It depended on how you looked at it. This student was a lifelong wheelchair user who was physically active and dreamed of one day joining a wheelchair basketball team. Like many other active junior high students, he liked to go fast and take a few chances here and there. He was quite independent and could easily get through most of his school day without extra help. But the ramp he had to use to reach some of his classes was too steep, with warped floorboards and a sticky, splinter-filled railing. The one bathroom large enough to accommodate his wheelchair did not have grab bars or other adaptations that would have made it easier and safer for him to use it without help. The only times he had trouble were when he had to navigate situations where the school building had not been built to properly accommodate a wheelchair, yet for this particular school—located in a disadvantaged area with limited resources—it had felt more feasible to hire an aide than to modify the school’s architecture to enable him to get around fully independently.

In the end, I suggested a compromise—the student and I would work together on strategies for helping him go up and down the ramp a little more safely (he did like speed, after all!), while the school would make repairs to the ramp and add grab bars in the bathroom. The student liked this idea, and he and I made a long-term goal for him to work toward not having an aide at school. This is in no way intended to discount the crucial supports provided by dedicated aides to many, many students who have specific needs while at school. But in this student’s case, I felt that better architecture—not someone helping him all day long—was the best and fairest accommodation for what he both wanted and needed.

Like this student, Emmie is an active, athletic young person who happens to ride on wheels. And, like this student, Emmie confronts struggles that stemmed mostly from a built environment that wasn’t designed or constructed with her needs in mind—and from what people around her wrongly assumed she could or couldn’t do.

Acknowledgments

So many people helped this book take flight. A mountain of thanks to my amazing agent, Jacqui Lipton. You took a most unexpected chance on me, and I’m forever grateful. Sincere gratitude to Wes Adams, Melissa Warten, Brian Luster, Helen Seachrist, and the rest of the FSG team for your enthusiasm, wisdom, and vision. I couldn’t ask for a better editorial home. Thanks to Mallory Grigg and Oriol Vidal for a book design and jacket art beyond my dreams. Thanks to Cindie Gillis and Alex Blaszczuk for thoughtful and insightful authenticity reads.

Thank you to the wonderful faculty, staff, and students/alumnx (especially my Darling Assassins) of Vermont College of Fine Arts. Writing may be a solitary endeavor, but Brigadoon helps ensure it needn’t be a lonely one.

Tirzah Price, you are the kindest, funniest, most fiercely loyal critique partner and friend. Here’s to more books, postcards, and launch-day MSCs. To my dearly irreverent Birches, for margaritas, beach rambles, and (our buddy) Wicker Man. To Kate and Cassie Beasley for writing weekends, surprise snake battles, and helpful critiques. To Mara Wolf, for help with early details, and Tanisha Brown and K. E. Lewis for insightful full-draft feedback. To my Saturday-morning crew (Tanisha, K.E., James Williams, and Tee Moore) for feedback, friendship, and fun.