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
www.randomhouse.com/teachers
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,
May B. Page 1
