother isn’t very smart. I think she thought a silverfish is like a goldfish, just cheaper. When she finally realized what I meant, she just rolled her eyes and told me that they were pests. Silverfish. But that was fine with me. I’m a pest too. That’s what they say.

Silverfish. They are closely related to the very first creatures to emerge from the oceans. Their Latin name is Lepisma. That’s fun to say, too. Lepisma.

I saw my first Silverfish when I was sitting in bed reading. It was Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. This frisky fellow wiggled across the page and just stopped right on top of a question mark. He sat there, staring up at me. I moved my finger in close, and he took off, down into the valley between the pages and up to the top of the book. He went over the edge, but I found him again on the next page, skittering across that picture of the Dodo bird with the walking stick. He took off across my bedspread and I followed him down to the floor. We had many adventures that day before he disappeared into a crack at the back of my closet. I never saw that one again. That silverfish.

He’s not the same silverfish as this one in my box. No. His name is Ambrosio. My mother says it sounds like the name of a gigolo. But I don’t know what that is. I found Ambrosio in that little bookstore in the basement of the library. He was just sitting there, on top of a used coloring book in an open box on the floor. His antennae twitched but he didn’t move as I scooped him up. I put him in the little pill bottle where I keep my medicine, and no one noticed when I snuck him right out the front door.

Silverfish. They are arthropods. Like insects, spiders, and shrimp. It’s my opinion that were silverfish big enough, they’d taste as good as shrimp. And you want to know something? My silverfish is the biggest in the world. Ambrosio’s the size of my pinky finger. I’d take him out of the box, but, you know, he doesn’t like all the lights. Or all the people. They’re very shy creatures, you know. Silverfish.

They say silverfish eat books and old photographs. That may be true. But my Ambrosio eats nothing but french fries. One will last him for a long time.

My mother teaches art for the kids at the State Hospital. And one afternoon I wandered over to the gymnasium to play with Ambrosio. The place was deserted. I unrolled a length of string all the way down the basketball court. I’d taught Ambrosio to walk along a string on the floor. It might curve, or go straight, but he’d always follow it. Maybe on the left, right, or on top of it. But he’d always follow that string. I had it straight. On the floor from hoop to hoop. He did it in 27.5 minutes, without a break!

They say silverfish can live for a year without eating. I find that hard to believe. After crossing that floor, Ambrosio was famished. He put a big dent in a french fry that day!

That day was the first time I ever heard my mother say a kind word about Ambrosio. She said he was a very disciplined silverfish. Well, actually, she called him a bug. That’s a vulgar word. Bug. But I kept quiet about it. I let it slide. Silverfish. Much better than bug. Don’t you think?

I had been asking around about a book on silverfish. There must be some, right? One day this guy my mother was dating gave me a book. It was “The Care and Feeding of Your Golden Retriever.” But he’d put a piece of white tape over Golden Retriever and written Silverfish. Hilarious. It wasn’t a total waste. I mean, we did have a golden retriever. But a book wasn’t much help. I don’t know about you, but what do you do with a dog that doesn’t chase a ball or bark at the mailman anymore. If you ask me, he’s outlived his usefulness. But I guess people like having them around. Sleeping on a pillow in the corner.

There are whole sections in the library for dog books. But for silverfish, I had to research. I’d get a little sentence here, paragraph there. I do know that a silverfish can live as much as eight years. Not bad. But I can’t figure out how old Ambrosio was when I saved him from the library.

He still seems pretty lively. I think I’ll teach him to fetch a tiny little ball. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it, Ambrosio? People and their dogs. Silly, right? I mean, when you have a silverfish.

Well, my time seem to be up. I’d better go back into my box.

(She turns and follows the string backstage.)