Sharkman Read Online Free Page A

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
    T hirty 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