Then something shoves me from behind.

“I’ll help you, Emmie!”

“I got it.” I can’t turn around without losing my rhythm, but I know that voice. It’s Logan Whitten—jumpy as a frog and as tough to shake as a tick off a hound.

Logan’s so eager to “help” he shoves my chair handles up, not down, which makes the front wheels dig in instead of pop up. The chair cuts sideways, bumping my still-sore elbow and digging a splinter into my palm.

“Logan!” I whisper sharply. “I’m good!” I can’t let go of the railings to flick his hands away without losing ground, so I shove as fast as I can up the rest of the ramp.

We’re getting looks from stragglers, probably wondering why I won’t let him help me up the big bad ramp.

I don’t like people messing with my chair, that’s why.

The door to the art room is already shut, and Logan practically climbs over my chair to get to it. He bangs against my already loose handrim, and I’m about to wear him out over it, but then Devontae pushes open the door from the inside.

“May I do the honors?” he asks, bowing low like we’re in some old-timey movie, and the angry words sort of melt from my mouth.

Now that’s how you offer some help.

5

Room for Improvements

Other than the splinter in my hand, by the time art class ends, I’ve about brushed off the Logan ramp nonsense. Takes more than that to dent my junior-high thrill.

Seventh grade is the best. Changing classes, long, speed-worthy halls, getting to pick more classes and activities ourselves. More freedom = happy Emmie.

I’m catching a ride home with Ale’s mom, so when the bell rings, I head to the gym to kill time while Ale checks out robotics club. After-school open gym is way cooler this year. Mr. Singletary, who’s fresh out of teacher school and was a high school basketball legend right here in town, can finger-spin a ball forever and never flips out about a few tire marks on the wooden gym floor. I’m the first one there. Mr. Singletary tweets hello on his whistle as I go into the gym.

“Hey, Daredevil,” he says, walking over and tossing me a ball. “Ready for some one-on-one?”

I’m not big on basketball, but one-on-one with Mr. Singletary is fun. Once everyone else starts playing, he and I battle it out under the lowest hoop—me on my wheels and him in his raggedy old, wheeled desk chair. A few other kids join the action using plastic floor scooters, and things get wild.

I dare Mr. Singletary to pop a wheelie, and he says he prefers his head unbusted.

“I’ll leave stunts like that to the experts,” he says, swiping the ball from my hands.

Dr. Grayling appears in the open doorway once and stands there, looking thoughtful, but doesn’t come in. Then he goes away, and we all have fun until the after-after-school bell rings.