Sharkman by Steve Alten Read Free Book Online

remind me about band practice on Saturday at his house. He said he’d text me a song list, and did I like Elvis Costello?
    I told him I did.
    I received my grandmother’s text by fifth period lunch—the insurance company had denied her request.
    I sat alone, feeling dejected, the insurance company’s decision sending my plan to get to know Anya spiraling into the toilet. I wondered if my confrontation with Sun Jung earlier this morning had affected her attitude with the insurance company representative. Funny how they’d pay a shrink to see me if I threatened to off myself, but if I needed transportation to do something positive with my life . . . hey, wait!
    It took me ten minutes to track down Beverly Chertok’s office number, another five to get her on the phone to plead my case.
    By seventh period history, my psychiatrist had texted me back with good news—she had received approval from the insurance company, convincing the rep that the trips to Miami were a necessary part of her recommended therapy.
    Sometimes when you look back on stuff in your life you realize that it was dumb luck which kept you progressing down a certain path. Miss a three-point shot during tryouts and you could get cut from the team; sink the same shot and your dreams get to live another day. A million random moments, a million chance meetings—a million possible different outcomes.
    Or maybe, as Rachel Solomon would say, all roads still lead to one destiny.
    The call from my driver came with the final bell. One of Bill’s autistic riders had suffered a seizure and had fallen from his wheelchair, striking his head on a steel guardrail. Bill was en route to the hospital—“I’ll only be about an hour late, eh?”
    My reply was cut off by the first cold, heavy droplets of rain. Within thirty seconds the deluge was in full force, chasing me back inside the high school.
    Being confined to a wheelchair limits one’s options. Like it or not, I was stranded until my driver arrived. The only question now was where to wait—the cafeteria or gym?
    Ah . . . sweet destiny, always pretending to be random.
    Lured by the sound of bouncing basketballs, I found my way to the gym—my heart pounding like it used to do just before practice.
    Warming up at both ends of the court were the fifteen members of Seacrest’s men’s varsity. Six wore their reversible jerseys in white, the rest in green. They were clowning around and a few were slap-fighting, led by their six-foot-seven-inch cocaptain and starting power forward—Stephen Ley.
    I had never met head coach Bradford Flaig, but he seemed like he was in a foul mood as he wheeled a cart holding a television and DVD player across the sideline to the home bleachers. I was surprised when he gestured me over, handing me the plug end of an extension cord.
    “You my new manager?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Well . . . make yourself useful anyway. See if you can find an electrical outlet.”
    Wheeling down the sideline, I quickly located the removable disk covering the floor outlet that was used to power the game clock.
    I plugged in the cord and returned to Coach Flaig, who had powered up the unit and was advancing the game footage using a remote. “You’re Kwan, right?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You look like you have some size to you. Did you play any ball before . . . you know.”
    “I was our starting point guard. I was second team all-conference last year as a sophomore.”
    “We could have used you.” He gestured to the screen. “Our first scrimmage. Got our asses kicked. Want to sit in on the film session?”
    “Sure.”
    Coach Flaig blew his whistle. “All right, ladies, balls in the rack and have a seat.”
    I rolled backward, parking to one side of the stands as fifteen bodies stormed up the bleachers like a herd of buffalo.
    “Yo, Coach, why’s he here?”
    It was Ley, and the douche bag was pointing at me.
    “I invited Kwan to sit in on practice. That okay with you, superstar?”
    Ley ignored