Chapter 1

The problem with a dramatic exit is that it really requires a paved surface.

I was currently providing a masterclass in how *not* to storm off. I had made it exactly thirty feet from the concession stand, past the away-team bleachers, and around the corner to the shadowy equipment shed before my front caster wheel decided to eat a piece of gravel the size of a golf ball.

My chair jerked to a violent halt. I slammed forward, catching myself on the frame before I face-planted into the dirt.

"Stupid," I hissed, yanking back on the handrims. The wheel just skidded. "Stupid rocks. Stupid dance. Stupid Tyler."

I looked down at my wrist. The white rose corsage—which I had bought for myself because optimism is a disease—was taunting me. I ripped it off the elastic band. The petals scattered into the dirt, bright white against the oil-stained ground.

"Is the chair winning, or the gravel?"

I jumped, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I looked up. Perched on a stack of old tractor tires in the deepest shadow of the shed was Wes. He was wearing his signature combat boots and a hoodie that had seen better days. He looked like he’d been there for an hour, just watching the Homecoming game through the chain-link fence. Or watching me flail.

"Go away, Wes," I snapped, wiping a smudge of grease off my rim. "I’m having a moment."

"I see that," he said. He didn't move. He didn't do the thing people usually do—the pity-tilt of the head, the high-pitched 'do you need help?' voice. He just took a drag of a vape pen and exhaled a cloud of strawberry-scented steam. "You really murdered that flower."

" It deserved it." I gave the wheel another angry tug. It didn't budge. The rock was wedged deep in the fork.

Wes slid off the tires. He didn't ask for permission. He walked over, the gravel crunching under his heavy boots, and knelt in front of me.

"Tip it back," he said.

I hesitated. "I can do it."

"I know you can," Wes said, pulling a multi-tool from his pocket. He flipped out a pair of pliers. "But I have pliers, and you have a rock that wants to live there forever. Tip it back, Sam."

I sighed, leaned back, and popped a wheelie, lifting the front casters off the ground.

Wes caught the frame with one hand to steady it. He didn't make it weird. He treated my chair like what it was: a machine that needed maintenance. He dug the pliers into the gap.

"So," he grunted, twisting the tool. "Who’s the flower casualty?"

"Tyler," I muttered. There was no point in lying. Half the junior class had seen it. "I asked if he wanted to go to the after-party. He said he didn't want to look awkward."

"Awkward?" Wes paused, looking up at me.

"Yeah. You know. Because of the..." I gestured vaguely at the wheels. "He didn't want to have to move furniture or whatever."

Wes snorted. He yanked the pliers back. The rock popped out with a satisfying *clack* and rolled away.

"Tyler?" Wes asked, checking the spin of the wheel. "The quarterback?"

"That’s the one."

"Sam, that guy walks like a baby giraffe learning gravity," Wes said deadpan. "I saw him trip over the sideline paint in the first quarter. You dodged a bullet. A clumsy, pleated-khaki bullet."

A laugh bubbled up in my chest before I could stop it. "He is kind of clumsy."

"He’s a disaster," Wes confirmed. "You’re better off."

He gave the wheel one last spin. It whirred silently. Perfect alignment.

"You're good to roll," he said.

He didn't stand up immediately. He stayed kneeling, looking at the ground. He reached out and picked up one of the white rose petals I had decimated in my rage. It was bruised at the edges.

"Solidarity," he murmured.

He tucked the petal into the laces of his combat boot, right between the black leather and the tongue.

My breath hitched. It was such a small thing. A stupid, throwaway gesture. But my chest suddenly felt a little less tight.

"Thanks," I whispered. "For the fix. And the... solidarity."

"Anytime."

From the stadium, the marching band struck up the fight song. The roar of the crowd swelled, signaling the fourth quarter was over. The flood of students would be hitting the exits in about two minutes.

Wes stood up, dusting off the knees of his jeans. He looked at the main path, already clogging with people in spirit wear, and then he looked at the dark service road that wound behind the school.

"I'm making a break for the taco truck down on Fifth," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "It’s paved all the way. No gravel."

He looked at me, one eyebrow raised.

"You rolling?"

I looked at the stadium, where Tyler was probably high-fiving people and looking like a giraffe. Then I looked at Wes, smelling like strawberries and engine grease, waiting for me.

I smiled, grabbing my rims. I spun the chair around to face the dark road.

"Try to keep up, skater boy."

"In your dreams, Hot Wheels," he retorted, falling into step beside me.

We headed off into the dark together, leaving the noise, the lights, and the crushed flowers behind us.