May B. (15 page)

      When Hiram and I had snowball fights,

      I hated the feel

      of snow trapped at my wrists

      between mittens and coat.

      Now it slips down my sleeves,

      gathers in the elbows of my dress,

      and I don’t pay it any mind.

      I have to get out of here.

      I dig until my fingers throb.

      I dip them in the pail,

      and the icy water

      burns like liquid fire.

      But slowly I am able to move my hands.

      Looking over my shoulder,

      I see the mound

      heaped on the floor

      and the useless hole

      I’ve dug.

      I clench the pail in my reddened hands

      
bent like claws

      and throw it at the hole.

      Water splatters everything—

      the table,

      yesterday’s beans,

      even the twisted hay in the basket

      and the precious few buffalo chips.

      How could I have done something so thoughtless?

      
“Stupid girl.”

      If Mrs. Oblinger could see me now.

      
“The girl’s not right,”

      Teacher would say.

      
“Something don’t work proper in her head.”

      I grip my reader,

      open it to the middle,

      rip a handful of paper from the spine.

      My numb hands fumble at the stove door latch.

      I tug it open

      and watch the pages burn.

      
“This is what a Maybe gets!”

      I shout.

      Sobbing,

      I sink to the floor;

      the rough wood scrapes my knees

      as I crawl back to bed

      and bury myself under the quilts.

      “I won’t,” I told Teacher.

      She lifted my chin with a finger.

      “You won’t or you can’t?”

      I felt my cheeks flame

      there in front of everyone,

      all those eyes

      examining me like an oddity,

      some abnormal thing.

      “I won’t,” I said again.

      She thrust the book before me,

      the copy Miss Sanders had left behind.

      “Read it,” she said.

      Hiram’s lips moved,

      saying something I couldn’t follow.

      Everyone waited,

      staring at me.

      My insides clenched.

      It was the chapter where Tom returns,

      witnesses his own funeral.

      
So many complicated words

      too easy to trip on.

      I kept my mouth closed,

      tried to keep my breathing calm.

      Teacher’s voice got higher. “Well?”

      She stood there,

      waiting to pounce at my first mistake.

      Wanting to make a fool of me,

      ready to show how stupid I was.

      “I won’t!” I shouted at her.

      She gripped my wrist

      and I was thankful

      for the pain,

      thankful

      for an excuse

      to cry.

      “Then kindly find your way home.

      Only come back when you’re ready to learn.”

      What if I’d read that first paragraph perfectly?

      
She’d have argued I’d had Hiram whisper answers.

      She never believed I could,

      anyhow.

      I am going to stay here,

      wrapped in these quilts,

      let the fire die,

      and freeze to death

      or maybe starve,

      whichever comes first.

      Then Pa will be sorry

      for sending me here.

      Was it worth

      those few dollars

      to find

      your daughter dead?

      I peek out of the quilts

      at the snow mound on the floor.

      The cold pinches at my nose.

      The stove spits out so little warmth,

      I choose to stay abed,

      freezing,

      rather than risk the chill in moving

      from bed to fire.

      It was a good reading day,

      that afternoon I asked Miss Sanders.

      We’d worked all recess together,

      my voice sure and strong.

      She’d always told me she believed in me,

      that I could make the reading happen,

      to give it time

      and practice.

      Now she sat at her desk,

      preparing for our after-recess lesson.

      “Do you think I could earn a teaching certificate

      once I’m old enough?”

      
Miss Sanders,

      always brimming with kindness,

      fiddled at her desk far too long.

      “I’m sorry, May, what was that?”

      But

      her face said,

      Please don’t ask me again,

      don’t make me tell you something

      that will only bring you hurt.

      “It’s nothing,” I said,

      and forced a smile.

      “It’s time for lessons.

      I’ll go ring the bell.”

      So many things

      I know about myself

      I’ve learned from others.

      Without someone else to listen,

      to judge,

      to tell me what to do,

      and to choose

      who I am,

      do I get to decide for myself?

      Have I slept

      or have I been awake all this time?

      If Ma were here she’d say,

      “May, get moving.

      The day’s not for resting.”

      With the quilts around me,

      I shuffle across the floor

      to the pot of leftover beans.

      A layer of ice has formed

      over them.

      I don’t care.

      I crack it with a spoon

      and hunch,

      shivering,

      swallowing without tasting at all.

      I squeeze a hay log,

      to feel if the cold

      is ice

      or just the air.

      Only two logs don’t crackle

      the way the popcorn

      in the skillet does.

      The fire has burned so low,

      
I have to push it along,

      stirring and blowing

      before I place the hay logs

      gently on the embers.

      A lick of flame

      grows brighter,

      and I draw up close enough

      to burn my eyebrows.

      I am

      Mavis Elizabeth Betterly.

      I am

      used to hard work.

      I can

      run a household better

      than Mrs. Oblinger ever could.

      What does it matter,

      those things

      that

      hold me back?

      What does it matter

      when I make mistakes?

      They don’t

      make me

      who

      I

      am.