to worry none.
She’ll figure out you’re smart real soon.
May Betts, don’t let her get to you.”
He had that look that reminds me
someday he’ll be a man.
Behind us I thought
I heard my name.
May B
.
May B
.
I turned around,
but no one was calling.
“Let’s go play.”
Hiram gave me a shove.
We picked sides pretty quick
until it got to me.
Rita whined to Avery,
“Maybe May will freeze in the middle of the game,
just like she did this morning.”
“May B. can play just fine,”
Nathaniel said, tossing the ball in the air.
“Keep the picks going.”
“Maybe she can, maybe she can’t.”
Rita stared straight at me.
Some of the little ones started up:
“Maybe she can, maybe she can’t.…”
Avery said,
“May’s good and you know it.”
He beckoned to me.
“Come join us.”
Rita scowled.
“Maybe she can, maybe she can’t,
Maybe she can, maybe she can’t.…”
I turned away,
the taunt following me to the schoolhouse.
102
The air is still
when I awake.
I remember immediately:
blizzard.
The door won’t budge
with the first tug
or the second.
I press my foot against the wall,
yank one last time.
A barrier of blue-white snow
stands solid.
Slamming the door,
I spin around,
press my back against it.
There is so little space
to live in,
to draw in air,
to move.
The walls hold everything so close.
I need to get out!
Swinging the door open again,
I dig like a prairie dog.
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.
103
“I won’t,” I told Teacher.
She lifted my chin