Meetings of the minds, Dad used to call them.

Meetings of the mindless, Mom used to call them.

“Don’t worry, Emmie,” Dad says, like he can read my thoughts. “I know your mom was always more of the avenger, but we’ll handle it.”

When we’ve fixed the differential and tidied the shop, I feel a little better. Also, the way Dad didn’t even try and stop me from going down the ramp when he came home today makes me think—deep down—he hasn’t forgotten what I can do.

Later on, I snag the laptop and show Dad some new extras I’ve been drooling over for my chair, and we admire heavy-duty suspensions and vinyl-coated handrims over dinner. Then Dad sits at the kitchen table to study, and I go to my room to fill some new orders. I make three pretty standard chair bags—one insect-printed for EntymoGeek78, one orange-trimmed camo for WisconnyBckHntr, and one triangle-shaped armrest bag made of fake fur for LARPerGirl06.

When I’ve stacked the packaged orders by the door for Dad to mail tomorrow, I go back to my room and stare for a long time at AK_SalmonGranny’s order for the pink plaid, embroidered cussword bag.

I think about Logan refusing to let go of my chair.

Ms. Hernandez hinting again that I should be working on walking in gym class.

Dr. Grayling in the gym doorway, watching me pop wheelies and work hops with a face like an annoyed lemon.

I roll to my sewing machine, thread the bobbin with bright pink thread, and embroider every single cussword I know onto a scrap of black cloth. When I’m out of words, my letters have gone from crooked to almost perfect, and I feel a tiny bit better.

Think it’s time to make an ugly plaid bag for a cuss-loving, fish-catching Alaska grandma.

8

A Big Fat Grenade

I wake up twenty minutes before my alarm on meeting day, feeling ready.

We’ve got this. We do.

I load up a playlist of WCMX videos to gear me up and let them play in the background while I hurry around my room getting ready for school. When I’m done braiding my hair and lacing up my favorite red sneakers, the soaring stunts, berserk crowds, and bone-shaking music have me feeling like a gladiator. For extra luck, I thread purple ribbons through my spokes to match the ones in my braid before I head outside to meet Dad at the truck.

“See you at four,” Dad says when we get to school. “I’ll bring my game face.”

“You better,” I joke. He unloads my wheels, and we fist-bump; then he heads to work, and I join Ale and Tina.

“You ready?” Ale asks as we go to our lockers.

“Totally.” I pop a wheelie.

“I hope it goes good, Emmie,” Tina says. I know she’s thinking about her mom’s stories from when she worked with Dr. Grayling before. But I’m not worried.

“Dad and I have done this like a hundred times. We’ll be good.”