He nods tiredly and pulls my wheels from the bed, and we say goodbye.

Inside, the mostly empty hallways are a welcome sight. Even though it’s been a week since my wipeout, I still feel like there’s a hundred more eyes on me than usual. But not in the good Hey, Emmie, did you catch the game/let’s grab lunch/you going out for drama club on Friday? kind of way. Now it’s more like everybody’s wondering if I’m going to break or randomly topple over.

I head toward my locker and am surprised by Devontae leaning against the wall, one cowboy boot propped up, flipping through a horse magazine. He looks over when he hears me coming.

“Hot Wheels.” He grins over the magazine and nods at the red-and-black armrest bag with silver trim I made last night. “I like the new saddlebags.”

“Thanks. You already getting ready for 4-H?” I nod at his magazine. Devontae always goes in for 4-H, usually horse judging or hippology or something like that. He even got his own horse last year. I dig through my locker and wonder what Devontae is doing hanging out in this hallway when his locker’s way down around the corner.

“I wrote down a few ideas over the weekend,” he says. “Want to trade lists?”

Crap. The project. “Maybe a little later, okay? Still working on mine.”

I don’t mention that I haven’t exactly started yet, but Devontae says sure and falls into step beside me as I head back down the hallway. It’s still early, and Devontae pauses at the gym door. “Want to shoot a few baskets?”

Mr. Singletary lets anyone play ball before the morning bell, so Devontae asking this isn’t any big thing. But I get a tiny bubbly feeling that’s a nice change from the angry-teakettle one I’ve been choking on all weekend.

Then a voice calls, “Emelyn Ethrige?”

Standing outside the front office is a lady with a dyed-blond ponytail. She’s too old to be a student, but she’s dressed in a pink-camo sweatshirt and jeans, so probably not a teacher. She looks lost.

“You know her?” I whisper to Devontae.

He shrugs. “Someone’s mom?”

The lady looks at a paper in her hand and back to me. At my wheelchair. She walks over. “You’re Emelyn, right, sweetie?”

She talks like every word is something to get excited over. A bit loud, like she’s not sure I understand. I hate being called sweetie almost as much as when people grab my chair, so being polite takes effort.

“Emmie, yeah. Do you need directions?” The building is a little confusing.

“Aren’t you sweet!” The lady sticks the paper in her sweatshirt pocket, and I see a little butterfly tattoo on her wrist. “No, sweetie, I don’t need directions. I found you right here!”

“What’s she talking about?” Devontae whispers. I try and remember if I’ve had any local shop orders lately—but even if I had, I’d never have someone meet me at school.

“I’m so excited to be here,” the lady says. I can’t imagine what could be exciting about old E. L. Pinckney at 7:45 a.m., but adults are strange sometimes. “Dr. Grayling even did a special rush hire for me,” she adds. “Said it was urgent.”