May B. (14 page)

      The fish rest deeper now.

      I cook beans day after day.

      Sometimes I bake corn bread,

      but the meal’s getting low.

      If I eat just a little,

      there will be food for weeks to come.

      My mind knows this,

      but my fingers shake with every bite,

      and I’ve taken to checking my rations

      over and over,

      licking my finger,

      sweeping it under the cornmeal sack,

      hoping for a few more grains.

      The tin of peaches,

      still tucked behind the sugar,

      I won’t open until I must.

      I pull it down from the shelf,

      hold it in my hand.

      “Peaches,” I read aloud.

      “Fresh picked.”

      My voice sounds funny,

      like that odd instrument

      
Mr. Wolcott brought to the literary social last year.

      He pulled and squeezed

      the black thing;

      it opened like a folded piece of cloth.

      Accordion,

      I think he called it.

      “Peaches.

      Fresh picked,” I say again.

      I move my finger under each word:

      “Peaches.

      Fresh picked!”

      Ma would be horrified,

      but Ma’s not here to see

      I’ve slept most of the morning away.

      It would be nice

      to lounge and doze

      as long as I feel like staying abed,

      but it’s more burden than comfort

      because of all the time to remember:

      When Teacher came,

      I hoped she would be

      like Miss Sanders,

      but I should have known

      from the start:

      Teacher

      wasn’t the same.

      “I want to see what each of

      you is capable of,” Teacher announced,

      even before she sat down.

      “Youngest ones first.

      We’ll work our way to the top of the school.”

      With a ruler she pointed to the first row.

      “Stand and recite the alphabet.”

      
Jemmy Thompson’s lip

      turned down,

      the way a newborn’s

      does before it starts wailing,

      but he managed to make it through.

      “Older grades.”

      Teacher eyed us in the back.

      Rita Howard had to start over three times,

      her voice too soft

      for Teacher’s liking.

      Teacher scolded Hiram for rushing

      through his piece.

      And then it was my turn.

      I opened to “The Voice of the Wind.”

      With Hiram’s help,

      I’d read it through just the night before.

      Did Teacher sense

      what everyone thought

      as I walked—

      knees like water—

      to the front of the room?

      Their thoughts weren’t audible,

      
but I heard them just the same.

      I took a deep breath.

      Maybe this time I could do it.

      Maybe Teacher would never have to know.

      I held my reader in front of me,

      high enough so I wouldn’t have to see

      their faces,

      both elbows squeezed to my sides.

      Rita covered her mouth

      with her prissy little fingers.

      Teacher rapped the ruler on her desk.

      “Excuse me, child.

      What is your name?”

      Warm tears splashed my feet.

      
Something was broken inside.

      My new teacher knew.

      Just like my reading,

      my words were slow to form.

      “May-vis, ma’am.”

      “Well, May-vis,” she said,

      like my name tasted sour,

      “I think you’re sitting in the wrong part

      of the schoolroom.

      Kindly move to the second row.”

      “Ma’am?”

      I turned my head just a little,

      not wanting to show my tears.

      She was seating me with the little ones?

      “I said”—

      she spoke louder now,

      like I was hard of hearing—

      “move to the front of the room.”

      I glanced at Hiram.

      He shrugged,

      
but his eyes hardly met mine.

      I fetched my slate

      and slid in next to Jemmy,

      whose feet didn’t yet meet the floor.

      It’s the noise that wakes me

      in the darkness close as a shroud.

      Wind whips about the soddy;

      I imagine I hear the walls groan.

      Prairie quiet

      is rarely silent.

      Mrs. Oblinger called it

      lonely wailing;

      it made her fret and talk of home.

      I feel my way across the room.

      Just cracking the door open

      drives fresh snow over my feet.

      For all Mrs. Oblinger’s fussing,

      she’d never seen what the worst prairie winds bring,

      what is coming—

      I wipe at tears I haven’t noticed until now.

      Blizzard.

      Stumbling toward the stove,

      I reach for my jar of starter.

      It can’t freeze;

      I’ll need biscuits.

      In bed I huddle in a ball,

      two quilts about me,

      the starter jar against my chest.

      The first time I heard the chant

      was the recess after Teacher moved me

      to the front

      with the babies

      missing their ma,

      still losing their milk teeth,

      swinging their legs when Teacher looked away.

      When Teacher dismissed us from lessons,

      I met Hiram at the farthest edge of the schoolyard.

      “I don’t think you need 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.

      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.