Same as always, Dad would work himself into a hole for me the best way he knows how, and I love him for it. But, like I screamed at him just before he took a twelve-pound sledge to the old ramp, I’m not a little kid anymore.

I breathe deep, trying to channel as much Mom-style, battle-mode attitude as I can scrape up and grip the bag in my lap. This isn’t about the chair anymore.

“Nah,” I tell him. “Not backing out now. Don’t worry. Gonna be fine.”

“Girl, you must be feeling fine!”

“Your big night, huh?”

“Emelyn! Can I get a quick statement for the record before things get started?”

The voices and faces blur as I struggle through the crowded main hallway until Dad gets ahead of me and basically bulldozes a path. He barely even notices when he almost sends a few folks sailing into the potted tree at the corner, and we make it up the much quieter short hall to the back of the gym. Mr. Singletary’s waiting for us at the backstage door.

“Ale’s inside,” he tells me. I hug Dad and tell him again that no, he doesn’t need to stay. He goes to find Nonny and Pop-Pop before all the seats are gone.

Ale’s waiting at the bottom of the short set of steps. We hug each other, and I immediately feel a little better—about our fight being over and what’s about to go down.

“You finished it!” she says, looking at my remade green dress. “You look magical.”

“Figured a little fairy dust couldn’t hurt.” I’m only half joking. “How many people are out there?” I’m almost afraid to ask.

“Like, a million!” She grabs my arm. “Looks like half the county!”

That pile of worms in my guts squirms harder.

Ale glances at Mr. Singletary and whispers to me, “You ready?”

“Hope so.” Casual as I can, I hand her the bag I’ve had in my lap. “Are you?”

Getting up the steps isn’t bad. Ale and me have done this a million times up the old ramp—this is way easier. I pull myself up using the handrail, and Ale spots me, hauling my chair up behind us. When we’re onstage, I peek between the curtains and wish I hadn’t. The rows of folding chairs are full, the room humming with voices. The gym’s not air-conditioned, and the one big floor fan that’s probably a hundred years old groans beside the stage, whipping at top speed but barely cutting the sticky air.

I have a terrible thought.

“What if they seat people right in front of the stage?” I hiss. They’ve done that when things get crowded before, for plays and award ceremonies—which would ruin everything.

But Ale grins. “Tina got her mom to tell Dr. Grayling it might violate fire codes,” she says. “There’s plenty of space.”

I’m not quite sure if it’s relief or dread I feel at knowing the plan is still on.

Ms. Hernandez comes backstage to tell us it’s time. There are a few technical glitches—a disconnected mike, twenty seconds where the lights all go out—then things get going. We watch from offstage as Dr. Grayling comes on from the opposite side, welcoming the crowd and thanking everyone who came out two weeks ago and donated. As I listen, I realize two things. One, it honestly was nice of everyone to go to all this effort.