The librarian looks across the counter at me, her gray eyes flicking up from the computer screen in front of her. “Are you looking for a specific crime or a specific criminal or—” “I…um…Just some information about gangs,” I say, and back up from the counter. This library has three of those self-check machines, so the librarians must get bored. This one’s way more interested than the one at Stanton High School. “I have plenty of nonfiction books on the topic,” the librarian says, moving from behind the counter. “If you’ll follow me to the 300s…” “That’s okay. I just…wanted to know something.” “Well, you’re in the right place, at least.” She smiles, and I look away. I don’t want her looking me in the face, trying to recognize me. She said hello to Hopeless when we came in, but she doesn’t know me. I’m surprised she didn’t say something about “appropriate” reading topics, like that social worker at the group home. Rena said information is free and knowledge makes you powerful.
