The farm girl lifted her card.
“One seventy.”
The man looked at her.
“What are you going to do with them?”
The auctioneer laughed.
“Bid first. Give advice later.”
“One eighty?”
The girl raised again.
The seed-cap farmer shook his head.
“That’s yours.”
The auctioneer pointed.
“One hundred eighty dollars.”
He looked around.
“One eighty once.”
“Twice.”
“Sold.”
The gravel lot erupted in laughter.
Not cruel enough to become memorable to anyone except the person receiving it.
But loud.
A farmer with a round face slapped his friend’s shoulder.
“Nine hundred rusty circles.”
Another called:
“Hope your dad owns a scrap yard.”
Someone else shouted:
“She’ll need a bigger mailbox when all the collectors start sending checks.”
The farm girl’s cheeks burned.
She walked toward the clerk.
Behind her, somebody asked loudly:
“Think they come with a refund?”
She kept walking.
The clerk wrote the lot number.
“One eighty.”
The girl counted nine twenty-dollar bills.
The clerk looked surprised.
“You sure?”
The girl looked toward the crates.
“No.”
The clerk smiled.
“At least you’re honest.”
He stamped the receipt.
The girl folded it twice and put it into her jacket pocket.
When she turned, four older farmers stood beside the crates.
They had gathered simply to enjoy the mistake more closely.
One picked up a plate.
Flakes of rust fell onto his glove.
He laughed.
“Looks valuable.”
The farm girl held out her hand.
“Then put my valuable property back.”
The other men laughed.
The farmer grinned and handed it over.
“One hundred eighty dollars.”
He shook his head.
“You know scrap’s down, right?”
“I’m not selling them for scrap.”
That produced another round of laughter.
“What are you doing with nine hundred planter plates?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The man looked delighted.
“You don’t even know?”
The girl’s embarrassment became anger.
She wiped rust from the stamped number with her thumb.
A pattern appeared.
Eight seed openings.
Unusual size.
She had seen something close to it in one of her grandfather’s catalogs.
The farmer pointed toward the crates.
“Girl, those machines went out with black-and-white television.”
She looked up.
“Then why are there still old planters sitting behind half the barns in this county?”
The man spread his hands.
“Because nobody knows when to throw anything away.”
She lifted the plate.
“Funny.”
“You’ve been staring at these ten minutes and still haven’t figured out what they are.”
His smile thinned.
“We know what they are.”
“Dead weight.”
The girl tucked the plate against her jacket.
“Then keep laughing while I load them.”
She picked up one side of the nearest crate.
It did not move.
The farmers laughed harder.
One said:
“Expert needs a forklift.”
She stared at him.
“If you’re finished performing, you could help.”
That surprised them.
The round-faced farmer laughed.
Then grabbed the opposite side.
“Now that was good.”
They loaded the crates onto her father’s battered flatbed trailer.
Nobody stopped making jokes.
The girl did not stop listening.
That was worse.
She heard every word.
Scrap.
Junk.
Antiques.
Boat anchors.
Rusted pancakes.
One man estimated she had paid twenty cents each for “nine hundred ways to get tetanus.”
The girl tied the crates down.
Then climbed into the old pickup.
Her mother sat in the passenger seat.
She had watched the entire auction.
The girl did not look at her.
Her mother asked: