What did Frances Johnson want?

Tiny, seedlike insects moved upon the ground below her, endlessly methodical, affording her a sensation of comfort, for she felt an affinity with things that crawled or hid. Lice were not destructive and had the power to mimic other phenomena, for example, teardrops on a kitten’s face; and insects had a kind of unchallenged power, for example, to step freely into any person’s home unpunished, since they did not understand the boundaries of human property. Yet to Frances, such creatures were not purely innocent either, and this thought caused her heart to drum with hope.

When Frances was an older teen, she met someone, a woman, with whom she began to have discussions. The discussions became frequent, and over time, almost fulfilling, because the woman listened so well, her brown eyes absorbing all: it made Frances feel as giddy as if she were swimming in a pool, uncertain if the water’s surface was above or below her head. The woman’s name was Nancy, and with her, Frances would often laugh for almost no reason, and loudly. Nancy sported sure talents, along with the thickest glasses Frances had ever seen. Her house was surrounded by a dwarf ivy composed of hundreds of thousands of minuscule leaves, and over the years, as Frances continued talking with Nancy, it became clear that the two had grown fond of each other, and then Nancy retired.

Nancy was a mother, but Frances did not know to whom. Even so, Nancy had been close at hand when Frances had had her first period, long ago. Frances hadn’t wanted to tell Nancy, but she did, because she needed a pad, so she biked the miles to Nancy’s place, asking for one.

“Why do you want a pad, dear?” Nancy had asked. Perhaps Nancy thought she was playing a game.

Frances didn’t answer, but just shook her head and looked to the floor, so then Nancy knew. She got up from her chair, hugged Frances, and yelled, “You’re a lady!”

“Why be so darned cheerful about it?” Frances huffed. “I don’t want to change or become someone new. I’m fine the way I am.”

Nancy joked, “Do you imagine that girls turn into monsters at the onset of womanhood?” and then the two fell silent.

Frances cried, finally, for the thought of being womanly was awful, perhaps a route to becoming uncontrolled and making large, sloppy, splaying motions of the arms and legs, or the beginning of a lifetime of dull, colorless skin and throaty laughter; certainly it was the beginning of the path to death. And standing there in her flattering suit and pumps, Nancy cried too, for, she admitted, being a woman was an experience rife with tension, aggravation, and shame that continued unabated. They cried together, even while Nancy whispered that they had become overly nostalgic over a lie, that of the purity of girlhood.

“But it’s not a lie,” Frances insisted. “Don’t most little girls simply live happy, contented lives?”