Who am I kidding? Kids get out of my way if I need them to.

Truth is, I stayed up late bingeing on WCMX videos last night and have been sitting in school all day. I need to let off some steam. I need a little speed.

So I fling myself onto that long, rickety ramp, fast as a rock from a slingshot.

My wheels bumpbumpbump over the wooden slats like a heartbeat.

When he sees me flying toward the turn, Devontae shades his eyes with one hand and smiles big. He jumps down from the railing, and the blistering afternoon sun flashes off his rodeo belt buckle into my eyes. Which makes me fumble the turn a little. As I work my handrims to slow my momentum enough to make the 180, my right front wheel hits the railing.

I could have recovered it. But then … that doggone Logan.

He sees what happened and flies over to “help.” Throwing his books aside, he gallops up the ramp like a mule with a burr.

Everything happens in a second.

Logan storms up the ramp and grabs my chair like some action hero.

I cut my wheels hard to dodge him and bang into the left side of the railing.

The bent armrest I haven’t told Dad about finally breaks.

I grab the railing, and my hand hits a puddle of that steamy-hot, nasty pine pitch that always leaks out on hot days.

I wipe out.

No biggie. I fall all the time when I’m practicing jumps. All kids fall.

At the playground. On a sports field. Over their own feet.

But I fell with my wheelchair.

Instant panic. Some kids shout and run for teachers. Some stop to stare.

Doggone Logan still keeps pulling on my chair, hopping like a frog on a griddle and making it impossible for me to get back up. Finally, I haul off and whack him behind the knees. He yelps, lets go.

Devontae appears on the other side of the railing. “Fool, give her some space!” he barks, yanking Logan down the ramp. “You got this, Em?”

This isn’t the time to say how I feel about his belt buckle. “I’m good.” Tina and Zeke reach us and hold off the goggling hordes while I get right-side up and down the ramp, shaking my head at the silliness of it all.

“Anything for attention, huh?” Tina says jokingly as we head across the courtyard.

“You know me,” I banter back. I’m fine—just annoyed I bit the dust in front of everyone while not doing a super-cool trick. If I ever catch Logan alone beside an open locker, he’s toast.

“Happens to the best of us.” Devontae shows us a raw spot on his palm from gripping the reins last time he tried to stay on an ornery bronc—then flips up his sleeve to reveal the big bruise where he landed. “We pay to play, right?”

What a good way to put it. “You ready to hit the library?” I ask, glad to let the dust settle on this one.