Read May B. for Free Online Page A

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.

104

          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?

105

          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.”

106

          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?

107

          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