His voice trails off, but suddenly I know exactly what he’s not saying.

He’s in help-the-needy mission mode. He wants me to put on a show.

For the audience, for the cameras. For all those “media push” and “optics” things he’s been going on about. That’s what he wants.

Strangely enough, I actually think he believes he’s doing me a favor here … and I don’t know how to explain that he’s not.

“I think,” Ms. Parsons breaks in, “that what we all should be thinking about here … is what’s best for Emmie. And I say that’s whatever she wants.”

“Exactly.” Ms. Hernandez nods so hard her glasses slide down her nose.

“Agreed.” Mr. Singletary folds his arms.

Dawn looks back and forth between everyone like it’s a Carolina–Clemson playoff.

Dr. Grayling opens his mouth, then shuts it.

I finally find my voice. “I’ll go up the back way, thanks. Unless y’all can get a ramp built by Sunday.”

Okay, I probably didn’t need to throw in that last bit. But having those three around me, looking ready to jump in if I need it, gives me the courage to say it anyway.

Even though they don’t understand exactly why I don’t feel so hot about all that’s about to go down, I feel like they want to understand.

I still can’t quite find the words to explain it, though, and I desperately wish I could.

31

Just Ask

I still don’t know how to fix things with Ale. I’m sort of running low on words, but I hate this awful silence between us, and now I get that I’ve kind of been taking her for granted. I accuse Dad of getting tunnel vision sometimes, and here I’m not much better.

I need a peace offering.

So I set my alarm super early Thursday morning, grab two empty buckets from the garage, and spend an hour collecting pine cones beneath the two biggest trees in our yard. Ale usually collects the cones, since it takes me longer, what with getting my wheels across the bumpy, sandy ground and getting down low enough to grab the fallen ones. I use the reacher-grabber thingy I got from some therapist forever ago that’s been stashed in my closet, which helps. Pinching up the cones without cracking them takes a bit of practice. It’s boring, rhythmic work that doesn’t let me move fast enough to avoid thinking.

Not my favorite headspace, but probably exactly what I need.

I stab at the cones, transfer them into the slowly filling buckets, and take stock of where I am. No closer to much of anything, other than maybe inching toward some kind of peace with Devontae. Still too early to tell, but at least we’re sort of talking again.

At least Shuri still seems to want to talk to me. A little.

When I’ve got both buckets full, I hang them over my handgrips and roll carefully down the path to Ale’s house, planning to leave them beside her porch. Her mom is in their yard, busting dance moves that make her long, dark ponytail whip around as she tosses feed to the hens. She yanks out her earbuds when she sees me.