“I know, I know—but look! Dinner!” I dish up a bowl of Emmie Surprise and balance it in my lap, swiping a fork from the drawer on the fly. “Here. You’re always more reasonable when you’re not hangry.”

“Emelyn, we talked about this.” Dad tries to glare at me, but he’s fighting a smile, which he hides behind a huge bite of food. “I don’t want you on that ramp. Especially not by yourself.”

“Yeah, but how else can I get good enough for the ramp besides practicing on it?” Calm and sensible—with added charm—usually gets me what I want. Then I pull out the secret weapon.

“Who always says four wheels don’t equal a free ride?”

Dad freezes mid-swallow, and I know I’ve got him.

Ever since the beginning—when the hospital folks broke the news that Baby Emmie’s spinal cord left the factory with a design glitch—Mom and Dad never expected me to do less than other kids and never let anyone get away with acting like I was some miracle for getting out of bed and making it to the fridge each morning. They put me on wheels, had me popping curbs by the time I was six, and let me fly down baby-size ramps soon after.

Plus, Dad loves speed as much as me. He gave up trail racing dirt bikes after Mom died two years ago, but I know how much he still misses it.

“You do yourself any damage I should know about?” he asks, and I know I’m in the clear.

“Just a scuff or two!” I assure him, shuttling plates to the dishwasher. Time to change the subject. “Is your class interesting this semester?”

“It is, actually,” he admits, kicking up his footrest and getting comfy. “If I didn’t have to worry about passing, I think I could even like it.”

“You’ll pass,” I tell him. It’s been harder without Mom here to help him study, but he can do it.

“Hope you’re right,” he says. “Now, about those scrapes…”

“Let me show you my costume first!” Before Dad can answer, I zip down the hall to my bedroom and come back with my half-finished pirate fairy getup.

“Very scoundrelly.” He holds up the dress to admire the raggedy stripes along the hem. “Your mom might have fought you for this one.”

“She’d have let me have a sword, too,” I hint.

“Nice try. Your mom would have kept the sword for herself.”

Mom loved the Fairy Festival. Dad, on the other hand, always had to be dragged along. Mom usually won by threatening to seize control of all music played at home for a month if he tried to weasel out. Dad would cave, grumbling about “artsy-freaky, nerdy-pirate music” the whole time. I don’t think he really minded, though he’d never be anything but a plain old blacksmith or woodcutter (boring old chainsaw chaps and a hatchet in his belt).

Dad has no poetry in his soul, but he always liked that Mom did—even if he pretended not to. Now that it’s only us two, Dad always marks the festival on the calendar and never complains about going. I guess it’s sort of how I always hated to do dishes or clean the bathrooms, but now I do it all the time without being asked.