Read Rotters for Free Online Page B

good!” said Gottschalk over the merriment. “Sweat, aka transpiration: courtesy of the good old hypothalamus, the body generates water as a means of thermoregulation, a process that cools us as the sweat evaporates, keeping things cozy enough that we can continue to hunt the savage beast or, in the case of the female, suckle the brood.”
    He looked down at his attendance sheet. “Miss Carpenter, I’m afraid it’s up to you. Look at Mr. Crouch and kindly supply us with a description.”
    A low groan of pleasure gusted through the class. Dozens of smiling faces banked to Celeste, who blinked her night eyes at the teacher, then slowly turned her face to me. Distantly I heard the clock at the front of the room tick. The compulsion to specify tugged at my gut and I fought it.
    “In case you need glasses, Miss Carpenter,” Gottschalk said, “Mr. Crouch is the sweaty one swooning at the back of the class. Take a look and tell us what you see.”
    Perfect lips parted.
    “I see a boy,” she said.
    An uneasy, possibly disappointed noise nickered through the rows of students. “Diplomatic, Miss Carpenter,” said Gottschalk. “Diplomatic but also correct. He
is
—we can presume, anyhow—a boy, which enacts its own particular set of pheromonal influences when it comes to producing that sticky mix of water and solute that we can see glistening from all the way across the room. Other acceptable answers would’ve included the bags under his eyes or the blemishes on his skin; the origins of which, I promise you, we will get to in due time. We have, after all, all semester.” He turned back to the attendance list. “You can sit, Mr. Crouch. A-plus for the day.”

8.
     
    A BOY .
I T HAD sounded good coming from her, but standing in the hallway watching two hundred kids funnel into the lunch line and stream into the cafeteria coop, the two words rang in my ears as something more demeaning. Not a man, not even a young man, but a boy. I felt it, too: here was a simple human endeavor—lunch—and I was too scared to move.
    After having bought snacks on the Amtrak, I had less than ten dollars left in my wallet, and much of that was in change. My mother’s meager fortune, as well the proceeds from the auction of her belongings, was inaccessible to me for twomore years. For now, this was it: eight dollars and thirty-three cents. I flipped through the bills as covertly as possible, but still people looked my way.
    The line got shorter. I moved to the counter, accidentally ordered too much, and used almost every cent to pay for it. The woman at the register watched bemusedly while I counted out change.
    Waiting until everyone else had gone first was a mistake, I saw that right away. Although this school was much smaller than my previous one, instead of splitting lunch into separate periods they tossed everyone together, grades nine through twelve. The tables seethed with feeding. There was nowhere safe to sit without impinging on claimed territory.
    I wanted to flee, but my stocked tray had already been noted by too many people.
I’m too old for this
, I told myself as I began walking down the center of the room. I swept my eyes from side to side while trying to look as if I couldn’t care less. There was a seat—but I’d have to squeeze in between two girls. There was another one with better elbow room—but the bleary-eyed punks who had commandeered it looked less than inviting. I was nearing the end of the room. To double back would be disaster.
    Impulsively I sat. The two boys nearest me were younger. “Hey,” I grunted, nodding curtly to indicate that conversation was not necessary. The kid at my elbow edged away like I had leprosy, but the boy across from me pushed a response past his pizza. I stared down at my food, recognizable shapes in autumn colors. None of it looked edible.
    “Hey, Crouch!” It was a shout from the next table over: Woody Trask, smacking his lips. He swallowed and grinned, his perfect white