Dr. Grayling shakes his head. “I’m sure it was embarrassing,” he says. “Under normal circumstances, I couldn’t condone aggression against a fellow student—especially one who acted under good intentions. However, I’m willing to overlook it this once, though I will expect you to apologize to Logan.”

I bite my cheeks, hard. This is where Dad needs to jump in and say something, but he doesn’t. I can almost hear him thinking: Shake it off—don’t tell him off.

Mom would have leaped over the desk and stuck Dr. Grayling’s head in the wastebasket.

Deep down, I know Dad’s not a talker. I can’t stick my principal’s head in the wastebasket, and telling him off won’t help. But offhand charm—which has always served me well—just might.

I take a deep breath. Force a smile. “Are you enjoying working here so far?” I ask.

Dr. Grayling looks surprised. “Well, I suppose so,” he says. “There’s work to be done, of course, issues to be addressed. But everyone’s been nice.”

“Glad to hear it,” I say, encouraged. “Are you for Carolina or Clemson?”

It goes like this for a minute or two—I throw out a steady stream of questions to divert him from my fall, my wheels, or Logan’s bony knees. I ask about things I notice around his office—diplomas from faraway schools; some small woven baskets on his desk; a framed, faded picture of a lady who turns out to be his late wife—and it seems to be working. Dr. Grayling’s slowly getting distracted by my charm offensive. He seems relaxed, more approachable.

Then Ms. Hernandez speaks up.

“To be on the safe side,” she says, shuffling slowly through my file with her perfect fingernails, “we might consider Emmie for re-entry into special education services.”

Wait. No!

“That will help us determine where Emmie might benefit from additional supports,” she continues, like she didn’t just lob a big fat grenade into my perfect seventh-grade year.

Dr. Grayling snaps to attention. “Yes.” He sets down the photo of his wife and swivels his chair away briskly. “Safest course of action for all concerned.”

This is exactly where Mom would have leaped in, armed with printouts about disability rights and perfect responses to everything Dr. Grayling and Ms. Hernandez suggested.

I look desperately at Dad, my only remaining hope. He fidgets in his chair, swiveling side to side like sitting still is killing him. He’s got circles under his eyes, dark and bruise-y, and he’s still wearing a grease-smudged, button-up work shirt with his name embroidered on the chest.

I try not to think about the clean shirt I ironed and left on his bed last night.

“I—” Dad’s gaze bounces from Dr. Grayling in his perfect suit to Ms. Hernandez’s perfect nails tapping my file. At Mr. Singletary, looking uncertain across the table. He clears his throat. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to check things out again. To be on the safe side,” he adds. He doesn’t look at me. Lucky for him, because the laser eye beams I’m shooting would barbecue him into charcoal.