Sharkman Read Online Free Page B

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 Resuscitateorder.”
    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