I must look as baffled as I feel, because he laughs and clarifies.

“I mean, I know what injustice looks like from inside my own skin—but I don’t know what it looks like from your wheelchair. Or from countless other perspectives. We know what we know, and make mistakes about what we don’t. That’s why we keep talking to each other. Speaking up. Educating, and letting ourselves be educated. Only way we’ll ever get anywhere.”

“Even if I’m just a kid?” Even if I’m just me?

“Especially because of that.” Mr. Milling glances at the bulletin board where he hangs students’ papers and projects that are especially good. Then at the back wall, where he tapes up news stories about kids from different places who’ve gotten involved in their communities or become activists for human rights or the environment in cool ways. “We all need allies … and to be allies … and it’s tough to be a good one. Sometimes you’ve got to all but grab folks and shake them to show them how not to help. Not saying it’s easy—lots of times it’s flat-out infuriating. But it’s important.”

Then Mr. Milling checks his smartwatch and smiles. “On that note, how about I end the lecture you never asked for, let you get on with your day?” He hops off the desk. “I’ll give you and Devontae an extra few days for your project outline, given all you’ve had going on. In the meantime, you think hard about what you want to say come Sunday.”

I promise I will. When I head for the door, he starts to follow me out, then stops.

“So, you’re okay on the ramp?” he asks, and I can see him trusting me to tell the truth.

“Yeah,” I say. Then I pop a wheelie and hold it, one handed, testing to see if he’ll tell me to stop. He raises his eyebrows, looking impressed. “It’s a sorry excuse for a ramp,” I can’t help adding, “but I can do it myself.”

“Okay, then.” Mr. Milling goes to his desk and sits down. “See you tomorrow, Emmie.”

The halls are mostly empty as I collect my things from my locker. As I’m about to slam it shut, Logan comes around the corner.

“Hey, Emmie!” he calls, and hurries over before I can hide behind the door or close it quick and escape. I shove the last of my books into my bag, and one slips from my fingers and thumps to the floor.

“I got it,” I say automatically, throwing up a hand to keep Logan away. Then I realize he hasn’t moved toward me—or the book. He stands there with his hands in his pockets, looking like he wants to dive for it so bad it itches. But he doesn’t.

A little surprised, I lean over and grab my book. Then—grudgingly—I give him a little nod, silently thanking him for staying out of my space.

Logan, being Logan, doesn’t leave it at that. “Yeah,” he says, like we’re talking about the next basketball game. “Tina told me it isn’t cool to try to help you if you haven’t asked.”