and

forth

rocks me

rocks me

rocks me

She

Puts

Me

Out.

Her lips say,

"You're going to be okay."

Her eyes say something else

Blackness

closes in

like a telescope.

Quiet.

Easy.

"Hold on," she says.

To what?

To

pain

heat

panic?

The blackness beckons.

I feel myself letting go

of

pain

heat

panic.

"Hold on. For your parents."

Mom.

Dad.

They need me

to stay.

I open my eyes.

Through the blackness—

stars.

Untouched by

smoke

and

hurt.

I cling

to the stars

as sirens near,

heavy footsteps

fall.

Voices shout.

From a million miles away,

tiny lights

anchor me

to the earth.

Hands on my back.

Lifting me.

No.

No.

No.

Don't take the lights.

Leave me

here.

Where the stars

can hold me

together.

11

Our plan is simple: I will sign up for some small, back-of-the-stage part—like a tree or another glorified stage prop—in the spring play, and Piper will see if her old coach will let her be a water girl or something else wheelchair-appropriate. It’s not going to be glamorous, but by the way Cora disintegrates, you’d think I’d won an Academy Award and Piper was going to the Olympics.

“I just can’t believe it,” she says through tears on Sunday night when I tell her I’ll be a Crossroads Viking for at least a week longer. “It’s like a miracle.”

“Miracles don’t exist.” I pack my math textbook into my bag. “This was all Piper.”

When the final bell rings Friday afternoon, Crossroads High transforms from a normal educational facility to the land of after-schoolers. Before I head to the auditorium for the drama club’s first meeting, I drop Piper off by the locker rooms so she can talk to the athletic coordinator.

I wedge Piper’s wheelchair through the throng of uniform-clad athletes drinking protein shakes and spraying Febreze on football pads that have no chance of ever not smelling like teenage-boy sweat again.

“Break a leg,” Piper shouts over the din. “But not a spine!”

Heading toward the auditorium, a shoeless boy and girl leap arm in arm through the hallway, narrowly skipping over the proof pages of this month’s Crossroads Crier sprawled on the floor. As I get closer to the end of the hall, the sound of tuning instruments wafts from the orchestra room.

Everyone has their group in this extracurricular menagerie.

The auditorium buzzes with voices as I sneak in the side door and into the first available velvet seat. Other kids are sitting, too, but most are scattered across the room—belting out a mash-up of show tunes, sitting on the edge of the stage with their legs dangling, or talking loudly in the aisles.