Then, before he can get up—or see the way my stupid eyes go watery on me—I beat it out of there so fast I’m halfway down the hall before Dawn even makes it to the door.

26

Back in the Bag

I feel like everything’s pushing down on me, making me itchy, desperate to move. On Thursday afternoon, I have to get back on the ramp. Ale sticks with me, helping boost me to the top and then back up again when I wipe out at the bottom. I’m too keyed up to focus, and I don’t stick a single landing, but it feels so good to fly through the air and crash to the ground that I don’t care. I keep readjusting my knee and elbow pads and wiping sand out of my eyes.

We do it at least two dozen times, until Ale’s out of breath and I’m so sore and aching even I know I should probably give it a rest.

But I can’t seem to stop.

So many things are spinning through my head. Mixing it up with Devontae when I’m not even exactly sure why I’m mad. This looming ceremony—just over a week away now—that I dread more each day. That email in Dad’s inbox, saying he’s got ’til the end of the week to get back into class or get kicked out.

The only way I can make all those voices shut up is with a whole lot of speed. And crash landings. I’ll definitely have to do an extra-careful check of my legs tonight to make sure I haven’t given myself any serious scrapes, but I’ll worry about that later.

“Emmie,” Ale says after my eighty-millionth wipeout, “let’s call it. We’ve both got homework.” She looks at the sky, and I’m surprised to see it’s nearly dark. “Plus, my certification test is in two days. I still need to go over—”

“Just a couple more.” I pick grass out of a fresh scrape on my arm and tighten a knee pad. “Besides, you know you know all this boring stuff anyway.”

Ale looks betrayed, and I realize I just called her biggest passion boring.

“Sure,” she says tightly. “My interests mean nothing, but yours are important.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sometimes I feel like what you like matters more than what I do. Or we do what you like more.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say, trying to ignore a little voice in my head that says maybe I have been a bit obsessive lately. Then I realize that Ale’s legit mad.

“Emmie, make up your mind for once! What do you even want? Do you want this new chair, or don’t you? Do you want to do things we both like, or only what matters to you?”

I didn’t know she felt that way.

“I know it’s not your fault.” Ale’s face looks caught halfway between unhappy and guilty.

“What’s not my fault?”

“It’s just … how many more hours have we spent out here, me helping you up this ramp? Compared to how often you come help with my bees?”