Sharkman Page 3

  There were two industrial-size washers and dryers that were used to wash the athletic teams’ uniforms, along with open cardboard boxes stacked with clean towels. Feeling a bit uncomfortable, I stripped off my soiled jeans and boxers and handed them to the principal, who hand-washed them in a sink while I wrapped myself in a clean towel.

  The seat cushion of my wheelchair is vinyl and easy to wipe clean—provided I’m not sitting in it. In order to vacate the chair I had to wrap my arms around Dr. Lockhart’s neck and allow him to lift me up and place me in another chair—that was awkward. He wiped down the vinyl with a disinfectant, and then we waited while my clothing spun around in an industrial dryer.

  “Heck of a first day,” he finally said, flashing a disarming smile.

  I nodded, feeling embarrassed about my behavior earlier in his office. “I’m sorry I disrespected you, Dr. Lockhart. The whole GPA thing . . . I’ve seen some schools fight over their top students just to keep federal funds.”

  “I’m sure that happens. At Seacrest, we’re more concerned with educating all of our students.”

  “It would really be better for me if I homeschooled myself.”

  “First days are scary. You’ll get through this, you’ll see.”

  “You don’t get it,” I snapped, the anger returning. “I just peed in my first class. My urine is smelling up room 6107.”

  “It’s already been cleaned, no worries.”

  “No worries? You can’t hide from this—by now it’s probably all over YouTube and Facebook.”

  “Along with a million other embarrassing moments—all of which makes us human. For now, just try to learn from it so it doesn’t happen again. Doug used to wear his catheter around the clock. He ran the tube out the bottom of his pants to a catch bottle attached beneath his chair and never had a problem.”

  “That’s not my point. I don’t need to expose myself to this. I’m smart enough to ace my GED and get my diploma tomorrow if I wanted to without any of this bullshit.”

  “Is that how you want to spend the rest of your life—living in a cave? What about college? What about getting a good job after you earn your degree? Kwan, the longer you put off being part of the mainstream, the harder it’ll be to come back. I know you’re humiliated, but you’re not the first person to go through something like this and you won’t be the last. Every semester I have at least five incidences of students puking in class or girls unexpectedly starting their periods. Sure, it’s embarrassing, but you go on.”

  He was right, and I knew it, but I had had enough for one day. “Okay, I’ll stick it out. But please, Dr. Lockhart, at least give me a chance to fix my catheter before I try this again.”

  He thought for a moment. “All right. Skip the rest of your classes for today, we’ll call it a mulligan and start fresh tomorrow.” Reaching into his pants pocket, he fished out a business card. “My cell phone number’s on the back—if you ever need me during the day just call.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Before you go, there’s someone I want you to meet. She’s a good person to know.”

  4

  Thirty minutes later we were back inside the administration building. Principal Lockhart led me through the same carpeted corridor past his office, stopping at a door labeled Guidance Counselor: Grade 11.

  The principal rapped his knuckles against the open door. “Rachel, you busy?”

  “Not for you,” said a short woman seated behind a desk littered with avocados. “Just doing some last-minute prepping for my horticulture club.”

  “This is Kwan Wilson. Kwan just transferred to Seacrest from a high school in San Diego, and he’s had a challenging first day. Thought maybe you could spend a few minutes with him.”

  “That depends. Can I put him to work?”

  “Absolutely. Kwan, this is Rachel Solomon.” The principal squeezed my shoulders and then strode back down the corridor to his office, abandoning me in the hallway.

  “This isn’t a drive-thru window, Kwan. You in or out?”

  I hesitated; then wheeled myself inside her office.

  Rachel Solomon was in her early to midforties. Her skin was pale, her hair coffee-brown and shoulder-length, with bangs cut straight across her forehead just above her brow. She gazed at me through penetrating hazel eyes, the eyelids half-closed, appearing almost lazy. The effect was warm and disarming, yet seemed to say, I know what you’re thinking, Kwan, so don’t try me.

  I knew those eyes. They were my mother’s eyes—windows to a loving, empowering soul. They were eyes that would neither offer me pity nor any easy way out. Seeing them again, feeling their expressive gaze upon me gave me a familiar sense of comfort that I had not felt in nearly a year.

  She smiled, as if she had been eavesdropping on my inner thoughts. Did she know what I was thinking? Was the woman psychic?

  “You like avocado, Kwan?” Reaching into an open cardboard box, she removed a dark green avocado that was slightly larger than a softball.

  “Yes. My grandmother buys them a lot.”

  “These aren’t store-bought avocados, they come from our backyard. My husband and I have three trees at home—two Monroes and a Wilson. These are Wilsons. Wait, didn’t Principal Lockhart say your last name was—”

  “Wilson.”

  “Interesting.” She handed me a sharp knife, placing the avocado before me on my side of her desk. “We’ll save the meat inside, but we’re after the seeds—I’m teaching my club how to grow an avocado tree from scratch. Cut the fruit slightly off-center so you don’t damage the nut.”

  She demonstrated on another avocado, slicing it into two unequal halves, exposing the yellow meat and a brown, golf ball–sized seed. Using a spoon, she popped out the seed. After cleaning it off with a paper towel, she placed it in a freezer storage bag, then began scooping the yellow clay-like meat into a Tupperware bowl.

  “Funny thing about my Wilson—in five years it grew twenty feet but didn’t bear any fruit until we planted the two Monroes. Guess it was lonely.”

  “More likely, it just needed to cross-pollinate.” Using the knife, I carefully sliced into my fruit. “Are all species of avocado named after dead presidents?”

  “My grower had a Hardee, but he also had a row of Pinkertons, so I guess the answer’s no. But let’s talk about you. Today was your first day at Seacrest. Since you’re not in class cross-pollinating, I’m guessing you experienced a few challenges.”

  “You could say that.” Using the knife, I carefully plucked out the seed and placed it inside the storage bag with the others.

  “Challenges are sometimes good. Of course, I’m not the one sitting in the wheelchair.”

  “I suppose you want to know how it happened.”

  “That’s up to you. Here, take this spoon. Scoop the meat into this baggie; we don’t want to waste it.”

  “It was a car accident.”

  “Were you hit by a car?”

  “No, I was driving. I had just gotten my license.”

  She removed another avocado and placed it on my side of the desk. “This is still hard for you to talk about.”

  She was right. I never talked about the accident—at least never in detail. But those eyes—they seemed to draw it out of me.

  “It happened on a Tuesday. I was driving—dropping my mother off at work so I could use her car after school to go to the mall. I was text messaging a friend—making plans. I took my eyes off the road for maybe five seconds when I heard my mother scream. I looked up in time to see a telephone pole, and then everything went blank.”

  “What happened to—”

  “She died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I woke up in the hospital. I was confused. Alone. For a while the doctors didn’t know if I was going to make it. To be honest, I didn’t care. My mother . . . she was more than just
a mom. She was my best friend . . . taught me music . . . sports.”

  I had to stop, my voice cracking. Avoiding her eyes, I looked around her office, stalling to regain my composure.

  “You said you were alone . . . what about your father?”

  The subject of my father sobered my emotions. “My father’s an admiral in the navy. He wasn’t around much, which was actually a good thing. He came to visit me a day after the accident. He made sure I knew my goofing off had killed my mother. He told me my paralysis was God’s way of punishing me for screwing up. I found out later his priority in coming to the hospital was to sign a Do Not Resuscitate order.”

  Mrs. Solomon placed the avocado she was working with on her desk. “I guess that makes us kindred souls.”

  “Why? You hated your father, too?”

  “Couldn’t stand him . . . such an angry man. He was a workaholic so he was hardly ever around, and when he was around he drank vodka and got angry. I was the second youngest of five siblings, and for some reason my father targeted me for his physical and verbal abuse.

  “When I was fifteen, he and I got into a huge fight and everything just welled up inside of me . . . the anger and resentment, the years of feeling abandoned. I shouted at him, ‘I wish you’d drop dead.’ And he did.”

  “Wait . . . for real?”

  “It happened three months later, out of the blue. He literally dropped dead of a massive heart attack. Words can be powerful things.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “Probably the same way you felt when you found out your mother had died. Racked with guilt. Depressed. Angry. For years there wasn’t a day that passed where I didn’t beat myself up. My guilt eventually sent me on a spiritual journey. I read every book I could find concerning life after death. I met with rabbis and came away with more questions. I researched Buddhism and Christianity; I saw a shrink . . . I studied Kabbalah and read the Zohar. It was only then that I began to understand there are no coincidences: that the chaos in our lives—the accidents and bad luck—happen because we don’t know the rules of the game. I realized that constantly beating myself up about my father’s death had turned me into a victim.”

  “I’m not a victim, Mrs. Solomon. I admit that I’m responsible for my mother’s death. It was my fault . . . I screwed up bad. How do I live with all the guilt? How do I go on?”

  “You begin by first taking responsibility for your actions.”

  I pounded my fist against the armrest of my chair, the woman pissing me off. “Didn’t you hear what I just said? I just said—”

  “What I heard was a confession, not a course of action that will allow you to experience happiness in your life.”

  “Who said anything about wanting to be happy? I killed my mother. I don’t deserve a speck of happiness.”

  “Spoken like a true victim. Trust me—you’re looking at someone who chose to remain a victim for twenty years. My parents, too. These were people who survived the Holocaust; they saw things no child should ever witness. My father couldn’t get past it; as a result he died an angry, bitter man. It’s your choice, Kwan. If you want to honor your mother by spending the next seventy years wallowing in your own misery—go for it. Or you can make her proud by doing something meaningful with your life. Remember, within you lies the force of giving, sharing, loving, caring, and being generous to others. No matter what you’ve done, there’s good still inside you, Kwan Wilson, after all every soul is pure. What you clothe it in while you live out this lifetime is ultimately up to you. Find happiness through the act of sharing. Help other people . . . that’s how you’ll earn your redemption. Okay?”

  I didn’t know whether to agree or disagree, so I just nodded.

  And then this woman whom I had just met did something my own father refused to allow himself to do—something Sun Jung had managed to avoid doing since the day I had accidentally killed her daughter.

  Rachel Solomon walked around her desk . . . and hugged me.

  Overwhelmed with guilt, I had marooned myself on an island of shame and refused to be rescued. To suddenly, unexpectedly feel the warm embrace of another human being . . . to know someone else cared about me unconditionally . . . it was like being freed from a life sentence in prison.

  On that first day of high school, God sent me a stranger’s kindness to remind me that he still loved me.

  And oh my, how the dam did burst—a dam of emotions I had no idea even existed. Wrapping my arms around Mrs. Solomon’s neck, I wept a river of tears, clinging to her like a drowning child clings to a life preserver.

  5

  I left Rachel Solomon’s office just after one o’clock, eating avocado from a paper cup. I felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted, but emotionally I was spent. I still had half an hour until school let out, so I found my way to the cafeteria to grab something more substantial to eat.

  Café Seacrest was set up like a food court you’d find in a shopping mall. I wheeled past Beyond Burgers and Asian Experience, checked out the menu at Mangia Mangia, and finally settled on a turkey sandwich and Coke from the Seacrest Gourmet Deli. I found an empty table near an exit and attacked the food.

  “You a fan?”

  I turned. Standing behind me was a guy my age, with uncombed long dark brown hair and a thin, prominent nose set on a narrow face. He was lanky and thin, and he was pointing to my backpack.

  Raising my defenses, I lashed out. “Yeah, I’m a fan. So what? You probably wouldn’t know good music if you fell over it.”

  “Dude, I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It means you’d have to be a musician to appreciate a group like the Doors.”

  “I am a musician. Robby Krieger . . . the guy was a genius on the Gibson.”

  “You play guitar?”

  “When I’m not being pissed on by cripples. Sorry, I know you had a rough day.” Pulling out a chair he sat beside me, propping his retro Converse on the table. “Jesse Gordon. So? You paralyzed or hurt?”

  “Paralyzed.”

  “That must suck. You were in my biology class this morning until you took off like a bat out of hell.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Ley sure got a big laugh out of it.”

  “Who’s Ley?”

  “Stephen Ley, the dumb jock asshole who was sitting behind you. Real dick. Basketball star. Hates Jews, Blacks, Browns, and I’m guessing Asians, too.” A security guard walked by, prompting Jesse to lower his feet. “You play?”

  “Basketball?”

  “Basketball? Dude, how can you play basketball without any legs? Music. I play in a garage band. We do a lot of sixties stuff, that’s why I was curious about the Doors. Can you sing? Our singer sucks. He’s like a lounge singer, plus he can’t remember the words or when to come in. He’s like musically retarded.”

  “I can sing a little, but I’m better on harmonica.”

  “You play harp? Excellent. Give me your number. We’re trying to set up a practice at my house on Saturday around three.”

  “Saturday? Yeah . . . I just need to see about a ride. Text me your address.”

  We programmed each other’s numbers in our cell phones as the school bell rang, ending seventh period. I tossed the rest of my sandwich in a trash can and followed Jesse out the café exit to the pickup area.

  And then I saw her. She was standing by the curb next to an Asian girl, the two of them texting.

  “Jesse, who is that?” My voice trailed off, growing hoarse.

  “The hot Indian girl? Anya something. Her dad’s some big-shot professor at FAU.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Not my type. Smart chicks think too much. You should go talk to her.”

  “Me? No.”

  “Go on. You’re a brainiac. Plus you’re a harmonica player in an up-and-coming rock band.
Plus I hear she’s into gimps.”

  “Really?”

  “No, man, I’m just messing with your head. But go on, what have you got to lose . . . your virginity? Sorry. Seriously though, how’s that work? Is there any way to prop it up?”

  Ignoring the sex comment, I unlocked the brake on my chair. “Call you later about Saturday.”

  I wheeled away from Jesse and down the sidewalk toward Anya, my mind racing. Anya was obviously part Indian. What did I know about India . . .

  I braked, smiling stupidly. “So . . . how about that Taj Mahal?”

  She looked up from texting.

  Her Asian girlfriend gave me an oh no, you didn’t just say that look.

  “Is that all you know about India—what you learned from watching Slumdog Millionaire? Do you even know what region the Taj Mahal is located?”

  “The Northern Province.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Congratulations. That makes you smarter than ninety percent of the students in this school. Anya Patel. And I’m only part Indian. My mother is from London. This is my friend, Li-ling Chang.”

  “Let me guess . . . Beijing?”

  “America,” she sneered. “Born in North Miami, Mr. South Korean know-it-all.”

  “I’m only half Korean.”

  “Yeah? Which half? The half that works?”

  “Li-ling’s just kidding. Sarcasm is her second language.”

  “She seems pretty fluent.”

  They turned as a white passenger van pulled over to the curb. A royal blue logo was painted on the side door panel: ANGEL.

  Anya held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Kwan Wilson.”

  “You remembered my name?”

  “She also remembered you pissed in your pants,” said Li-ling, “so don’t get too excited.”

  I watched the two girls climb into the back of the van—Anya offering me a wave that sent my heart fluttering.

  Rachel Solomon had challenged me to find happiness. Well, being around Anya Patel made me happy. She was smart and gorgeous and had an air about her that made me feel more alive inside . . . like life was worth living.