Dad seems to have forgotten the ramp, so I wait on telling him about the chair repairs for now. He makes popcorn our favorite way—covered in melted butter and spicy Old Bay Seasoning—and we watch a movie. It’s bedtime then, so I head to my room.

When he comes in about fifteen minutes later to shoo me off the tablet and call lights-out, he studies my wall chart. “You’re going wide open on this, Emms. Proud of you.”

I feel a rush of pride. “You’re not the only one who likes nice wheels,” I joke. He laughs and gives me a quick kiss on the head.

“Sleep tight.” He heads for the door. Then he pauses in the doorway, and when he turns back around, his face looks sharper.

“Emmie,” he says. “I want you to stay off that ramp.”

I start to make a joke, deflect like I always do, but Dad frowns.

“I’m not messing around. Consider this an official warning.”

I pretend-salute him and half hide a giggle, waiting for him to crack a smile, too.

Instead, his frown turns into a scowl. “Don’t sass me, kiddo.”

Then he flicks off the light and walks out before I can say anything at all.

What the heck?

I stay awake a long time after that.

Dad never used to forbid things. He was my biggest cheerleader—my partner in high-speed mischief. Since Mom’s been gone, he’s so … different. Cautious. Scared, even. Sometimes it almost feels like he wants me to be scared, too. I don’t understand it.

Beams from the full moon leak through my window and hit my cluttered desk, painting cool light over the jumble of pine cones, fabric scraps, and that letter from school I conveniently forgot to show Dad.

Dad used to call full moons Emmie’s Moon. Come on, Emms! he’d sing, swinging me out of my tiny chair and running outside. Pinch that moon, girl! He’d toss me over his head, and I’d pretend to pinch the moon between my fingertips.

I try to sleep, but my thoughts won’t slow down. Dad used to believe I could do anything. Now it feels like he doesn’t believe I can pinch the moon anymore.

Even worse, sometimes it feels like he’d rather I didn’t even try.

4

Princes and Clowns

“You got everything?” Dad asks again as he idles his pickup in front of the school.

“Yep.” I pretend to hand over my schoolbag. “Unless you want to throw in a bottle, diapers, and a pacifier.” I’m still frustrated about Dad’s “warning” last night, but after sleeping on it, I think he must have been overtired and stressed over being so busy with everything.

“Ha-ha.” He flicks my arm and jumps out to grab my wheels from the flatbed.

I shouldn’t tease him when all that coffee he just slurped on the twenty-minute drive to school hasn’t kicked in. He’s been pulling triple duty lately—I can cut him a break or two.

“Don’t fall asleep driving someone else’s wheels,” I joke as I swing down from the truck into my chair.