“Emmie,” Dawn asks suddenly, “did I do something that upset you?”

Her directness catches me off guard. “What do you mean?” I hedge.

“You haven’t exactly tried to hide it,” she points out.

My face gets hot as I realize maybe Dawn hasn’t been quite as clueless as we figured. She looks more interested than angry, though.

“Why haven’t you told on me?” I ask, actually curious now.

Dawn shrugs. “I’m a big girl,” she says. “Also, to be honest—I need this job. Having to play a bit of chase isn’t going to change that.”

“Because of your mom?” I ask without thinking.

Dawn looks surprised, but nods. “Yeah. Hate leaving her home alone all day, but medical bills have piled up lately. That’s why I was so grateful when this job came up.”

Now I feel flat-out guilty about the stunts we’ve pulled. Especially since Dawn seems to be talking to me for real right now.

I decide to try being nice, too. “Do you sew, too?” I ask, since she was so interested in the ribbons and fabric I bought. Also, a little bit, to change the subject.

She doesn’t, but she uses ribbons and buttons and fancy paper in the scrapbooks she makes, which I didn’t know was even a thing. Then she asks more about the stunts I was doing with my chair.

“I didn’t know you could do things like that with a wheelchair,” she says.

“Got your phone?” I ask, and when she hands it to me, I show her a couple WCMX videos. When they’re done, she looks at me almost like she’s seeing me for the first time.

“Is it dangerous?” she asks.

“Not if you know what you’re doing.” I shrug. “Like any sport.”

Dawn’s quiet a second. Then she asks if I’m using the sewing supplies I bought for more chair bags, and before I even realize what I’m doing, I tell her about how I’m saving for a new chair, one that’s better equipped for jumps and tricks. When I show her the online specs—and the price tag—her eyes widen.

“That’s such a lot of money,” she says. “How long will it take you?”

I start to tell her that my shop’s doing well and that I’ve already saved up nearly half of what I need, but then Dad’s truck pulls into the lot. So I tell her goodbye and head over to meet him, holding my bag of sewing notions and wondering if maybe my preconceived ones were a tiny bit wrong.

18

Shuri Says …

Devontae’s house sure is nice. It’s one of the new brick places that went up along County Route 6 a few years back. His is neat and square and surrounded by small paddocks that line the long driveway. Four young pecan trees dot the yard in front of the house.

Devontae directs my dad around to a sliding-glass door that doesn’t have any steps. Dad tells me to study hard, waves at Devontae, and leaves.