1. Emelyn will have extra time of up to 5 minutes in order to maneuver her manual wheelchair in between classrooms, cafeteria, and gym settings on every day on which she attends school, in order to maximize her ability to independently access her educational environment.

No problem there. If the hallways weren’t crowded, I could probably get between classes faster than everyone else.

2. Emelyn will have classroom seating options which are an appropriate height to accommodate her manual wheelchair, as well as seating close to the door, to ensure optimal access to work surface and to enter/exit classes with minimal manual difficulty.

That one’s sort of funny, because none of the school’s splintery old desks are much like the slick, shiny ones you see in movies about fancy schools. The teachers do their best to find one my chair fits at, or I can always work at a table.

3. Emelyn will be offered opportunities to practice ambulating during gym class, with assistance from staff as needed, in order to maximize her access to school-based mobility.

That was another skirmish Mom helped me win. Just because you can walk—a little, sometimes—doesn’t mean it’s necessarily the best way to get around. Or that you should be forced to practice it at school.

“It looks fine.” I push the paper back across the desk.

Ms. Hernandez studies me. “You’re sure you don’t want to change your mind about the walking practice?”

“I’m sure.”

As I’m leaving, Ms. Hernandez follows me to the door. “Do me a favor, Emmie?”

“Okay?”

“Try and keep the speed under control. Dr. Grayling expressed some safety concerns.”

“Never said anything to me,” I say, but I remember how he’s been hovering at the gym door sometimes. How he insists on playing doorman for me in the morning.

Ms. Hernandez sighs. “He worries about liability. A lot.”

I tell her okay and head back to study hall, but I know it’s no big deal. Everyone at school knows I move fast. Same as lots of other kids.

Seventh hour is art again. Tina and Devontae have the same class, so we go up the ramp together. Since we’re a little late and Tina always asks if I want help instead of assuming, I let her push my chair up.

Ms. Jackson raises her eyebrows when we pile in a few seconds after the bell, but the Emmie-Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card does the trick, and she just waves at Devontae to close the door. Teachers mostly assume anyone who comes in late with me was helping me with something, which can be a handy alibi.

I’m itching for the day to be over. Devontae and me are meeting in the library after school to brainstorm history project ideas, which makes me feel sort of fizzy and weird at the same time.

When the bell finally rings, I remember I have to ask Ms. Jackson something. So I squeeze through the stampede and the cramped, portable classroom to her desk, get my answer, and head for the door. Tina’s waiting at the bottom of the ramp, and Devontae’s perched on the railing, drumming those outrageous cowboy boots of his against the bottom rail and saying something to Logan, who’s standing beside the ramp. Kids are going to stampede up the ramp soon for after-school art club, so I need to hurry.