“See,” I tell Dad after I finally ace a few drop-ins without any help at all. “I can totally do this at home.”

Dad’s smile fades. “The ramp’s not safe, Emmie.” He bends down and adjusts his knee pad, so I can’t see his face. “And we both know your regular chair isn’t designed for this kind of thing. I haven’t changed my mind. Here at the park, me with you, is one thing. Hauling yourself solo up a heap of cobbled-together metal is another.”

Yeah, but how often do we ever get the chance to come to Columbia? How am I ever supposed to get better if I only get to practice a few times a year?

When I start to argue, Dad changes the subject. “How about that new chair of yours? You still leaning toward those Q-Grip handrims?”

That’s a way more fun debate, so we take a break and discuss exactly which specs should go on the chair until we’ve got it basically locked down. I fill out the order form, which I brought with us, and Dad double-checks it.

“Can you send it over to Brent’s office from work on Monday?” I ask when we’re done.

Dad looks confused for a second.

“So that he can make sure we’re not missing anything?” I persist. Brent’s my regular wheelchair guy, who I see every year or so for my everyday chair fittings and any rare repairs Dad can’t handle. This new chair is coming from a custom place out of Texas, not through insurance, so we didn’t make an appointment with him about it. I think he should still look it over, and I’m surprised Dad didn’t think of it, too. Even if Mom was always the one who made my appointments.

“Oh,” he says when I tell him. “Right. Of course. Good idea.”

All in all, it’s a perfect day, and by the time we head home, we’re both pleasantly tired and more than ready for drive-through sundaes on our way out of town.

Halfway home, I toss out the question that’s been nibbling at me all week. “Do you think it’s weird that the school is buying this chair for me?”

He’s quiet for a long minute, eyes on the road, sucking a bit of hot fudge from his plastic spoon. He doesn’t say what we’re both thinking—that Mom probably wouldn’t have been a huge fan of the idea. Like, at all.

Finally, he says, “Only you know how you feel on that, Emms.”

And it’s nice, I guess, that he trusts me to make the call on this. Part of me, though, still wishes he’d tell me what he really thinks.

I shouldn’t have to figure all this out by myself.

23

Quite the Daredevil

The next Saturday is the fundraiser. Dad drops me and Ale off early, promising to come back in a few hours after he finishes the job he’s got on a tight deadline.

The gym is decorated for fall, like they do for the carnival every year—but this time there’s also a long table along the far wall, covered with things people donated to be raffled. Ms. Hernandez and Ale’s aunt Rosaria are setting up a ticket station on a card table. Someone’s taken the picture of my dream chair I gave the office on Monday and blown it up poster size. Now it hangs on the wall over the raffle table in full color, so big that the red and green swirls of the Poison Apple frame really pop.