got phones in the Cities—I know that,” another guy added.
“Let’s go, trucks are moving.”
They dumped the coffee cups on the ground, ground their cigarettes out in the gravel. A roar of truck engines filled the night air as the engines turned over all at once. Gears were shifted into first to move the trucks a couple spaces forward. The trucks that had been weighed were in line to dump their beets on another conveyor belt that would move them to an ever-larger pile of beets waiting to be moved once again into the processing plant.
Cash dumped her truckload after another half hour and then returned to Milt’s field, where she waited in line for another load and another trip back to Moorhead. And so the night went. She read her English assignment and decided she would talk with Mrs. Kills Horses about testing out of English, which she had overheard from some of the other students was possible. There had been one summer in the fields where she read the entire works of Shakespeare, two whole years before anyone else in her grade level ever heard of the guy. Diagramming sentences and reworking dangling participles had been an evening pastime in various foster homes where punishment often meant long hours isolated in a bedroom. This freshman English class was not only deadly boring, it was an early morning class. If she was able to test out of it, it would give her a couple more hours of free time.
She read her psych assignment, all about Freud being the father of modern psychology. When she finished her biology reading right around her midnight run into Moorhead, her mind went back to the Tweed girl. As she munched on her tuna sandwich, she closed her eyes and scanned her memory, searching for the girl in class. Cash always sat in the back row in every class, on whichever side of the room was closest to the door. Some of the students always sat in front. Whenever a teacher asked a question, they were the first to raise their hands. From the back of the room it was a sea of blondes. Scandinavian stock clearly dominated the educational system.
Last Thursday Cash had gotten to class early because Sharon wanted to copy the work Cash had done the night before. They sat at the back of the room. While Sharon cribbed her homework, Cash watched the other students file in, some in groups of three, some alone. The jocks with slicked-back hair and the hippies with scraggly, oily locks lying on their shoulders. Girls came in bell-bottoms or miniskirts.
Cash had uncanny recall ability. She could pull up a page in her science book in her mind’s eye and re-read it from memory. Likewise she could pull up a day or an event and run it across a screen in her mind as if it were happening in present time. Which is what Cash did now. In her mind, Cash watched the students from last Thursday enter the room. Ah, there she was, the girl who must be the Tweed girl. A tall blonde. Not Twiggy model thin but well-fed farmer thin—walked into the room, wearing a plaid miniskirt and a mohair sweater, a book bag slung across her shoulder. She sat in the front row, front and center. Put her bag under the chair and books on the desk. Still, with her eyes almost shut, Cash scanned the room. Nothing else to see. Sun outside the window. More students coming in. Sharon closing her notebook with a sigh of relief. Mr. Danielson came into the classroom and class started. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Now Cash knew who folks were talking about when they said the Tweed girl.
Cash heard the other beet truck engines around her roar to life. Stretching her short frame, she pushed in the clutch with her left foot, right foot on the brake and turned the key in the ignition. She kept the truck in first as she let it roll forward to fill the space left by the other trucks. The air smelled of river mud and sugar beets mashed under truck tires. One would think it would be a syrupy, sugary smell, but it was more like stale cabbage. This fall smell was nothing compared to the rotten egg smell that would permeate the Valley come spring when the beets, which are mostly water, unfroze and the resultant fermented water filled the runoff storage ponds at the beet plant.
Cash was done hauling by two in the morning. She fetched her Ranchero from Milt’s graveled farmyard, lit only by a halogen yard light, hollered See ya, followed by the obligatory hand wave to the other drivers. She sped back to Fargo, where she ran a quick bath, smoked a couple of Marlboros and drank a Bud before collapsing in bed.
When she woke in the morning, she made coffee and a fried egg sandwich. She didn’t have a toaster or butter so once the egg was fried, she slapped it between two slices of white bread. She ate the sandwich on her drive to school. It took a few turns around blocks near the campus before she found a free parking spot. She grabbed her books off the seat and walked to Mrs. Kills Horses’ office in the administration building.
Mrs. Kills Horses was talking on the phone, her long black braids hanging over her full breasts. Dangly turquoise earrings matched her squash blossom necklace. She waved Cash in with a hand wearing three turquoise and silver rings. “Gotta get to work,” she said into the receiver before putting the handset back in the cradle. “Good morning, Renee, how are you?” Cash could see that she was dressed in a long denim skirt. With the turquoise and braids, it made Mrs. Kills Horses look all Southwestern-y.
“Good. I was wondering what I have to do to test out of my English class?”
“Only the very best students do that, Cash.”
“I’m getting all A’s.”
“It’s kinda late in the quarter to think about that.”
“Well, I’m kinda thinking about it. Maybe if you just tell me who I need to talk to?”
“You would have to do it this week or it really will be too late in the quarter.”
Mrs. Kills Horses leaned over her desk and made a show of shuffling papers. When Cash didn’t leave, she picked up a school catalog and made a show of flipping through the pages. Cash sat in a chair and waited. “Ah, here. Professor LeRoy is chair of the English Department.”
As if you didn’t know.
“You would need to talk with him about testing out. His office is in Weld Hall. You should really think about this, though,” she said, looking motherly at Cash. “I can call over to the department and check on your grades if you want.”
Cash, who rarely smiled, smiled. If Mrs. Kills Horses had been the observant type she would have noticed the smile didn’t reach Cash’s eyes. With her fake smile—another skill she was learning at college—Cash lied, “Nah, that’s okay. I’ll talk with my dad about it tonight.” She stood up and turned to leave the office.
“Tezhi said you were going to come to the meeting on Friday night. You’ll get to meet the rest of the Indian students.”
“Tezhi?”
“He said he ran into you shooting pool in the rec center?”
“Oh, yeah, Tezhi.”
“It’s potluck. All the Indian students come. I always make Sloppy Joes.”
“Yeah, that’s what Tezhi said.” Cash said, rolling the new name off her tongue.
“We’re going to plan a powwow and symposium, try to bring AIM in to discuss the rights of Indian students here on campus.”
“I’ll see. I might have to work.”
“Work? Where are you working? You know, any job has to be reported and that could affect your BIA grant monies.”
Damn, thought Cash. Seemed like there was more stuff to learn about going to school than there was actual course work. Thank god most farmers had no problem paying
