“Tina’s right.”

“Then Ale sort of cornered me at the stove in the home ec room and said it was basically my fault you got stuck with an aide.”

Now Logan looks embarrassed, which I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. I don’t disagree—I never would have fallen on that ramp if he hadn’t raced over and gone grabbing at my wheels. But, if I’m honest, it wasn’t only him.

It was the steep, splintery ramp itself. The hot, pitchy sap that leaks out of that cheap wood on every sunny day. The sun flashing off Devontae’s big old belt buckle.

And—I guess I should just admit it—my own constant need for speed that catches me up now and again. It was all of that, wrapped up into one sticky mess. I shrug and slam my locker, then we head down the hall together. When we’re at the front doors, something occurs to me, and I can’t resist.

“So, if Ale and Tina telling you not to help unless I ask was enough to convince you”—I pause; the thought takes shape in my head, clearer and clearer until I finally know how to put it into words—“why wasn’t it enough when I told you?”

I swear, Logan looks as surprised as if I’d bopped him between the eyes. He actually stops walking for a second and blinks.

“I … I guess … I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

It’s a Logan-honest answer, and still frustrating. But at least he’s trying to learn. “Okay,” I say. “Just so we’re clear.”

“We are.”

Logan’s silence after that lasts all of five seconds. “How long you and Devontae going to stay mad?” he asks, like a fight’s something you can set a timer to.

“How am I supposed to know?” I sigh. “It’s not like baking red velvet cake.” I dang sure don’t let on anything foolish about all those bone-deep, irrational doubts that got hold of me about why Devontae was even spending time with me to start with.

Of course, Logan has something to say anyway.

“Well, I think you’re both wasting a whole lot of time.” Classic Logan Whitten. “Any fool can see y’all like each other.”

I don’t tell Logan a blessed thing more about Devontae and me. But that evening, in my room, I spend two hours roughing out a draft of an imaginary letter from Katherine Beattie to her mom, describing what it felt like to catch air for that first-ever backflip. It’s no masterpiece, but it’s a start.

After changing my mind about fifty times, I upload the file and send it to Devontae.

(7:46pm) HalfpipeEmms: Here’s #1—KB. Thought maybe Shuri could look it over?

(7:52pm) HalfpipeEmms: You could tell her I think I’ve figured out what to do for the last one. I think she’ll like it.

(8:34pm) HalfpipeEmms: Maybe she could work on Bill Pickett? Since he was so into horses and all …

(9:22pm) HalfpipeEmms: Do horses ever say things they wish they could take back? Maybe that’s what that “straight from the horse’s mouth” my Pop-Pop’s always saying means.