Definitely the right color choice.

A huge sign stretched under the picture tells everyone to BUY A TICKET OR TEN—HELP US GET EMMIE ROLLING!!

“Like you aren’t already?” Ale whispers in my ear, looking down at my wheels, and we both laugh.

Soon people stream through the doors, and I see a reporter I recognize from the local paper two towns over. That’s not surprising, since it doesn’t take much at all to be newsworthy in a county the size of ours.

Before long, the carnival is in full swing. The games are hopping, delicious junk food smells fill the gym, and raffle tickets start selling fast. I see Dr. Grayling moving through the crowd, shaking hands and looking way friendlier than he ever does at school.

Ale and I meet the rest of our friends, and we all race around between the game booths and food tables for a while. It’s glorious to not have Dawn with me, since it’s not a school day. I do see her across the gym, and she waves at me with her free hand. Her other hand is holding the arm of an older lady who must be her mom.

When we start feeling tired of the games and full of food, we check out the raffle table. People have donated quilts and blankets, gift baskets from local businesses, all sorts of Carolina- and Clemson- and Francis Marion–themed gear. I take a closer look at a handmade blank scrapbook and see Donated by Dawn Wanamaker on the little printed card beside it.

Wow. I was totally wrong when I dismissed Dawn’s scrapbooking hobby as boring. This book—beautiful, intricate, full of tiny, hand-cut decorations and fancy trim—is a little piece of art.

Devontae shows up later, since he had a riding lesson this morning. I first notice him at the little card-table ticket booth with his parents beside him. Devontae whispers something to his dad, who nods and pulls a wallet from his pocket. Then Devontae sees me behind him and quickly tells his parents goodbye.

“What I miss?” He slides smoothly in with the rest of us.

“Don’t you know nothing ever starts until you turn up, Boots?” I joke.

Devontae nudges a black-and-gold snakeskin boot against my footrest—barely brushing the laces of my Converse. “Didn’t want to say it. Shuri says hi, by the way.”

I turn away fast so he won’t catch me grinning like some fool.

The afternoon passes quickly. Dad shows up, then Pop-Pop and Nonny. Just about the whole town, seems like. Everyone’s laughing and eating and having fun and buying tickets.

That reporter keeps taking pictures of me. From across the gym, or a few feet away. He even catches me with my mouth wide open to bite into a hot dog. I tell myself it’s part of the regular, boring county news cycle. He’s probably taking embarrassing, open-mouth pictures of everybody here. Maybe.

Toward the end of the day, Ale and I use the last of our money on the ring toss and win little stuffed animals—a purple bear for her and a polka-dot octopus for me. I pop a wheelie to celebrate.