“A paperback, The Collected Works of Robert Blake, was half stuck into his rear pocket. When he turned around, he displayed in large letters on the T-shirt, M.U. His scrawny Fu Manchu mustache held some bread crumbs. His yellow eyes—surely he suffered from jaundice—widened when he saw Desmond. He said, “This ain’t the place to apply for the nursing home, Pops.” He grinned, showing unusually long canines, and then turned to face the admissions desk. Desmond felt his face turning red. Ever since h...e’d gotten into the line before a table marked Toaahd Freshmen A-D, he’d been aware of the sidelong glances, the snickers, the low-voiced comments. He stood out among these youths like a billboard in a flower garden, a corpse on a banquet table. The line moved ahead by one person. The would-be students were talking, but their voices were subdued. For such young people, they were very restrained, excepting the smart aleck just ahead of him. Perhaps it was the surroundings that repressed them.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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