LITMIR.BIZ

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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 cash to their workers. Looking Mrs. Kills Horses straight in the eye, she said, “My aunt might want me to babysit. Would I have to report that?”

      “Gracious, no,” exclaimed Mrs. Kills Horses, her long earrings swinging with her side-to-side headshake. “Just if you are working a job, you know, like waitressing or something.”

      “I wouldn’t know how to do that,” Cash said. She was already out the door.

      “See you Friday! 6:30,” Mrs. Kills Horses called after her.

      Cash walked quickly out of the administration building and took a big gulp of fall air. Being in the brick school buildings, sitting in the classrooms, even those with large windows where she could watch the clouds move across the sky, left Cash short of breath, edgy. She took another deep breath before heading resolutely across campus to Weld Hall.

      Cash paused before knocking at the oak door of Professor LeRoy. She didn’t know what to say to most of the people here on campus. They talked a lot, mostly about nothing. She was used to men who knew what kind of fertilizer to put on a corn field or whose main conversation was about when to spread manure on the plowed fields. And, always, the price of grain on the Minneapolis Grain Exchange. The men she knew spent little time talking and a lot of time working. The men here on campus, their work was to talk about books, authors, ideas. But rather than talk about the day’s assigned reading material, class discussions often veered off into anti-war discussions or debates about civil rights. Cash wasn’t sure what either of them had to do with her.

      Just as she raised her fist to knock on the door, a short bearded man wearing tortoise-shell glasses opened it. Cash stepped back.

      “Oh, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Professor LeRoy said, speaking with a rapid cadence, with an accent Cash had never heard before. “Come in, come in. I saw the shadow of your feet under the door. That’s how I knew you were there. I don’t have you in a class. Are you a freshman? Take a seat. What can I help you with?”

      Without giving Cash a chance to answer, Professor LeRoy plowed on. “Great weather we’re having, isn’t it? When I moved here from New York everyone told me to appreciate the fall, that the winters would be real kickers. They weren’t kidding. Just a matter of time before the snow falls, right? So what can I do for you? You want to drop your class? Switch teachers? In my experience, one teacher is as good as the next, present company exempted. Ha.” He took a breath while shuffling papers on his desk from one pile to another.

      In that space Cash blurted out, “I want to test out of English 101.”

      Professor LeRoy stopped shuffling papers mid-air and stared at her.

      “I’m a straight-A student.”

      “College is a little different than high school. I’ve been teaching here for fifteen years, and the English teachers at these farm schools have barely heard of Shakespeare, let alone Tennessee Williams or Truman Capote. Even with straight A’s, I don’t know how you can expect to pass a college-level test without taking the course.”

      “I can do it.”

      “Who is your teacher this quarter?”

      “Mr. Horace.”

      “You don’t like him? Other students love having him. He grades on the curve. Makes it easy to pass. You don’t want to get up that early, is that it?”

      “I was told students had the option to test out if they wanted. I want to test out.”

      LeRoy shuffled more papers. Cash watched him silently. She wondered to herself what it was about her request that was driving Mrs. Kills Horses and now Professor LeRoy crazy.

      “Most of the students who make this request were the top of their high school classes.”

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