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He tamps it down again. I'm rearranging my cards and debating whether to look at his and poking through a book thearistocrats I took out from the library. It has a giant scorpion on the cover, thearistocrats and you have to take something out and do a report, every week. I get good grades, which is what I do instead of talking to people. My parents think I'm going to college. My father says when people ask that it's the one thing this family hasn't fucked up. Prearcturas gigas, it says, was over a thearistocrats meter long. I try pronouncing the name under my breath. "You're all right," my brother says, eyeing me. That's a scorpion three feet long. There's a picture of the pedipalps, the moveable things near the mouth that help shovel the prey in, a fossil, next to ones from the largest scorpion today. It's like hunting knives next to fingernail parings. My father starts rooting through the garbage, swearing. My mother calls it Saying the rosary. "Don't go through the garbage," she calls.
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