We know this drill. When all’s said and done, it’s a legal guardian’s decision about whether to put a kid on specialized services—which is what I know this meeting is about.

We’ll go to the meeting, do the dance. Then Dad will politely turn down services and sign the forms to get everyone off my back for another year. We went over it again last night, and I reminded Dad of how assertive Mom sometimes had to be not to get steamrolled by good intentions.

After school, I have half an hour to kill before the meeting, so I meet Devontae in the library to get started on ideas for our project. We spend more time geeking out about stunts—rodeo for him, wheels for me—than brainstorming, but there’ll be plenty of time for that. We leave the library at 3:50, each promising to gather more ideas over the weekend.

At 3:55 p.m., I’m waiting for Dad outside the front office. Demarion Taylor comes down the hall just as his mom pulls to the curb to pick him up. She stops to let down the ramp to their van, so I wrestle open one of the heavy glass doors while Demarion steers his power chair—which is bigger and heavier than mine—through.

“Thanks, Emmie,” he says with a friendly nod.

I nod back. “Anytime.” I don’t know Demarion super well—he’s a couple years ahead of me and way more into art than sports—but we’ve always had that small spark of solidarity that comes with having to battle the architecture around here now and again.

At 4:00 p.m., I’m fidgeting with my handrims and fighting the urge to spin a few circles.

Dad rushes in at 4:05.

“You’re late,” I tell him.

“I know.” Dad sounds distracted. “I’m sorry. We ended up three technicians short today—two sick and one family emergency.”

This is a family emergency, I want to tell him. But I hold back, and we go into Dr. Grayling’s big office. He and Ms. Hernandez are already there, and Mr. Singletary. He waves as Dad moves a chair to make space for me at the round table by the windows.

Dr. Grayling leans back and props his fingers under his chin. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Ethrige,” he says. “I feel confident we can all find a good solution to this matter.”

“There’s no matter,” I point out. “I’m fine, the ramp’s fine. My dad already fixed my chair.”

Ms. Hernandez taps one of her heels against the floor. “Nurse Parsons did say Emmie wasn’t hurt—”

Dr. Grayling frowns. “That’s certainly fortunate. What about Logan Whitten? He says Emelyn hit him in the knees, when he was trying to help the child up after her fall.”

My temper sparks. “He wasn’t helping!” I’m not a child, either.

“He tells me he was helping you back into your wheelchair.”

“He’s half the reason I fell! And I can get into my chair myself.” I look at Dad for help, but he’s studying the framed diplomas over Dr. Grayling’s desk.