I forced a smile, told her thanks, and took it.

After she left, I stared at the money in my hand. Logically, I know Nonny did it to be nice, but it felt like I’d just locked myself up and tossed away the key. Like I was going to this thing for real.

One more thing out of my control.

If that wasn’t enough, another news person turned up Monday morning—this one from a TV station almost an hour away—wanting to get some footage of me—or, more to the point, of me and my wheels. She posed me in front of the school beside the Swamp Fox statue. Then she clipped a microphone onto my shirt and asked me, “How does it feel to be such an inspiration?” and “What would you like to say to everyone who donated the money to get you a new chair?”

She listened politely enough as I told her how I’d raised half the money myself before anyone else even knew about it. Dr. Grayling made sure she got a shot of him holding the front door for me on the way back inside and a bunch of Dawn handing me things or walking beside me in the hallway. I remembered what Tina’s mom said about him being all about helping the needy … and felt the sudden, irrational urge to accidentally let the door slam on his hand.

Then, right before the reporter packed up her things, she asked Dawn if I had “any hope of ever being able to walk one day?”

To Dawn’s credit, she just nodded toward me. “She’s right there, you know.” Then we both watched the lady fumble and blush, which was kind of nice.

It was all so painful it bordered on hilarious, and I started to head off to find Ale as soon as I escaped so we could laugh-rant about it. Then I remembered we weren’t talking, and that warm, wanting-to-laugh feeling shriveled up into something cold and sad.

So yeah. Everything’s basically in the toilet. The stinking, non-accessible toilet.

In six days, I’m getting on a stage in front of the whole school—probably the whole town—so they can hand me a check that’s honestly as much about them as me. I wanted that chair—more than anything.

Now I’m realizing I didn’t want it like this.

But the money is raised. The ceremony is planned. Too late to do anything but show up and look grateful for the people and the cameras. And inspirational.

I’d bet anything someone’s going to tell me they’ll have their church pray for me.

Then, after I flail through all that mess, I’m finally going to have that chair I came so close to earning all by myself. The chair that was supposed to change everything.

But deep in the whipped-up whirl of my thoughts, a nasty little suspicion is bubbling. A creeping, crawling feeling that it’s not going to make one damn bit of difference at school.

Electric Grape. Poison Apple. Arctic Blast.