Linda Kotis
Mismeasured*
My underarms were moist, the back of my neck clammy. The shower I took in my sister’s dorm was for naught, failing to prevent the pervasive body odor that betrayed me. It was an early March morning in Bloomington, the humidity transforming my shoulder-length hair into a mop of brown frizz, the surface of my face red-lumped and shining like a vinyl rain slicker. I meandered across the quad.