“Okay, enough,” I tell her. “One more beekeeping video and I’m in Nightmare City.”

“How else am I supposed to learn different types of swarming behavior?” Ale protests, but, as usual, she eventually gives up the keyboard. I click right off the creepy bee-swarm close-up and open the newest Wheelz video instead.

He starts out freestyling at a regular skate park, flipping his chair and balancing on two hands, then one hand at the top rim of the half-pipe before plunging down the concrete ramp. It’s all set to bass-heavy music that gets right into my bones.

The video cuts to a packed stadium with a massive jump in the middle. Wheelz pulls on his helmet and flings his chair down the drop like an avalanche. He catches air, does a front flip … and lands wheels-down. The crowd loses its mind.

I get chills.

“Wow,” Ale breathes, then frowns at my chair. “Yeah, we definitely need to get you those new wheels.”

“Almost thirty percent there,” I remind her.

I’ve been following WCMX athletes since before I popped my first wheelie. The way they hurtle down jumps and spiral through the air is indescribable. They can wipe out ten times, then nail the eleventh.

And those chairs—rugged, sleek, practically indestructible—are a dream.

My dream.

With wheels like that and about a million hours of practice, I’ll be unstoppable.

I could watch forever, but the turkey’s popping in the pan. I remind myself to study his landing again later and finish dinner. Ale’s mom calls, so she heads home, and I go back out to the shop to fire up the air compressor and blow the grass and dirt from my wheels. Then I come inside to put the dinner stuff away.

As I shut the fridge back in the kitchen, my shoulder stings where I landed on it earlier. I decide to leave AK_SalmonGranny’s cusswords for now and fix my rim instead.

I grab my tools from my room but quickly realize it’s worse than I thought. Besides the loose handrim, one armrest is bent and won’t latch tight. Nothing Dad can’t fix, but he’ll have to use the vise in the garage to straighten it.

When Dad gets home, I can tell he’s beat by the way his footsteps drag up the ramp.

“Sorry I’m so late, Emms.” He pulls off his work boots and goes to the sink to scrub up.

“No worries. We got a lot done on our costumes. How was studying?”

Dad groans. “Okay,” he says. “Then I stopped at your grandparents’ to change their oil.”

I know how that went. Pop-Pop is the best, but Nonny never met a family member she couldn’t disapprove of.

Dad frowns. “What happened to your arm?”

I yank my sleeve over the telltale scrapes. “Nothing.”

“Pretty scuffed-up nothing.” Dad pushes my sleeve back and sighs when he sees my arm. “Let me guess. You were on the ramp.”

“Maybeeeee.”

“Emmie!” Dad plops into his recliner. “What did we talk about?”