Then three teachers run out of the building, looking panicked.

Crap.

At least Ms. Parsons doesn’t flip out like everyone else.

She’s been the school nurse since the dawn of time and happens to be here today. Country schools like ours don’t get a nurse every day, so it’s best to get hurt on Tuesdays or Fridays. I’m not hurt, but I still ended up here.

“What nonsense were you pulling?” She sloshes some alcohol on my arm and scrubs it with gauze.

“Ouch!” I yelp. “That’s way worse than falling.”

Ms. Parsons slaps a big bandage over my wound and hands me a wet washcloth for the pine pitch on my hands. “Uh-huh. You want to tell me about whatever stunt made you kiss that ramp?”

She’s not truly mad. My dad has kept her old, silver Park Avenue running since I was barely big enough to reach the hood. The second time he replaced her water pump, I got to help. The fourth time, I had my own set of sockets and could do almost the entire job myself.

“That ramp is a disgrace,” I inform her.

Ms. Parsons shakes her head so hard her big hair bun wobbles. “Why they put some of your classes out in those raggedy portables, I’ll never know.” She sighs. “Your momma would have raised Cain ten ways to Sunday.”

Yeah, Mom would have had kittens about those ramps. I can totally imagine how that meeting would have gone.

Now, Mrs. Ethrige, you know we want the best for Emelyn at our school.

Excellent. Then tell me why we’ve had to struggle to get that child’s chair through the damn front door of this precious school for the past five years.

Well, now, that’s a tricky one, I’ll admit. But you know older buildings don’t technically have to comply with the ADA, and inspectors haven’t dinged us on it yet. Automatic doors don’t come cheap. But I’d say we’ve done a rather fine job with those ramps.

Fine? The pitch is too steep, the rails are full of splinters, and don’t even get me started about those floorboards.

I miss Mom.

“It’s okay,” I tell Ms. Parsons. “The ramp sucks. It was a regular old fall, no biggie.”

To prove my point, I pop a wheelie and hold it while we talk. It’s an impressive-looking trick, but not hard once you find your balance point. There’s no way the athletic tape Ms. Parsons used to patch my busted armrest will hold up long-term, though. I’ll have to tell Dad tonight.

“Maybe so,” she agrees, putting up the gauze and alcohol. “But your stealth stinks. I know you like flash—but if you’re ramming around like a sprayed cockroach, at least don’t get caught.”

I love her for saying that.

Speaking of flash, she should talk to Devontae about that belt buckle of his.

“Got it.” I give her a smart salute while keeping my front wheels in midair. “Stealth and secrecy. I probably should get going. Thanks!”