Free A Teeny Bit of Trouble by Michael Lee West Page A

missing Shark Week .”
    “We’ll see, kid. A muscle twitched in Red’s cheek. He turned onto Oglethorpe Square, where the Monday morning traffic moved sluggishly around a horse-drawn buggy.
    Emerson smoothed her pigtails. “Hammerheads eat squid.”
    “They also eat other sharks,” Red said.
    He drove over the metal bridge. Straight ahead, the pharmacy stood out against the leaden sky, the windows glowing with an eerie green light. The wind stirred the poisonous oleanders that lined the sidewalk in front of the store, and white petals skated down the pavement.
    A Georgia Genetics van was parked near the corner. Red pulled in beside it.
    “Why are we stopping here?” Emerson sat up straight. “You said we were having breakfast.”
    “We will.” Red squeezed the steering wheel. “Afterward.”
    “After what?” She spun around, glaring at me and Coop. “What’s going on?”
    “Your daddy asked us to bring you here,” Coop said.
    “Again?” She pounded her fist against the roof of the van. “You tricked me!”
    “I’m the one who lied, kid,” Red said.
    She whipped her head around. “You poo-poo head.”
    I squeezed Coop’s hand, a “quick, do something” gesture.
    He sat up straight. “Lester arranged a special test, one that will show if I’m your real dad. A technician will swab the inside of your cheek. Mine too. Don’t be afraid. It’ll feel just like a lollypop.”
    The fierce gleam in her eyes told me that Emerson Philpot wasn’t scared of Q-tips or strange men. She was petrified of not being loved.
    “I know lots and lots about DNA,” she said. “I better not be Mr. Philpot’s child. I can’t stand him. He takes me for granite.”
    Red’s lips twitched. “Granite’s a stone, kid.”
    “Don’t call me that. I’m not a baby goat. And I’m not letting anyone take my spit.”
    Red lifted her out of the front seat, ignoring her pitiful screeches. He carried her into the store. Two men in lab coats waited beside the old-fashioned soda fountain. One guy was bald and sunburned, and his hands hung down like boiled lobsters. The other man had flat, flounder-like feet.
    Emerson immediately hushed when Lester strutted down the aisle. He looked like an Abercrombie & Fitch advertisement. His khakis had knife-sharp pleats. His narrow face was dominated by a tall forehead that put mine to shame. His bulging hazel eyes zeroed in on Emerson.
    She curtsied, her fists extended. Then two index fingers jutted up.
    “Stop making those gestures,” Lester said.
    She tucked her hands behind her back. “Where’s Mrs. Philpot?”
    “We’ll discuss that later, sugar.”
    “When can I go back to Chatham Academy?”
    “Soon.” Lester tugged one of his butterfly-shaped ears. “Real soon.”
    My stomach cramped. We’d waited too long to tell her about Barb. When Emerson found out we’d withheld the news, she’d feel even more betrayed. You can’t lie to a child, Aunt Bluette used to say.
    Emerson darted to a counter, grabbed an umbrella, and swung it dangerously close to a Preparation H display. “I want an Egg McMuffin and a latte.”
    “You’re too young for lattes.” Lester pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and patted his glistening forehead. “But I’ll buy you a McMuffin if you let these nice men swab your mouth.”
    “No.” She pushed the tip of the umbrella into the display, and three Preparation H boxes toppled to the floor.
    “Sugar, the swab test isn’t painful,” Lester said, but he winced dramatically, causing Emerson to recoil. What was wrong with him? And why wasn’t Coop taking up for her? He just stood there, looking off to the side. We had the opposite problem of King Solomon and the two mothers. If anyone offered to split Emerson down the middle, neither Coop nor Lester would object.
    Oh, come on, Teeny. Offer to adopt her.
    Coop lifted his finger. “Excuse me, but is this a court-ordered test?”
    “Mr. O’Malley, I’m not any happier to see you than you