Shark Bite Page 6

  “Yeah. He’s a friend of a friend—he’s Lindy’s husband’s friend. That’s how I got the job with the team.”

  “Shannon Kelly,” my dad says. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  My mom squints at the photo again. “But they never called him Shannon…right?”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Now both of my parents are poring over the photo with all the scrutiny of FBI investigators.

  Neither answers me for a moment; they’re murmuring softly under their breaths. I can’t make out anything they’re saying, so I finally raise my voice, “Will you please tell me what’s going on?”

  My mom sets the paper down and flashes my dad a look I can’t quite read. “You probably don’t remember them, honey, but when you were younger, we had some friends, Tom and Jocelyn Kelly. They had two sons, Shannon and Declan, but they always called Shannon Shay or Shay-Shay since that’s what Declan could say when he was little.” My mom squinted at the photo again. “That certainly looks like it could be little Shay-Shay all grown up, doesn’t it, Marty? My, look at all those tattoos…”

  I sit there, suspended in time when “Shay-Shay” echoes through my head. I’m transported to a beach where waves are crashing on the sand, threatening a sandcastle I’d just built with my best friend. He was a freckle-faced, dark-haired little boy, a scrappy kid, his arms and legs always covered with bruises and cuts, always getting into trouble wherever he went. No wonder I loved him so much—he always took me along on his adventures. And that day, on the beach, we were trying to build the biggest sandcastle in the world. One that could earn us a spot in the book of world records.

  The memories fade in and out until one of me in a little yellow sundress with my hair in ponytails comes into view. I was waving goodbye from my porch as a minivan with wood paneling on the sides drove away. My friend Shay-Shay was inside with his mom. His parents were getting divorced, and he was moving to Pennsylvania.

  “—and we never really heard from them after that, did we, Marty? They were like, poof, gone…even though I’m pretty sure Tom stayed around here. His family owned the carriages they use in Georgetown during the elections, right? Return Day?”

  Shay-Shay is Shark? Shark is Shay-Shay?

  I start to scoot my chair away from the table, still suspended in this gelatinous muck of half-formed memories, sights and sounds and smells all jumbled together: crying gulls, boardwalk fries, sand in my swimsuit, footprints fading in the crashing surf, shells in a bucket, the shouts of a lifeguard saying to get out of the water…

  Is that why he’s called Shark?

  “Hey, Meggie, don’t go,” my dad calls after me as I make my way toward the back door. “We’ll sponsor the team. Send me an invoice for the jerseys. We’ll make it happen.”

  “We want to support you, honey!” my mom adds.

  I turn around when I get to the door. “I’ve gotta run home for now. I’ll text you guys later.”

  “Oh, dear,” I hear my mom’s voice as I breeze through the door. I miss the rest of her statement, and by the time I’m in the car, it’s too late.

  I have to go home. I have to figure this out.

  7

  What am I supposed to do with a kid?

  When I was younger, no one would have wanted me to mentor a child. They probably would have said I’m a bad influence. I did have my share of reckless, and probably even a few criminal moments, as a teenager and young adult, and I was lucky not to have been caught for the bulk of it. I certainly wouldn’t want anyone I mentored to go down the same path I did as a kid.

  So, maybe this is my chance to right the wrongs of my past? I scan the parking lot, looking for the kid and his mom. We’re meeting at a playground this first time, so his mom can get to know me well enough to drive her kid around and be responsible for him and stuff. Can’t say I blame her there.

  A voluptuous blonde flags me down from the other side of the lot. I start to approach her when I see there’s a small kid standing next to her with her arm around his shoulder. It’s Max. I met him briefly at our game last weekend. I don’t know how he got assigned to me, but Matt assured me that what the process lacked in science, it was more than made up with by fate. In other words, “God puts each kid with who he or she needs to be with,” he said. Mmmhmmm.

  “Hey, Max,” I try to make my voice sound light and unintimidating, definitely not my natural timbre.

  “I’m Sheila,” his mom says, extending her small, dimpled hand. She has a nice smile and straight, white teeth. She tugs down her shirt over her ample stomach, and I wonder for a second if she might be pregnant, but I think she’s just a larger woman. Max, on the other hand, is scrawny. He looks up at me with these piercing blue eyes, then pushes a wave of shaggy reddish-blond hair out of his freckled face. I don’t remember what he was wearing at the game the other day, but today he’s wearing a sleeveless shirt because it’s approximately the temperature of Hell out here, and I notice he’s covered in freckles. They go all the way down both arms, such a thick smattering that you can barely see the color of his skin.

  “Do you want to play on the playground?” I ask, and he gives a little shrug.

  “Come on, now, Max, we talked about this,” his mother says in a sugary sweet voice. “Remember, Mr. Kelly is here to hang out and have fun with you. You guys have to actually go do the things.” She gestures toward the slide, swings, and climbing apparatus in the sandy pit of the playground.

  “Oh, you can call me Shark,” I tell him, then I spread my arms out wide and make a chomping motion in front of his face to imitate a shark. Usually, kids laugh when I do that, but Max clings to his mother’s shirt.

  “Sorry, he’s just shy.” She rolls her eyes and shrugs apologetically.

  He didn’t seem that shy on Saturday when he was running around with the other two boys who came to the game. But I’ll cut him some slack because I’m new, and with all these tattoos and a name like Shark, I’m not exactly the least intimidating guy in the world.

  As we start to walk toward the playground, Sheila tells me a little about her son. “He’s had a rough time adjusting to school. We moved here last summer, and this past school year was a nightmare. Ever since he started back to school last week, he’s been quiet and withdrawn.”

  “I see.” I bend down closer to the boy. “I had to start a new school when I was about your age. I was eight. How old are you?”

  When he doesn’t answer me, his mother fills in, “He turns nine in a couple weeks.”

  Hmm, well, maybe part of the problem is she talks for him. Maybe we’ll have better luck on our excursions when she stays behind. I tap him on the shoulder. “Race you to the swings!”

  He turns, and his lips spread into an uneasy smile. “Do I get a head start?”

  “I’ll count to three,” I promise.

  He takes off like a lightning bolt, his feet flying over the sand as he rushes to the swing set on the far corner of the playground. Gotta hand it to the kid, he’s fast. I count to three, then flash his mom a smile as I take off after him.

  He’s laughing when he gets there fast enough to grab a swing before I arrive. See? I can do this. I plop my thick behind in the swing next to him, and the next thing I know, we’re both soaring into the air. I encourage him to really pump his legs to get some height. He’s smiling, and when I look down at Sheila standing off to the side, observing, she’s smiling too.

  Maybe I can do this mentoring thing after all.

  I haven’t gotten along with my family in years, but knowing how hard Megan is working to find sponsors for our team, and knowing my dad owns a business right here in Sussex County, Delaware, I figure it’s time I do my part and ask him if he will pony up some money to help us out. Pony up—kind of a pun since he owns stables and a carriage company.

  I make the long drive west toward Georgetown, where his farm is. The big barn housing the infamous Return Day carriages looks like it’s recently gotten a new roof. Return Day is a Sussex Coun
ty tradition dating back hundreds of years. After an election, the candidates are carted around the circle in the middle of Georgetown, the county seat, in horse-drawn carriages. My great-grandfather started the company, but the political tradition has been in existence for over two hundred years and includes a mayoral hatchet-throwing contest, a parade, and free BBQ for everyone. It’s basically a huge celebration marking the end of election season. Having witnessed the insanity that was our last election, it sounds like a tradition the entire nation should probably adopt.

  My dad and I have never gotten along. My older brother Declan has always been the favorite—and, of course, he actually got to stay with Dad when my parents got divorced back when I was eight years old. Declan is four years older, and Mom and Dad thought it was best if he stayed with Dad and I went with Mom.

  Worst. Mistake. Ever.

  I won’t go into the details. I’ve tried to repress all my childhood memories, to be honest, so I don’t have to deal with them. It’s easier that way. Even my therapist knows better than to force them to the surface. But suffice it to say, when I returned to Delaware in my early twenties, I had a chip on my shoulder for what my dad did to my mom. Not that she was an angel either, but that’s another story too. I still haven’t completely forgiven him, or my brother, for that matter. Declan wanted to stay here and leave me behind. Just when I needed him most.

  I find my dad in his workshop, where he always is now that he’s mostly retired and lets Declan run the business. My stepmom is in the house probably baking or cleaning. He doesn’t get along with her any better than he did my mom, and that’s only part of the reason I’ve vowed to never get married. I’m too much like him. And I don’t want to make one woman miserable in life, let alone two.

  “Hey, Pop.” I close the door behind me; otherwise he’ll get on my case right off the bat.

  He’s hammering a few nails into what looks to be a box planter, the kind you put in a window. Maybe he’s trying to do something nice for my stepmom, but that’s doubtful.

  “Hey, Kid.” That’s what he calls me. It’s no wonder I always hated the name Shannon. No one called me that growing up, anyway.

  “Keepin’ busy?” I lean against one of the posts that used to be the corner of a horse stall, but this particular barn was converted into a workshop long ago. It still somehow smells of hay and horses, and an old wood stove that is also long gone. I don’t think those smells will ever fully dissipate.

  “Not workin’ today?” he asks, avoiding my question.

  “Nope. I’m off today. Recovering from my game yesterday.”

  “Oh, you still playing that game that ain’t as good as football?” My dad shakes his head as he hangs his hammer up on one of the metal hooks over his workbench. He knows precisely where every single tool goes. If I were to move one of them, there would be hell to pay.

  “It’s better than football.” It’s our usual banter.

  He’s quiet for a minute. “Kathy heated up some leftover goulash for lunch if you want some.”

  “I ate already. I actually came to talk to you.”

  “What do ya want, Kid?” He finally looks at me for the first time since I’ve been here, his gray-blue eyes meeting their mirror image.

  “Wondered if Kelly Carriage Company would like a spot on the rugby sponsorship roster this fall. We’re hosting a carnival for kids, and it would be great to offer some carriage rides too.”

  “You know Dec’s in charge of all that now,” my father says, dismissing me as usual. “You have to talk to him.”

  I grunt. I hate talking to Declan even more than talking to my old man. “I just wanted your blessing.”

  “Talk to Dec,” my dad insists, and then he does that thing where it’s obvious the conversation is over.

  I managed to have the most awkward phone conversation of all time with my brother about fifteen minutes prior to meeting Megan and Matt to talk to the Legion guys. He agreed to a five hundred-dollar sponsorship, which isn’t much, but it’s something. And they’ll do carriage rides at the carnival as well. I hope Megan has good news from the sponsor she was wooing. And I’m really hoping the Legion guys will sign off on this because, if not, we are really up shit creek.

  “Hey.” Megan knocks on the window of my truck, scaring me half to death. I was just trying to breathe for a second after my phone call with Declan. I had my eyes closed and my earbuds in, listening to one of my guilty pleasure bands that I would never admit listening to.

  When I roll down the window, she’s cracking up. “What?”

  “I scared you!” she cackles. “I scared the big bad rugby player.”

  Then she catches sight of my phone, which has my personalized radio station pulled up.

  “Wait, what’s this?” She grabs the phone right out of my hand and peers at the screen. “Shark’s 80s Hits?” She scrolls through a few of the song selections. “Oh my god, this is what you listen to?”

  “Give that back!” I demand my phone from her.

  “Hall & Oates?” She scans the playlist. “Madonna? Prince? Wham?!” Her lips purse, and she shakes her head. “Who are you, Shannon Kelly?”

  “Shut up!” I swing the door of my truck open and step out onto the pavement, trying not to notice that she’s wearing a red, white, and blue gingham sundress with a tasteful but very tantalizing strip of cleavage showing.

  “I can’t believe you listen to 80s pop!” she gushes like it’s the juiciest tidbit of gossip she’s ever nibbled on. “That’s awesome! I’m more into the later 80s stuff…Debbie Gibson…Whitney Houston… Do you like them too?”

  I ignore her and start walking toward the Legion. Where the hell is Matt? I could really use some more testosterone right about now.

  “Oh, come on, Shark, I think it’s adorable!” She giggles, and when I throw a glance over my shoulder, she’s standing there with her hands on her cocked hips, rocking back and forth on high heels. “Or should I call you Shay-Shay?”

  I freeze in my tracks and slowly whip around to face her.

  “Oh, that got your attention!” Her giggles dry up, and her lips thin out as she surveys me. “Do you have a brother named Declan?”

  “Why in the world would you ask me that?”

  Her head turns to the other side of the parking lot. “Oh, look, Matt is here. Guess we’ll have to talk about this later.”

  I’m this close to grabbing her by the strap of her sundress. “Why are you asking me about my brother?”

  Her eyes narrow as if she can’t believe I’m reacting this way, but she’s pushing all my buttons tonight—and not in a good way. First she uncovers my 80s radio station and gives me hell about it, and then she calls me by my brother’s childhood nickname for me. I already had to deal with that douchebag once today, and now she brings him up again?

  “Hey, guys!” Matt greets us from his minivan as he starts to approach us. He’s got a clipboard and is looking all business casual in his polo and khakis. He and Megan look professional, whereas I barely had time to strip out of my work uniform and throw on some shorts and a Can-Am rugby tournament t-shirt from 2014.

  “Good evening, Matt!” Megan has nothing but sweet smiles for our partner. How did she go from teasing and interrogating me to sugary sweet in a heartbeat?

  “You’re looking mighty patriotic tonight!” Matt observes, and Megan twirls around, the skirt of her sundress billowing in the breeze. “That’ll soften those old vets up!”

  “I hope so!” She’s beaming as the three of us walk past the Sherman tank in the parking lot and inside the building that boasts a flag, plaque, or member photo on almost every available surface.

  “Hello!” Megan greets the man in the office just inside the door. “I’m Megan Adams, and this is Matt Cameron and Shannon Kelly. We’re meeting with Fred Kurtz.”

  “Of course, miss, right this way.” The man with the ring of white hair haloing his shiny bald head and thick bifocal glasses leads us down a hall to another office. He pokes his h
ead inside. “Fred?”

  Twenty minutes later, we’re back out in the parking lot celebrating our victory. I don’t think Matt nor I spoke a word. It was entirely the Megan Adams show. I didn’t know her dad was a Marine, but once she told Fred and his buddy Jim, it was like that was all they needed to know. The mention of the Marines and that red, white, and blue gingham sundress was all it took to seal the deal. And her heels. They probably helped too.

  Matt says goodnight, looking thrilled with the outcome of the meeting, and reminds me I’m taking my Little Buddy, Max, to his soccer practice the following afternoon.

  “I’ll be there,” I assure him and give him a mock salute before he heads back to his minivan. I’m left standing there with Megan, watching her long hair blow in the breeze.

  She waves goodbye to Matt and then turns to me, her face radiant with triumph. “We did it! It was a lot easier than I thought. Oh! We should probably let Walt know, huh? Sorry he couldn’t make it.”

  Oh, I forgot to invite Walt. Oops.

  She whips out her phone. “I’ll text him real quick and let him know we’re a go.”

  “You got his phone number?”

  Her thumbs are flying away on her phone’s keyboard, but when my question hits her, her eyes lift to mine. “Yeah, is that okay?”

  I don’t know why, it just registered as a shock to my system. Like I touched a wire I didn’t know was live. “Yeah, it’s fine, whatever.”

  She finishes her text and gives me her gaze again. “So now what?”

  “Well, are you going to tell me what you were talking about earlier? Before Matt showed up?”

  “How about I show you instead?” Her cheeks are glowing, and I don’t know if it’s still from our successful meeting, or if there’s something else going on.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have something I want to show you, but it’s back at my house. Do you wanna stop by?” She poses the question like there’s no chance I’ll say no.