She raced down the aisle, her braids flying behind her. (Her mother would have pursed her lips and said, “Walk like a lady, please,” but Ava didn’t see why ladies couldn’t run. Especially if they were on a Quest. Weren’t they ever in a hurry to discover something?) She pivoted around the white pillar and hurried across the atrium. Mr. Fitzgerald, the reference librarian, was making tea and reading. He closed the thick book, marked his place with his thumb, and peered at her from behind his half-moon spectacles. “Hello, Ava. Can I help you find something?”

“No!” She slowed to a halt, catching her breath. “I mean…no thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald. I’m just looking for a book. But I think I know where it is.” She saw him glance down at the old book she cradled in her arm, then back up. His eyebrow raised just slightly, and she thought she saw the corner of his mouth twitch, but she wasn’t sure if he was about to frown or smile. Oh no. Did he know that this book came from so high up? Did he know she had climbed the ladder, even though it said Off Limits?

“Um, I mean — not this one. Another book,” she clarified lamely, setting Philosophy of the Self on the marble counter. She knew she sounded suspicious. Part of her thought maybe she should just show Mr. Fitzgerald the note and ask him to help her solve the puzzle. He would roll up the sleeves of his tweed jacket as he always did when she came to him in search of her next book; he would slide his half-moon spectacles up his nose and say, “Well, well, let’s see what we can find here, little lass,” and they would set off into the stacks together, side by side.

 They had had a special bond ever since the very first time she came to the library. She was twelve now, but she had been just eight-and-a-half when they met. While her second-oldest brother Mick had worked on a group project with a bunch of his middle school friends in the study lounge, she had marched past rickety revolving shelves of colorful chapter books and headed straight for a section of “Classics” (with a capital ‘C.’) After plunking down on the carpet and thumbing through several books, she had eagerly chosen a copy of a very long, very old poem called The Odyssey. (Lucas would have hated it.)

Ava had set it on the front counter by the checkout desk and stood on her tiptoes to hold out her brand new library card. Mr. Fitzgerald had gazed down at the book, then at Ava; then he looked back at the book, then back at Ava again.

She was short for her age, and the top of her head barely reached the top of the green marble counter. At eight-and-a-half, everything about her felt in-between: she had always kept her hair cut short (“like some sort of tomboy,” her mother always lamented), but now she was just starting to grow it out, and it seemed determined to stay stuck in a frizzy not-quite-bob. She wore her favorite pair of beat-up mint green sneakers with gold laces, jeans, and a T-shirt with a diagram of the Milky Way galaxy, but she had also tried to accessorize by adding a polka-dotted headband, a beaded bracelet, and earrings that looked like turquoise feathers. (She had gotten her ears pierced a month before, and was just now allowed to wear the dangly kind, which felt very grown-up.) She wasn’t entirely sure everything went together that well, but it felt fun to try things out.

After peering down at her for a long moment, Mr. Fitzgerald ran his hand through his thick white hair and pushed his bifocals up on his nose. “Is this the book you were looking for, young lady?” he asked.

Ava had nodded. “Yes, absolutely.”

“This is a mighty difficult book for such a little lass,” he said in a gentle tone.

Ava had sighed. “I know that you probably don’t think I can read it, but I can. Mrs. Kamauff – she’s our school librarian – she used to make me do the ‘five finger rule’ when I tried to check out big books last year. But I always showed her I could do it. Here, pick a page!” She pushed the book across the counter towards him with a fierce look on her face.

Mr. Fitzgerald raised an eyebrow, a smile at the corners of his lips, as if he were not quite sure whether to be amused or amazed, or both. He turned to the very first page of the story and slid the book around to face Ava. And then, she began to read in a clear voice:

“Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns

driven time and again off course…

Many cities of men he saw and learned their minds,

many pains he suffered, heartsick on the open sea…

Launch out on his story, Muse, daughter of Zeus,

start from where you will; sing for our time too…”

 She closed the book after finishing the first verse and smiled. “Was that good?”

Mr. Fitzgerald cocked his head, peering down at her. “That was perfect.” He paused. “Do you understand what you just read?”

Ava gave him an indignant look. “Of course I do!” She bit her lip and tugged on one of her braids, sensing that she sounded maybe just a tiny bit impolite. “I mean — yes, sir. I think so. The main character…”

 “Odysseus,” Mr. Fitzgerald put in.

“Yes, Odysseus…he’s starting a journey, and there are going to be ‘twists and turns’ and he’s going to be ‘driven off course,’ so that means it won’t be a straight-line journey…it will be a spiral journey.”

Mr. Fitzgerald closed his eyes for a moment, smiling to himself. “That’s a wonderful way to put it.” His eyes fluttered open, and he stared at her for a long moment before he said, “You have more than proven yourself worthy of this book, little one. I apologize for doubting you. That was very wrong of me.”

No adult had ever spoken to Ava like that before, as if she were a real person: not her parents, not her three older brothers, not her third grade teacher, Mrs. Owens, who hadn’t quite known what to do with her. (Every morning during Language Arts, she had given Ava a copy of The New York Times to read while she helped her classmates complete reading worksheets. As Ava curled up on the beanbag chair in the corner of the classroom, she always felt an odd jumbled mix of being very special and very alone.)

Ava gave Mr. Fitzgerald a gap-toothed smile and replied, “That’s okay! You don’t need to apologize.” He scanned the book and watched her slide it into her bright purple backpack. “Thank you!” she called over her shoulder as she hurried towards the big revolving doors where her brother Mick was waiting for her.

“You’re very welcome, Ava,” Mr. Fitzgerald called after her.

It wasn’t until late that night, when she huddled under her quilt reading The Odyssey by flashlight, that she realized that she had never told Mr. Fitzgerald her name.

 *          *

 Now, almost four years later, Ava stood in front of the same desk, half a foot taller, her long hair pulled back in two braids. She still felt in-between, but she was starting to think that maybe that’s how it was for everyone deep down. Maybe you just had to make a choice that you didn’t have to be one thing or the other. Today, she wore pink earrings shaped like rosebuds, a denim jacket over a gray T-shirt and a lavender paisley print skirt, and a brand-new pair of teal Converse sneakers. Her fingernails were painted alternating shades of navy blue and a metallic gold that glistened when they caught the light.

Now, almost four years later, Ava stood in front of the same desk, clutching The Story Weaver’s mysterious note in her small fist so tightly that she imagined the silver script had been imprinted on the palm of her hand like a stamp.

As she pondered what to do, several things happened all at once:

Mr. Fitzgerald stirred a steam of milk into his mug of tea, tracing his spoon in spiraling figure eights, creating a marbling mosaic of light brown and white.

The little silver bell on the front door of the library jingled as a man swept in, bringing a gust of cold air; he waved to Mr. Fitzgerald, pushed a stack of books into the return slot with a loud thunk, and slipped back out into the cold.

And a college student wearing a hoodie and jeans came up to the desk and asked where she might find books about cartography (which Ava knew meant map-making.)

After Mr. Fitzgerald directed the student to the 500 section, his eyes flickered back to Ava. “Are you sure you don’t need any help?” he asked.

For a brief moment, she thought she would show him the note. In fact, one of her fingers had loosened a fraction of an inch. But then — something stopped her. The same voice that had urged her to scramble up the ladder in pursuit of an old book with a silver ribbon now told her that she needed to solve the puzzle alone.

Hadn’t the note said, “This is your quest”? It was hers.

“No thank you,” she said, smiling up at him. Mr. Fitzgerald smiled back, his eyes twinkling, and as he returned to his tea and his book, Ava headed for the stairs that led down into the basement reference section…