Ale never quite believes she’s as smart as she is. So, even though it’s super boring, I quiz her for another twenty minutes or so. When she’s finally satisfied she’s made enough progress, we go out to the kitchen to scrounge some snacks.

“What frame did you pick?” Ale studies the printouts I’ve left scattered over the table.

“Still choosing.” I balance a bag of chips and a bowl on my lap and dig in the fridge for some salsa. “Either Electric Grape or Poison Apple.” I point to my favorite color samples—one’s deep, sparkling purple shot with cloudy silver streaks; the other’s a twist of neon green and candy red. Arctic Blast—pearl white swirled with glittery black—is in third place.

“So many cool options.” Ale devours a handful of chips. “It’s like choosing a bike or a dress, isn’t it?”

“Only way cooler.” I show her a couple more printouts with different tire choices and the option to have my name threaded into the back of the seat in any color. I might be getting a little too old for that, though. I don’t bother mentioning the even bigger decisions about cambers and casters and roll bars—even if I did just spend half an hour reading questions about bugs.

“This still feels wild.” Ale shuffles the pictures. “You’re actually going to get this! Like, soon! I guess you won’t need to keep up with the shop anymore,” she adds, looking bummed.

I suddenly remember she’s only halfway to earning her custom beehive house and then feel bad that I sort of forgot.

“Maybe not as much,” I tell her. “But I still want to.” I might hold off on the bags for now. They take time to make—time I could be using to practice tricks. Maybe I could keep collecting and selling the other things, though, to help Ale.

After we finish our snack, we head back to my room and start posting more pine cones and moss packs in the online shop.

“So. Dinner at Rodeo Prince’s place.” Ale gives me her detective look. “Tell.”

“Not much to tell.” I hope my face isn’t as red as the Poison Apple wheelchair frame. “Food was great. Worked on our project. Brushed his horse.”

“That’s it?” Ale’s clearly unconvinced.

“There was pecan pie—even better than Nonny’s.”

Ale rolls her eyes. “Well? You like him or what?”

“I guess, sure. Everyone likes him, right?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I meant, Emmie.” Ale tosses some Spanish moss at me. “That’s totally why I’ve seen you two playing ball in the gym three mornings in a row when I get to school.”

“Half the kids who come early play ball in the gym,” I point out, even though that’s not completely true.

“Not one-on-one.”

I can feel my face flush Poison Apple red. Ale: 1. Emmie: 0.

I’m not being cagey. I don’t know what I think about Devontae. Sure, he’s cute and nice, but everyone knows that. It was fun hanging out and brushing Shuri while we talked about our project. The blushes I have to hide whenever he smiles at me sure haven’t gone anywhere.