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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