Nobody fusses at me to be careful. Nobody rushes over to grab my chair—even when I do a long, scraping ride balanced along the length of the longest low divider. It’s glorious.

Then I race inside, through the one wonderful automatic door in a fifteen-mile radius, past scarecrows and pumpkins and Halloween costumes. I pick out my thread and add some spools of ribbon with spiderwebs and ghosts and a few Halloween fabric remnants. Maybe I’ll add some holiday bags to the shop, since we’re heading into that season.

I get back to the lot with ten minutes to spare before Dad picks me up, so I stow my loot in my chair bag and roll around to the field-facing side of the building where almost nobody parks. I work some more hops and pops over the curb, then get a little fancier. The space from the curb to the first low divider isn’t that wide. I go halfway down the narrow sidewalk that runs along the building, turn, and wheel as hard as I can to gather speed.

I nail it. Just enough air to bridge the gap and clear the divider with only the tiniest impact of my back tires against the concrete. I pop a victory wheelie and hop a few times, my heart pounding and feeling better than I have in a long time.

“That was amazing!”

I know that voice. I let my wheels bang down and whip around. Dawn’s standing there, holding a loaded shopping bag and looking impressed.

I’m torn between feeling a little irritated that she’s been watching me … and proud that someone saw me land that little jump. Especially someone whose whole job is basically keeping me from doing things myself.

Pride wins. “Thanks,” I tell her.

I remember what Nonny said in the cemetery yesterday about Dawn’s momma not doing so good health-wise. I wonder again, with a guilty little stab, if that’s why Dawn’s always watching her phone like a buzzard over roadkill.

There’s an awkward silence. Finally, Dawn asks, “You here by yourself?”

“My dad’ll be right back. I stopped in to grab some supplies.”

“Party supplies?”

“Sewing supplies.” I pull out the roll of spider-printed ribbon and show it to her.

“Ooh.” Dawn runs a fingernail over the sparkles. “I love notions.” She must see from my face that I don’t know what she means, so she explains that notions are sewing things like ribbons and thread. The only notions I knew about were the kind Mom used to call preconceived notions, which is when you make a snap judgment about something or someone before getting the full story. Like how people who first meet me assume I can’t do things for myself, or order my own food.

Or, I guess, how I’ve sort of assumed Dawn isn’t worth getting to know. As much fun as I’ve had giving her the slip this week, I know deep down Mom probably wouldn’t be proud of me for that—especially since we might be skimming a fine line between funny and mean.