Not sure yet, I write back.

This reminds me that I do need to answer AK_SalmonGranny’s first message, or I’ll look unprofessional. I send her a quick note that I’m a bit backed up and I’ll get with her over the weekend to discuss her order. Then I fill Ale in about Dad telling me to stay off the ramp.

I knew it, she writes back. Are we dead? We’re dead, right?

Not dead, I write back. We just have to up our stealth factor.

Maybe Dad got so squirrelly about me practicing jumps because he’s worried what other people will think. When Mom died, Nonny wanted me to come and live with her and Pop-Pop. She wasn’t the only one who thought a mechanic who liked to race dirt bikes wouldn’t be the top pick to solo parent a girl with Emmie’s special needs. Which is silly—Dad’s been my wheelchair pit crew and all-around partner in mischief since forever. We take care of each other fine and—until recently—he never tried to stop me from taking a few chances now and then.

But working hard to earn new wheels is something I know Dad can get behind. Once I have that dream chair, he won’t worry so much about me doing tricks and jumps. Back when he used to race himself, he kept his trail bike in perfect condition—he knows how much the right gear matters. Until then, maybe I can talk to Mr. Singletary about doing some practicing in the gym after school.

Right as I’m headed to bed, my computer pings with a new message from AK_SalmonGranny.

No rush, dear. We run on Alaska time up here. Look forward to employing your skills for the cause when you’re available. You ever been king salmon fishing? —Dolly Mathisen

Her profile picture has changed from the fishing shot to one of her in some sort of off-the-wall parade with a bunch of other people. All of them are dressed up like in olden times, with floppy hats, over-the-top suits, and big dresses. Dolly’s wearing fishnet stockings, a satin dress, and a red feather boa. Her wheelchair has a matching black boa and strings of shiny party beads.

Why can’t I have a grandma like that? is my last thought before falling asleep.

The next morning, there’s a plastic grocery bag hanging from the front porch railing with my name on it. It’s full of neatly folded fabric pieces, with a note in Nonny’s swirly, old-timey writing pinned to the top: For your business.

Family. It’s complicated.

6

Sucky Ramps and Stinky Stealth

Maybe I’ve picked up some of AK_SalmonGranny’s vibe, because the next couple days are just about perfect. Homework starts coming faster, but I stay right on top of it. Dad hits a balance between work and night classes and doesn’t look as tired. The bag of fabric from Nonny turns out to have some cool vintage-looking prints.

On Wednesday, Mr. Singletary agrees to let me do some low-key chair tricks in the gym as long as he’s there to spot me, and I spend a fun-filled hour popping over broom handles and through cones and working on a moving wheelie. Mr. Singletary is impressed, and I halfway convince him to let me try some easy tricks on the low stairs leading to the stage—which our gym has because it’s also our auditorium. Dr. Grayling turns up in the doorway another time or two, but doesn’t stay long.