“Careful, Emelyn,” says a voice behind me. It’s Dr. Grayling, with the reporter right beside him. “She’s quite the daredevil,” he tells the reporter. “Keeps us all on our toes, but we do admire her spunk. She sure has overcome a lot. Right, Emelyn?”

I don’t know how to answer that, so I sort of shrug-nod. Then the reporter snaps a picture of Ale and me each holding our stuffed prizes and asks me a few questions. Including—of course—the same old one I always get: What happened to your legs?

Dr. Grayling looks at me like he wants to say something, but then the art teacher’s voice comes over the loudspeaker, calling everyone to the raffle area. By the time the last prizes have been claimed, it’s clear a lot of money has flowed in. A few minutes later, they finish counting it up, and Ms. Hernandez screams the final amount into the microphone.

It’s definitely enough for the new chair.

Just like that. It’s done. Half of me feels excited beyond belief.

The other half feels weirdly left out.

“Before we wrap up,” Ms. Hernandez says, “I know Emmie is so grateful to everyone here for their generosity. We hope you will all join us back here at E. L. Pinckney two weeks from tomorrow to help us celebrate as we present the money to Emmie right here on that stage!”

She points to the very back of the gym and the low stage the school uses for music performances and plays.

Wait, what?

Ms. Hernandez continues. “Now I want to mention some especially generous donors here and now. Let’s give it up for Walter and Danitra Washington—and family—and their positively blessed gift of two hundred dollars to this most worthy cause!”

Something about being called a cause rubs me wrong. Mom used to call talk like that inspiration overload.

Ms. Hernandez claps her hands, still holding the mike, and gets the crowd cheering. She points to Devontae’s parents, sitting in the bleachers. The spotlight that suddenly shines in their faces catches them off guard, but Mr. Washington gulps the last of his cupcake and gives the crowd a little wave. Mrs. Washington quickly swipes a napkin at a few crumbs on his lips.

“Two hundred?” Ale whispers. “That’s no joke!”

Devontae is with them, a plate of red velvet cake in his lap. He catches my eye and gives me a huge grin that would normally be impossible not to return.

I try to grin back. But suddenly all I can think about is Devontae’s perfect house. His perfect horse. His who even knows how many pairs of fancy boots. About dinner at his house, sitting under that perfect glass ceiling fixture that threw rainbows on the walls and into my eyes, feeling so aware of the holes in my jeans and hoping like heck I wouldn’t break one of their fancy, perfect plates.

I don’t like that feeling at all.

24

No Big Thing

RURAL COMMUNITY RALLIES, RAISES OVER $2,500 TO FUND WHEELCHAIR DREAM