“Lord,” she whispers. “There you go, Emelyn. Reminding me of her so much it hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, though I can’t much help it—or want to—if I’m like Mom.

“Don’t be, girl,” Nonny says. “Sometimes feeling the hurt is better than not feeling it.”

After Nonny leaves, I get out my tool kit and give my chair a once-over, checking for loose screws or any other damage from all the ramp time I’ve given it lately.

Step two: Gear up. Check.

Step three: Raise your flag.

Well, I don’t have a flag, but Mom used to say that one was more of a metaphor.

Which means, metaphorically, I guess I’m as ready as I’m going to get.

Sure wish my double-flipping stomach would get the message.

34

Team Emmie

As we arrive at the school on Sunday night, I suddenly wish Mom’s battle flag wasn’t only a metaphor. Because I sure could use one. A battle flag, a pirate flag, an Avengers flag—something. Anything but the all-white, give-up-now flag my brain keeps picturing.

The school parking lot is slap full.

I try to swat that white surrender flag out of my head, but it latches onto the edge of my thoughts and sits there. Daring me to try and ignore it.

Breathe.

“Emms?” Dad gives me a worried look. “You okay over there?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself this isn’t as scary as facing down a half-pipe, especially before I had a foam-filled landing pit.

It’s a lie. I feel like I ate a bunch of live worms.

Overflow parking lines the street on both sides. I see a couple news vans, spitting out people and cameras.

“Emms?” Dad repeats, reaching for my elbow. I get it together and pull it out of range.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Can’t blame him for the Who’re you kidding? look. But I’m sticking to my story. I’ve come this far.

“Not too late to change your mind.” Dad glances through the windshield at the people clogging the roadsides and whistles low. “Somehow,” he says slowly, “I’m not sure I quite understood how big this thing had got. Did you?”

“Not exactly. Maybe.” Dad’s not big on the news, and I never told him about the article hung up at school last week, so I’m not shocked he’s surprised.

The plan I’ve been carefully laying out with my friends since yesterday seems a lot more foolish now I actually see how many eyes are going to be on me. I try not to panic as Dad inches through the lot and wonder if I’m about to make the worst mistake of my life.

We reach the school, and Dad cuts the engine and turns in his seat. “Emelyn,” he says, slow and serious, “you don’t have to do this. Nobody can make you do this. Say the word, we’ll drive right out of here. Stop for sundaes, then hit the half-pipe together. I can work some overtime to help you get that chair a little faster.”