crazy.” Cash watched the 11-ball drop smoothly into the far-left pocket. She scanned the table looking for the 12-ball and calculated the best angle for a bank shot. “He’s an old man.”
“He’s only thirty.”
“That’s half dead.”
“Mary Beth said she heard from someone that some of the teachers give A’s for head.”
“What the heck are you talking about?” Cash stood on tiptoe to reach across the table to line up on the 12. She was also learning that college hippie chicks wanted to talk about free love, weed and ending the war in Viet Nam more than anything else.
“You know, head: a blow job, go down on him.”
“There are easier ways to get an A.”
“Maybe for you. Do you ever study? He is so groovy.” Sharon exaggerated the flip of her hair over her other shoulder.
“Thought you had a boyfriend.”
“Haven’t you heard? Make Love, Not War.” Sharon giggled.
“Come on, grab a cue and play against me.”
“Sure, Miss Shark. That’s not a game. That’s just me moving the balls around the table for you.” But she hopped off the chair and grabbed a cue from the wall as Cash racked the balls. Once again, Cash didn’t hit the balls hard enough for any of them to drop. She was going to have to spend a few sessions just practicing her first shot, she could see.
“Open table,” she said to Sharon.
Sharon walked around the table. “So…what should I shoot?”
“Try that solid right there. Nick the edge.” Cash pointed at a spot on the purple ball. “Nick it soft and it’ll drop right in.”
Sharon slammed the cue ball into the solid purple. The ball dropped into the pocket followed by the cue ball. “Argghhh! This is why you ran out of class? To shoot pool?”
“Yeah, I drive shift tonight. Needed a few practice games.” Cash ran five stripes before miscuing. “You have solids.”
Sharon aimed at the 7-ball. “Did you hear about that chick who disappeared from Dahl Hall? Kids are saying maybe she got pregnant and went home. Then someone said she hitchhiked down to the Cities, but she hasn’t come back. Her parents were at the Dean’s office this morning.” Cash watched Sharon get a lucky break, accidently dropping the 7 in a side pocket.
“Nope, didn’t hear that.”
“That’s right, you got special exemption to live off campus. I hate the dorm: curfew, no boys allowed…” Sharon missed her shot. “This chick was in our science class—blonde, used to wear a miniskirt and sit in the front row every class? Danielson was always calling on her. She’d tilt her head and cross her legs before answering the question. His eyes were never on her face Bet she was getting A’s. Your turn.”
Cash took aim at the 10. “Where’s she from?”
“Who?”
“The girl who’s missing, dingbat.”
“Oh. Shelly?” Sharon answered as if asking Cash.
“Shelly. The town of Shelly?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Just curious.” Cash had a three-ball run and lined up to bank the fourth. She missed the shot.
“Your shot.”
“Hey, Cash, you got any enemies?” Sharon asked under her breath.
“Not that I know of, why?”
Sharon rolled her eyes up toward three people—a guy and two girls—standing on the steps leading into the pool table area. They looked like they could be college students, except instead of hippie clothes they wore straight-legged jeans, T-shirts and jean jackets. Just like Cash. One of the girls had her hair in two braids that hung down the front of her jacket, the other had hers pulled back in a ponytail. The guy had messy braids, like maybe he had braided them a couple days ago and hadn’t redone them yet. None of them were smiling. They were clearly looking at Cash and Sharon.
Cash lit a Marlboro. She took a long drag before she lined up on the 8-ball. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the three of them come down the steps toward the table.
They stood watching. Finally the guy said, “Play partners? Me and her”—pointing at the girl with two braids—“against you and her.”
Before Sharon got the “no” out of her mouth, Cash said, “Sure. Rack ‘em up.”
It was a silent game, clearly between Cash and the guy, their partners missing shots each turn. Sharon was so nervous her cue stick shook whenever she attempted a shot. Cash played cat and mouse—not doing exactly her best but not letting him win easily either—playing just well enough to keep him convinced he was better than her but that maybe she was okay.
With one ball left and the 8-ball, he asked, “Straight 8 or last pocket?”
“Straight 8 is fine,” Cash said.
His partner finally spoke. “Where you from?”
“Family’s from White Earth. I live over in Fargo.”
“How come we haven’t seen you at any of the Indian student meetings?” asked the girl with the ponytail.
“I didn’t know there were any.”
“Every Friday night. At Mrs. Kills Horses.”
“Potluck,” said the girl with braids, missing her shot at the 8.
“Where’s that?” Cash had no intention of going.
“3810 10th Avenue,” the guy said. “She makes Sloppy Joes so there’s always something even if no one brings anything.”
“And beer,” said the ponytail. “If you got an ID, bring some beer.”
Cash rethought going. “3810 10th Avenue?”
“Yep,” said the guy, making the 8-ball and laying the cue across the table. “We’re going to talk about bringing AIM up from Minneapolis.”
“AIM?” It was the first time Sharon spoke since the trio had arrived.
“The American Indian Movement,” answered the girl with braids, looking the blonde hippie chick up and down with a frown and one eyebrow raised.
Sharon stared back at her, peace and love gone from her blue eyes.
The girl with the braids looked at Cash and said, “See you Friday.”
The three turned and left the rec hall. Cash re-racked the balls. “One more game. Then I gotta go.”
“My boyfriend attended
