“I think … maybe it’s about time to start choosing those specs.”

I’m so excited by this surprise news that it isn’t until morning that it occurs to me to wonder why the school decided to raise money for my chair—or how they even knew about the chair at all. I spend some time chasing down the details, and by the end of the day, I think I’ve got it straight. As far as I can piece together, here’s what happened.

After Dawn saw me doing tricks off the curbs and over the parking barriers in the Dollar General lot, she happened to mention it in the employee break room at school, where Mr. Singletary heard her and chimed in that I’ve been doing tricks with him during open gym. Ms. Hernandez was there, too, and very interested to know what I’ve been up to outside school.

She must have talked to Dr. Grayling. Because somehow, somebody had the idea to start a school-wide fundraiser for my new ride.

I’m not sure why Dawn would want to help me get a new chair when I haven’t made her job very easy—even if I have been a little nicer the past few days. Or Dr. Grayling.

Mr. Singletary and Ms. Hernandez make more sense, though, and Ms. Parsons is probably all for it. Come to think of it, maybe she even told them about my broken armrest being partly to blame for my tumble on the ramp—even though it’s fixed now.

It’s all still a tiny bit weird. But I’m so excited that I don’t give it much more than a passing thought.

Guess it’s so long, tortoise … hello, jackrabbit.

20

A Lucky Thing

For a few days after that letter arrives, I’m too excited to focus on much of anything else. I manage to stay halfway on top of my homework and keep things picked up around the house enough to prevent total chaos. I let the online shop go almost completely, other than wrapping up a few pending orders and mailing them off. I don’t post anything new for sale.

I guess I don’t need to anymore.

I can’t disappear into Stunt Chair Dreamland forever, though. So, after giving myself a few days to geek out over components and colors and about a million little added extras, I agree to help Ale study for her first-level beekeeping exam, which is next week. Just the information on the written test, thank goodness. No risking life and limb like last time.

“Nurse, house, guard…” Ale drums her heels against the wall and looks at me upside down. She’s draped over my bed and ticking off different types of worker bees on her fingers. “Scout and … forager!” she finishes triumphantly.

I double-check the brick-size book she’s studying from. “You got it. I don’t think you need to worry about this.”

“You can never be too prepared,” Ale insists. “Everyone else taking this test is, like, older than thirty. I have to prove myself.”