Ms. Parsons shakes her head and pulls a sheet of paper from her desk.

“Not so fast, Emmie. We need to do an incident report on this one.”

My wheels crash back to the floor. “Oh, come on! You’re joking, right?”

“Girl, do I look like a joker to you?”

7

Meetings of the Mindless

“Want to work on our costumes?” Ale asks as her auntie pulls into my driveway.

“Maybe tomorrow.” I need to get onto the ramp and blow off some serious steam. Wish I had a picture of Logan Whitten—and Fish—to put at the bottom so I could drive over them a few dozen times.

“Text me later? Or if you need help with…”

We hang out after school pretty much every day, but I don’t feel like being around anyone right now—even my best friend. “I’m good, thanks. Just need some alone time.” Maybe she can catch up on her hives instead. You wouldn’t think bees would be high-maintenance pets, but Ale’s always got something in them that needs checking. Or fixing or changing—I don’t exactly keep track of what.

I thank Aunt Rosaria for the ride, go inside, and keep fuming as I change clothes and get a snack. I don’t know what time Dad’s getting home, but I don’t even care about getting caught. First things first. I bury Ms. Parsons’s athletic tape underneath about ten pounds of duct tape until my armrest doesn’t dare wobble.

Then I strap on my pads, adjust my helmet, and spend the next forty-five minutes angrily reminding myself that falling is No. Big. Deal.

It’s still light when Dad pulls in. He bypasses the garage and drives straight into the field before I can pretend I haven’t been on the ramp.

I keep hauling myself and my wheels to the top for another go. Might as well get in trouble again and make it an end-to-end crappy day. I imagine what Dad might yell and how I’ll answer. Might even feel good to yell back.

But Dad isn’t yelling. He climbs out of the truck, elbows the door shut, and leans against the fender. From the top of the ramp, I look over to see if he’s going to try and stop me. For a second, he looks like he’s about to, but then the mad look sort of melts off his face. He sighs, gives me a little nod and a wave, like, Go on, then.

I shove myself down the ramp. This time I actually get it, sort of. I tip sideways, but only after I’ve landed. And slowly enough that I can catch myself with one arm.

Dad walks over and sticks out a hand.

I grab on, and he tugs me and the chair upright.

“Not bad.”

That’s Dad. King of the understatement.

“Am I in trouble?”

“Probably should be.” Dad pulls some grass from my wheels and chews on his lip. “Don’t make a habit of it, but I heard you didn’t have the best day.”