In history class on Thursday, Mr. Milling makes half the class draw folded-up papers from an old Clemson helmet to pair us up for a semester-long project we’re about to start, and when Devontae opens his and reads the name, he looks at me and winks.

Thursday after school, I wrap a bunch of change Dad’s been tossing into a five-gallon water jug for ages. Our running deal is that he puts it in, I wrap it up, and we split the proceeds fifty-fifty. This time, my cut is enough to bump the red in my wall goal thermometer close to the 35 percent mark, and we celebrate with late-night sundaes at our favorite corner table at McDonald’s.

On Friday afternoon, Ms. Hernandez catches up with me.

“Emmie!” She waves and hurries across the cafeteria, her heels clicking on the tile floor.

“Uh-oh,” Ale whispers. “Want me to have an asthma attack?”

I’m half tempted, but then Ms. Hernandez slides onto the bench across from me.

“You have sixth-hour study period, yes?”

There’s no point denying it.

“Good. I want you to stop by my office.”

When she’s gone, I pretend-bonk my head against the lunch table. “Too late for that asthma attack, Ale?”

So, instead of going to study hall, I head to Ms. Hernandez’s office, which is attached to the school resource room. A few kids and aides are working together at different tables.

“Hi, Emmie,” someone whispers from a nearby table. It’s Ms. Merle, who used to be my school aide way back in first grade but now works here at the junior high. She gives me a big smile. “You hanging out with us today?”

I shake my head. “Just passing through!” I whisper back, not wanting to interrupt their work. I wave at a few kids I know and then head into Ms. Hernandez’s office.

She has my file open on her desk. “How’s your dad?” she asks. “He hasn’t called me back about your 504—you gave him the letter I sent home last week, right?”

The letter is still stashed in the clutter on my desk. “He’s been swamped,” I tell her. “The 504 should still be fine—he said you can send a copy home for him to sign.” The letter was actually asking if he wanted a 504 meeting, but I know there’s no need. A 504 is basically a list of accommodations the school gives me now that I don’t need a full IEP or extra services at school.

Ms. Hernandez arches an eyebrow. She’s been the head of our district’s special education program since I started kindergarten. She and my mom didn’t quite agree when my parents decided I didn’t need to stay on services after fourth grade. She’s nice, though, and now she smiles as she hands over my file. My 504 plan is paper-clipped to the top.

“I’ll do that,” she says. “Everything still look good?”

I take the paper and scan the short list of “reasonable accommodations” the school keeps on file for me.