May B. Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2012 by Caroline Starr Rose

  Jacket art copyright © 2012 by Christopher Silas Neal

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Schwartz & Wade Books, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Schwartz & Wade Books and the colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/kids

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rose, Caroline Starr.

  May B. : a novel-in-verse / by Caroline Starr Rose.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When a failed wheat crop nearly bankrupts the Betterly family, Pa pulls twelve-year-old May from school and hires her out to a couple new to the Kansas frontier.

  eISBN: 978-1-58246-437-4

  [1. Novels in verse. 2. Frontier and pioneer life—Kansas—Fiction.

  3. Kansas—History—19th century—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.5.R67May 2011

  [Fic]—dc22

  2010033222

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  In loving memory of my grandmother,

  Gene Starr Craig

  For my students in New Mexico, Florida, Virginia, and

  Louisiana: There are a few of you whose needs I didn’t

  fully understand and others I could have done better by.

  This story is for you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Part Two Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Part Three Chapter 122

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Chapter 127

  Chapter 128

  Chapter 129

  Chapter 130

  Chapter 131

  Chapter 132

  Chapter 133

  Chapter 134

  Chapter 135

  Chapter 136

  Chapter 137

  Chapter 138

  Chapter 139

  Chapter 140

  Chapter 141

  Chapter 142

  Chapter 143

  Chapter 144

  Chapter 145

  Chapter 146

  Chapter 147

  Chapter 148

  Chapter 149

  Chapter 150

  Chapter 151

  A Note from the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Part One

  1

  I won’t go.

  “It’s for the best,” Ma says,

  yanking to braid my hair,

  trying to make something of what’s left.

  Ma and Pa want me to leave

  and live with strangers.

  I won’t go.

  2

  “It’s for the best,

  you packing up and moving

  to the Oblingers’ soddy.”

  Ma’s brush tugs.

  My eyes sting.

  For the best,

  like when the Wright baby died,

  not three weeks old—

  one less child to clothe.

  After all,

  I cook some,

  collect fuel,

  mend,

  tote water,

  hoe,

  wash,

  pretty braid or not.

  Why not Hiram? I think,

  but I already know:

  boys are necessary.

  “You’ll bring in some extra money,” Ma says.

  “We’ll get you home by Christmas.”

  A wisp of hair escapes her grasp,

  encircling my cheek.

  For the best,

  one less child to clothe.

  3

  Before Ma ties my ribbon,

  I push outside and run.

  My feet pound out

  I won’t go

  I won’t go

  I won’t go.

  My braid spills loose.

  The short pieces hang about one ear.

  Hiram�
��

  the hunk of hair he cut

  because I dared him to.

  He got his lashing

  like we knew he would,

  his smile full of pride.

  Why didn’t he cut it all?

  Then maybe,

  like Samson in the Bible,

  I’d be useless too.

  4

  I stop when home is nothing more

  than a mound on the windswept plain.

  Like a prairie hen I settle down

  until I can’t be seen,

  breathing comfort from grass and soil.

  I listen for silence,

  but there’s no room for it.

  My mind’s too full.

  Ma and Pa want me to leave

  and live with strangers.

  Around my finger

  I twist a blade of grass.

  It’s what I’ve always wanted,

  to contribute,

  but not this way.

  If I leave,

  schooling is as good as finished.

  Come Christmas I’ll be home

  but even farther

  behind.

  In three more years

  I’ll be old enough.

  In three more years

  maybe

  I’ll be able to teach.

  I grab a fistful of shorn hair.

  I am no better than Samson

  once that Delilah cut his hair,

  once his strength was gone.

  Powerless.

  Defeated.

  Mavis Elizabeth Betterly

  May Betts

  May B.

  5

  Somehow Hiram spots me.

  “What’re you hiding for?” he asks.

  I stand up and punch him on the arm,

  for cutting my hair,

  for being a boy,

  for reading strong,

  easy as you please.

  I punch him again.

  Hiram rubs his shoulder,

  then hooks his arm through mine.

  “Ma asked me to fetch you.

  Suppertime.”

  6

  Our soddy’s dark and smells like the prairie

  with its freshness stolen away.

  Ma’s laid the table;

  Pa’s boots are near the door.

  I tuck my hair behind my ears

  and sit down with Hiram.

  “Ma told you?” Pa asks

  straight after grace.

  “Better pack tonight.”

  I nod,

  stare down at the chicken fixings

  (no everyday salt pork tonight).

  Ma’s even set out tinned peaches.

  “The homestead’s fifteen miles west of here,” Pa says.

  “The bride’s not settled,

  got here after Oblinger built his soddy.”

  Pa looks at me.

  “She’s missing home.”

  Won’t I miss home?

  Ma touches my hand.

  “It’s just till Christmas, May.”

  I push away,

  my peaches left untouched.

  7

  Once the table’s cleared and Hiram’s out with Pa,

  Ma opens her hope chest.

  She unfolds her finest pillowcase

  and slips my Sunday dress inside.

  She adds her old calico,

  worn a yellow-brown,

  and a chemise

  made by her own ma.

  “You’ll need some shoes.”

  Ma pulls out boots I rarely see,

  dainty and ladylike.

  I’m to leave Hiram’s old pair for her.

  Three dresses,

  counting my work dress.

  Ma’s chemise,

  along with my own.

  Two sets of stockings.

  Two pairs of bloomers.

  Two aprons.

  My coat.

  Woolen mittens.

  New shoes.

  I pull the crate from under my bed,

  taking my reader and my slate.

  Ma sighs. “Ain’t no way you’ll keep up

  with the rest.”

  “I know,” I say.

  I catch what’s not said:

  it’s foolishness to keep pretending.

  What sort of teacher can’t read out lessons?

  Maybe May B. can

  Maybe May B. can’t

  8

  I remember when we first came

  what Pa used to say.

  “Hiram and you are as young as Kansas.

  As fresh to life

  as the Prairie State.”

  Those traveling weeks we watched the sky

  from the wagon

  or walking beside it,

  hoping to be the first to spy

  the distant place where

  the ground and air connect.

  This became our game,

  Hiram’s and mine,

  and once on our land,

  farther west than ever before,

  we stood

  on the gentle rise

  where the coneflowers and wild mustard bloom.

  Wind cutting my eyes,

  I searched for

  that place where land touches sky.

  9

  While Pa fetches the wagon in the early-morning black,

  Hiram pulls me around back.

  He doesn’t need to tell me

  we’re going to the gentle rise

  where wildflowers grow.

  Hiram and I stand high

  as the countryside allows.

  Behind us,

  there’s the smallest hint of sun.

  “Remember, May Betts,

  it’s just beyond.”

  Hiram points into the darkness,

  like I might forget.

  We haven’t seen it yet,

  but we know it’s there.

  Pa’s taking me farther west,

  toward sunset and rain,

  farther from town than Hiram’s ever been.

  I hold out my hand.

  “If I see it first,

  you owe me your Christmas candy.

  If you see it, I’ll give you mine.”

  Hiram’s fingers squeeze my hand. “Agreed.”

  “How do I know you’ll be honest?” I say.

  He squints at me.

  “I wouldn’t lie.

  That takes the fun out of winning.”

  Hiram’s better at races,

  always grabs the extra biscuit.

  Ma’s first spring baby,

  he beat me to living

  by one short year.

  And now,

  for once,

  I’ll be ahead.

  “Maybe I’ll see it first,” I say.

  Hiram tags me

  fast,

  then starts to run home.

  “Or maybe not!” he tosses back.

  10

  Our mare pulls,

  the wagon sways,

  the grass ripples.

  Only I am holding back.

  Pa’s hunched over the reins.

  I wonder when he’ll speak his piece.

  Since last night’s supper he’s been

  silent.

  I find myself inside the rhythm

  of hoof

  and wheel

  and join this going forward,

  but I am behind, still.

  11

  I play a game inside my head,

  counting plum trees that dot a creek bed,

  rabbits that scatter at the sound of wagon wheels,

  clouds that skirt the sky.

  For hours, that is all,

  and grass,

  always grass,

  in different shades and textures

  like the braids in a rag rug.

  Miss Sanders told us that lines never end,

  and numbers go on forever.

  Here,

  in short-grass country,

  I
understand infinity.

  12

  We stop just once to eat,

  after the sun has reached its peak.

  I watch a bird balance

  on a blade of grass

  bent low toward earth

  to find a meal.

  All creatures must work for their keep.

  “I know schooling’s what you want,

  but with this spring’s wheat …”

  Pa shrugs.

  “Will Hiram go back?”

  I have to know.

  He’s thirteen now,

  one of the oldest boys

  still learning.

  Pa’s eyes meet mine.

  “No,” he says,

  “I’ll need his help around the place.”

  I shut my eyes,

  catch Hiram’s smile.

  All term he’s complained,

  wanting to be a man and work the farm.

  “You’re helping out, May,” Pa says.

  I’m helping everyone

  except myself.

  13

  I see the homestead first:

  an awkward lump of earth,

  a lazy curl of smoke above.

  Beyond the soddy,

  a barn carved into a hill.

  Pa doesn’t need to point but does.

  “It’s not as nice as what we’ve got.

  Did most of his work alone.

  Still plenty of time for improvements.”

  Pa cut our strips of sod.

  He and Ma stacked them,

  layer by layer,

  grass side down,

  using only a bit of precious wood to frame

  our windows and door.

  This soddy’s small,

  the earthen walls misshapen,