“We don’t have any books on that,” Mrs. Adams whispered. She looked Kelsey Lou up and down, sizing up her belly with eyebrows raised high as the squeaking ceiling fan ‘tween her desk and the water fountain. “What do you need to learn about pregnancy for, anyhow?”

Kelsey Lou shrugged. “Just curious.”

The librarian nodded, unsatisfied.

“If this is a library,” Kelsey Lou asked, “why ain’t there no books about miscarriages?” She had come to a place made for finding answers, but there wasn’t no answers to be had in the whole entire building? Tomfoolery. 

Couldn’t be that in all the history of book-writin’, not one author had ever written about what to expect when you’re pregnant, twelve years old, and trapped in Arkansas. Could it? Could every author who ever told a story have somehow avoided ever tellin’ theirs? Could her little sister be the only unheard story in all of American history? No, she couldn’t imagine so.

“You could use the internet, like most people do these days, Miss Farmer,” the librarian answered. Her precise, staccato cadence sounded odd to Farmer’s ears. Her vowels were all pronounced like a tall piece of Wisconsin cheese is shaped. She ain’t from ’round here, Kelsey Lou thought to herself.

Kelsey Lou couldn’t access the internet from the library; not on pregnancy and miscarriage; not without triggering every digital security alarm all the way up to the State Supreme Court. The anti-abortion laws mixed with the schools’ book bans made real sure no one could learn anything too important. Kelsey Lou had confiscated a few books from the dumpster, when the library first started throwing ’em out when she was younger, but none were on pregnancy. She couldn’t hide enough books to have a real library of her own at home.

She wondered if the librarians had ever figured out why so many good books on their shelves were missing dust jackets. They covered up Kelsey Lou’s collection of rescued books real good. Ma never bothered opening a one of ’em to see what was really inside the cover. She avoided reading even more than the Plague. 

Kelsey Lou always thought it odd, that saying. Ma would say “avoid it like the Plague” – but she took no efforts to avoid the Plague when it came through in 2020, so Kelsey Lou thought that was a real silly thing to say. Ma avoided reading at all costs. Somehow, too, it seemed most of the grown-ups had joined in these most peculiar priorities, making sure their children were protected from knowledge, information, and literacy, like those things were all much worse than the Plague.

Too bad the political party of family values didn’t ban grown men from having sex with her kid sister as effectively as books, she thought.

If Kelsey Lou went lookin’ up information on her phone, she knew it was just a matter of time ‘fore Ma or Pa would find out and lose their minds. Where was a girl in the Ozarks to get an education about her own body these days? She shook her head at the librarian’s suggestion to use the internet and hoped desperately for a mutual understanding, without saying out loud what she couldn’t say out loud.

Kelsey Lou and Mrs. Adams faced one another, at an impasse, without words. Mrs. Adam’s didn’t see fit to lose her job and go to jail for providing such information to a minor today; and Kelsey Lou didn’t see fit to walk away from one of few folks in town who might could help her understand what had happened to her little sister’s body two days earlier. 

Would she start bleeding again? Did she need a doctor? How quickly? What does pregnancy do to a body, even? Is it really like a parasite inside you, drinking the water right out of your organs, scraping up your tissues and insides to form itself a body? That doesn’t always go right. How do you know if it’s not going right? In civilized societies, Kelsey Lou imagined the first and most obvious answer is to ask your mother. But when your Ma is half the reason you’re pregnant, and can only make things worse, never better – is there anyone to ask? Who? Who knows these things? What is there to know, even?

Mrs. Adams sat down to the desk and began cataloging book returns.

The Dickson Street Bookshop might could be a place to get information, Kelsey Lou thought. It would cost money. But at least they aren’t bound by the same restrictions as the public library? It was only a few blocks away and accessible on foot. She uncapped a bottle and took a swig of water.

“I think the bookshop is an excellent idea,” Mrs. Adams agreed aloud, reading the young’n’s mind by osmosis.

“How di—?”

Mrs. Adams’ smile interrupted Kelsey Lou’s question as the two humans and their uteruses, all inhabiting the same magical Ozarks at the same cosmic time, brought together by similar circumstances, saw one another plainly, as equals, bound by some force of nature the English tongue will never have true words for.

Kelsey Lou wasn’t accustomed to bein’ looked at by nobody as their equal. They felt a tingle that radiated down the spine and into a bundle of nerves that surprised them. They felt… aroused? Yeah. Aroused.

“I can’t legally tell you anything about books related to pregnancy, Miss Farmer,” the librarian explained. “I certainly can’t tell you that teen pregnancies are associated with higher rates of health complications that need to be examined by a qualified physician as soon as possible, or what books to look for” – Mrs. Adams emphasized slowly – “in the maternal health section of the bookstore to find the information you want but aren’t legally allowed to get from this library, where tax dollars fund my paycheck and the Governor makes the rules.”

Kelsey Lou nodded, grateful. But how did the librarian read her mind?

“If you stop back by here tomorrow,” the librarian said quietly, “after your trip to the bookstore, some random person might just leave a random piece of paper with a list of decent doctors’ names tucked into the cover of Lord of the Flies, Miss Farmer. That’s Dewey Decimal 823.914. I trust you know how to find a book on these shelves by now?”

Kelsey Lou nodded. The electricity coursing through her body was more than just arousal. It was – what? Something welling up in the space between her chest and her belly, where her breath fell short because everything inside was too filled with gratitude to make room for air. How weird, she noticed, that gratitude and arousal felt so much the same.

“Now, please run along.” Mrs. Adams’ smile indicated that she really was done with the conversation, and Kelsey Lou scurried off with haste.

Walking her bike over the tall hill toward the bookshop gave Kelsey Lou the calm she needed for a few dozen deep breaths. The flowers were unfurling with more patriotism and devotion than any flag could ever show, each singing the joyous anthem of the Ozarks – a land of magical majesty, which God assured Kelsey Lou in her heart would not be governed by monsters forever.

Despite her mission to get information without leaving a technological trace, Kelsey Lou’s thoughts kept returning to one urgent, persistent feeling. Why had she felt aroused? Why was her underwear wet from such a normal and reasonable act of kindness? Why did the librarian reading her mind as if she were a book turn her on? How?

How weird, she thought. I’m not even attracted to women. Am I?

Maybe it was Mrs. Adams’ short hair? Kelsey Lou could hardly think of anything other remotely masculine about Mrs. Adams, who wore bright colors every day. She loved reading to the young elementary students, and often wore homemade dresses with letters and numbers to match each day’s lessons in the Creative Corner after school.

Maybe it was something about her vibrancy. The way she exuded well-deserved confidence. Mrs. Adams had that Freddie Mercury air of knowing where she belongs and what her purpose is – but, like, if Freddie had been a woman in her 30’s who was more interested in books than in men.

Kelsey Lou began to imagine what Mrs. Adams might be like outside of work. Her body responded with a ferocious wave of 15 year-old hormones. She imagined the librarian’s soft lips against her own, her hands finding comfort on her silky skin and light round curves. Her gait shifted to accommodate a growing heat between the legs as her fantasy steadily caught up. A mild, Ozark breeze blew past and raised the soft, tickling hairs off Kelsey Lou’s neck, pushing her toward a cliff of feelings she knew better than to leap from, outside the hidden privacy of her bedroom.

Then, with as much surprise as its onset, Kelsey Lou’s imagination did her the disservice of checking itself against reality. The both of them undressed in her mind, and approaching an imagined intimacy she had never thought of with Mrs. Adams before, Kelsey Lou remembered how terribly averse she is to anyone’s vagina but her own. She tried exploring her body with friends at sleepovers when she was younger. Memories of passionate, thrilling nights touching one another’s breasts and grinding against thighs flooded her senses. But Kelsey Lou’s memories of trying to actually have sex with the vagina part of those bodies, even of the girls she most cared for, were filed in her memory bank between “steamed turnip greens without seasoning” and “putting worms on the fishing hook with bare hands.”

Why would her body be so reactive toward a woman she doesn’t want sex with? Why would her brain be so inconsistent? Was she attracted to women? Or not? Just this woman? Just this woman, except her vagina? Why did this have to be so complicated? Why couldn’t she just like boys? Why couldn’t boys be more likeable?

Why couldn’t she just go buy a damn book for her sister and not sexualize the librarian, like a reasonable human, anyway?

Kelsey Lou loved the Dickson Street Bookshop. From floor to ceiling, wall to wall, and with piles on the floor throughout and in-between, the building was stacked with old, used books that smelled like the great-grandma she so dearly missed. 

The clerk greeted her kindly. Like a magnet, she found the section labeled “Ozarks” to the left in the front part of the building. There sat a dozen Donald Harington books, a Brody Parrish Craig book of poetry called “Boyish” she couldn’t leave sitting on the shelf, near a couple works by E. Lynn Harris – authors she considered dropping a couple salvaged cars’ worth of cash on. The only thing stopping her from buying the whole shelf was having to carry them home in a bicycle basket and handbag not large enough.

That, and she was on a mission. She snagged a couple Ozarks books with good dust jackets on them – you can never have too many good dust jackets – and headed off to find the maternal health section.

“Can I help you?” a woman covered in mesmerizing tattoos asked as she came down from a ladder, seeing Kelsey Lou pause near the correct section. She looked at the woman like a deer in headlights and didn’t know what to say.

“I don’t need to know anything you don’t want to tell me,” the woman said. “I just want to make sure you find what you need here today.” 

Relieved, Kelsey Lou asked what might cause a person to bleed real heavy in early pregnancy. The woman directed her to a shelf of generalized books on pregnancy, then pulled another two books out nearby, just far enough to show the spines real clear-like, on herbs and medicinal plants.

“Why these?” Kelsey Lou asked. 

“If you’re looking for the kind of information that will cause ‘heavy bleeding’ early in a pregnancy, that’s information we’ve been knowin’ since before the first human traffickers brought Africans here, thinking they could own and control other folks’ bodies,” she answered softly. “Your body is your own. What you decide you need to do to protect yourself, and your health, and your future, so that you can go on to have children when the time is right for you, if you want to, when you’re a grown adult – that’s a much more valid thing to do than risking your life, in a place with this high of a maternal mortality rate, so you can be tied forever to some man who doesn’t even know what love means, let alone respect you.”

Kelsey Lou realized what she was hearing and was taken aback. Abortion? Was this woman telling her? – was there a way to? – could her sister? – Huh.

“Don’t answer this out loud. I don’t need to know,” the woman said quietly. “Who do you trust?”

Kelsey Lou thought about it, and didn’t have to think long. The list was short. Real short.

“Go to her,” the woman said.

“Why do you assume it’s a woman?” Kelsey Lou asked, puzzled.

“If you’re trusting men around here, young lady, you might care to rethink your life choices,” the woman said. “I don’t imagine you’d be looking for books on this shelf at all, if not for a man.”

“Are you a lesbian?” Kelsey Lou blurted out, more shocked at herself for asking than the woman was by being asked.

“Women have played many vital roles in the history of the Ozarks. Out yonder a few miles from town, there’s been a women-only commune since the 1960’s. Went through some struggles a few years back, as the founding members aged and needed to live closer to medical care; then they had to reintegrate with a gender-mixed society, at that. They’re not the only ones who’ve done that around here.

“We’ve had women who shoot at anyone comes near ’em, and women who feed entire communities. Women who raise children, women who teach, women who heal the sick, women who write, women who drive trucks and build houses.”

The woman looked Kelsey Lou down to the Sketchers on her feet and up to the top of her long ponytail, and added, “Women who were born as men, and some who became men. Folks who broke free from being a woman, the way a seed breaks free but knows where it came from as it grows into something new and beautiful. The Ozarks is home to all manner of humans, young’n. Don’t let nobody make you feel you’re ever anything less than human, y’hear me?”

Kelsey Lou nodded. She still wanted to know whether the person she was talking to was a lesbian or not. Not that she would ask her how to know if she was one, too; but she thought about asking. This lady sure seemed to know a lot.

“My name is Susan. And you are?” the woman asked.

“Kelsey Lou Farmer,” she replied. “Thank you for teaching me so much.”

“Miss Farmer, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Susan said. “Who I love, and how I love, is my own business. What matters is that you know you’re entitled to your own business just as much as I am to mine. If you love a woman, love her with all your heart. Same goes for a man. Or for any person. Anyone you love, love them completely, no matter what. Don’t let nobody tell you otherwise. But whatever you do, do it for love.”

Kelsey Lou nodded. Was what she had been feeling in her body “love”? It had felt more carnal. Less sensible. Too physical. The librarian, after all, had only given her information about a book. Literally, that was her job. Hardly a lap dance or candlelight dinner. Kelsey Lou felt rather rude even allowing the fantasy to exist.

“Go see that woman you trust before you head home, if you can,” Susan encouraged. “And if you think it’s a man you trust, then go talk with that man’s wife about what’s troublin’ ya.”

Kelsey Lou nodded, “Yes, ma’am,” and picked up her pile of books on the ladder to the left. When she turned around, books in hand, Susan was gone. Kelsey Lou looked around the corners – Susan couldn’t have gone anywhere so fast – but she was nowhere to be seen. In the marrow of her bones, Kelsey Lou knew she wouldn’t find Susan again; and she didn’t understand why she felt so calm about this.

At the checkout desk, a young man of 16 by the name of James stood ready to write the prices of each book by hand with a pencil. “Find everything you’re looking for?”

“Yeah,” Kelsey Lou answered, squinting deep into her memory to place the name of this boy she felt like she knew, but who definitely didn’t go to her school. “Susan helped me. Your boss should give her a raise,” she winked with a chuckle.

“Susan?” he asked.

“Yeah, the woman in the back. Tattoos. She helped me –” Kelsey Lou’s words trailed slowly as the senior worker behind the desk stopped her task and turned to listen. “She – she works here, right? She’s a –?”

“She used to work here, for more than a decade,” the woman processing book acquisitions said. 

Kelsey Lou wanted to ask questions, and now so did James. Neither could open their mouths to speak, though. Some pulse of truth, by osmosis, answered them before the questions could be uttered.

“That’ll be $68.72 for five books,” James said as if nothing strange had happened all day. Kelsey Lou pulled out $70 cash and handed it over. 

James gathered the books into a bag, then took two bookmarks from a tin can. On the back of one, he wrote his name and phone number. “I’d like to see you,” he said, “if you’re interested in talking sometime, on purpose. Lunch on the square, maybe?”

He looked down at the bookmark, too nervous to make eye contact while doing something so brave. 

“I’m just going to include both these bookmarks, and you don’t have to keep the one with my number on it if you don’t want to, but you’ll still have one to read with either way,” James said, handing Kelsey Lou the bag. Then he added, “And you’ll never hear a word from me about it again, so don’t be a stranger about coming back in here if you’re not interested, okay?”

Kelsey Lou smiled with a reflexive, radiant sincerity she couldn’t remember ever showing toward a boy her own age before. The tingling she had felt earlier at the library shifted in her body, moving into the abdomen and straightening her posture upright with eager possibility. She nodded, and thanked him as she took the paper bag of books out into the bright, warm sunlight. Her whole body buzzed with the exhilaration of adolescence and springtime.

She was halfway out of town on her bicycle, almost to the Hoggs’ house, when Kelsey Lou realized in horrific embarrassment: She hadn’t even told the boy her own name.