Air

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To Raven, my gunpowder girl … and to every other kid determined to do things their way

1

Catching Air, Eating Sand

Ale heaves the ramp over the sandy, stubbly grass field that lies between her place and ours. “Your dad’s gonna kill us, Em,” she says cheerfully.

“Only if he catches us.” I tighten my battered helmet, check my knee and elbow pads, and glance at the ramp. “Little closer, okay?”

Ale groans. Her shiny, dark braid swings over her shoulder as she shoves the ramp until it’s right up against the bottom of the six-foot-high quarter-pipe. It’s a kicker—a small, movable ramp that bikers and boarders use to launch themselves into the air.

Which is the plan.

Ale flips her braid back and shakes her sore arms. “That good?”

“Perfect.” I nailed riding down the quarter-pipe months ago, but the field’s too bumpy for me to get enough speed to hit the kicker from the ground. So I decided to try combining the two. Problem solved. I hope. “Boost, please!”

“Em, you sure about this?” Ale’s hesitation is so brief it’s almost invisible. When I give her a look, she laughs. “Okay, okay. But promise you won’t make me have to explain to your dad how you got stuck headfirst in a round bale.”

“Deal,” I tell her, and Ale helps get me and my ride to the top of the quarter-pipe. For all his worry now, Dad used to be on this thing every weekend, too. Built it himself—one part tree stand, two parts salvaged plywood, three parts other random junk. Skateboards, motocross, he did it all—it’s no secret where I got my love of speed.

We used to be out here together, instead of me having to sneak around.

I pull on my padded gloves, bring my front wheels to the edge, and breathe. The view from the top of a drop—even a basic one like this—gets me going every time. Those tadpoles swimming in my chest and the sweat on my palms are the best kind of rush. Now that added jump waiting at the bottom makes my guts fizz like I ate a handful of live bees and chased them with a bottle of Coke.

Right. Let’s do this.

Helmet—double-check.

Mouth guard—check.

Visor—down.

Pads—tight.

I restrap my gloves and grip my wheel rims. Breathe. Dad won’t be home from class for at least an hour. A good daughter wouldn’t want her father to worry.

All Dad’s ramps and jumps and angled steel grind rails made from old I beams have just been sitting out here getting dusty since he gave it all up. Someone has to use them.

Three, two, one … drop!

Whoosh. Wheels. Adrenaline.

One glorious, wind-rushing moment.

I lean. Find that perfect balance point. Hit the landing.

Then my wheels skid sideways, spinning me out. Ow.

Ale runs over. “You did it!” she yells. “Sort of. What’s my name?”

I push up, spitting out a mouthful of the sand that padded my wipeout, and squint at the hand she’s waving in my face. “Um … Ale? Rhymes with sail?” This is how people who don’t know her usually say her nickname. It’s actually pronounced Ah-lay.

“Ha-ha,” she says.

“Just kidding.” I tell Ale to grab a wheel, and we get me rocked upright.

She grins. “That was so cool.”

It totally was, even though I dumped at the end. Now that Dad’s so busy fixing cars all day, and running to night class three times a week, and taking in extra work here at his home shop … what he doesn’t know won’t even worry him.

I will stick that landing.

Then I feel my left handrim wobble. “Crap.”

Correction—I’ll stick that landing if my raggedy wheelchair doesn’t fall apart on me first. I spin the wheel a few times, testing the handrim—yep. Definitely a loose screw and some bent metal.

“You want to try and fix it?” Ale asks. I keep my repair kit right in my top desk drawer, and basic patch jobs are easy enough. I’m tempted. After hitting that air once, I’m totally hungry for more. But Dad won’t be that late.

“Let’s call it for today,” I decide. “Got a few orders backed up, anyway.”

Sidewalks aren’t exactly a thing out where we live, but my yard has more square feet of pavement than anywhere this side of the Dollar General parking lot. Ale’s family owns a paving company, and my dad swapped them two years of free truck maintenance to pour glassy smooth walkways from our house to his shop and a bunch of places in between. One even cuts through the scrubby patch of woods to Ale’s place.

We hurry up the long ramp to my porch and hurtle inside so fast the Spanish moss wreath Nonny made almost falls off the front door. If my grandmother saw me now, she’d make a sour-lemon face and predict I’ll crash across the living room and through the opposite wall one day. It’s a double-wide, Nonny, I giggle under my breath, imagining her right here, not a cardboard box. Nonny would drop her dentures if she’d seen my little sand-eating stunt back there. Especially if she saw how we got me and my chair up that quarter-pipe in the first place. There’s a metal work platform—a set of two portable steps with a railing—that Dad attached to the backside of the quarter-pipe back when we used to ride this ramp together. I can get up it myself, though it goes a lot faster with Ale there to pass up my chair instead of just hauling it up with the cobbled-together pulley system I usually use when I’m doing it solo.

I’ve got my system down, although Nonny—and a whole lot of other folks—would still insist I have no business doing it. But I’m used to dealing with minor freak-outs whenever I do stuff that’s a little risky. Besides, what other people think I can or can’t do doesn’t matter.

These are the things that matter.

I’m Emelyn Ethrige. I’m twelve and a half years old. Alejandra Che is my best friend.

I like Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

And I love speed.

2

Embroidered Cusswords?

Inside, I clean the road rash on my arm and make sure I’m not banged up anyplace else, and Ale raids the kitchen cabinets for some snacks. I collect Dad’s laptop from the coffee table. Then we head to my room, and I line up a playlist while Ale checks orders in our online shop.

“I’ve got two Spanish moss and one pine cone box,” she announces. Then she clicks over to my shop. “And you’ve got two fatwoods and another bag.”

We may live out in the middle of Carolina scrubland, where the soil looks more like beach sand and everything green turns fried-up brown by early July, but Ale and I are experts at selling what we scavenge or make. Because we are entrepreneurs with goals.

Ale opens my closet to check inventory. We keep our supplies in my room, because Ale’s two little brothers cannot be trusted to keep their mitts to themselves.

“We’ve got moss,” she reports, “and wood bundles, but we need more cones.”

The best part about our business is that most of what we sell is scrounged from right outside. There are ten acres between our places, half covered in scrubby loblolly and longleaf pines that drop endless perfect cones. The Spanish moss grows on most everything that doesn’t move, and tons of people—mostly in cities where trees don’t exist, I guess—buy this stuff.

“If you go grab some,” I tell Ale, “I’ll do the moss and the fatwoods.”

Ale grabs a bucket and runs outside while I get started. The moss orders are simple—wrestle the long, twisty strings into small plastic bags, put them in padded envelopes, add addresses, and record the sale. Next, the fatwood.

Fatwood bundles are basically sticks. But not just any sticks—these are special, pitch-soaked wood that make it super easy to light a fire. You just start with a small chunk of stump, carefully split off thin, six-inch lengths, tie up a bunch of them with a ribbon or pretty fabric—instant rustic gift! Since Ale’s not back when I finish the four packages, I fire up the sewing machine and work on my bag orders.

The custom-made wheelchair bags don’t exactly fit our theme and sort of happened by accident. When I started carrying a lot of books for school, regular backpacks always got too full. When I’d hang them behind my chair, they’d sometimes pull my balance backward or fall off the handgrips. So last spring I designed my own schoolbags—lightweight, rugged, made to stay perfectly on the back or side of a chair.

They turned out super well, and when Ale asked if other people might buy them, I made a few and put them in the shop.

People bought them. It took some trial and error, but now my bags are lightweight and customizable for any type of chair—manual, power, even walkers. Plus, they never fall open and dump your books and papers all over.

I get to work on a tie-dye bag for Angus1 from Seattle, stitching the two lightning bolts he wants sewn on in metallic gold thread. My machine isn’t fancy but does decent embroidery, and it has a start/stop switch instead of a foot pedal, which is key. Sewing is slow and precise—not my biggest strengths. Time sewing bags is time I’m not practicing jumps, but it’s going to get me to my goals.

Speaking of that, I’d better head out to the workshop later and borrow Dad’s air compressor to blow the grass and dirt out of my wheels before he gets home.

Next is a smaller Avengers print bag for a girl in North Dakota. That one will have extra pockets, which will take longer, so I put it off for this weekend. Then I read the new order, from an old lady in Alaska. She wants a standard-size manual chair bag in pink plaid. With lace trim. Her profile seems interesting, though—pictures of her fishing and playing guitar and other cool things like that. Anyone who lives on an Alaskan island must be impressive. I open my order log to add it to the list.

• Angus1: medium handlebar bag, tie-dye, two gold lightning bolts. Status: Ready to ship.
• NotYourPrairiePrincess04: small side bag, Avengers print, blue/red ribbon ties. Status: Finish this weekend.

I start entering AK_SalmonGranny’s order and see something I missed earlier. Not only does she want ugly plaid and lace on her bag, she also wants a … personal message.

Keep staring, sweetie … I might do a trick.

Only it doesn’t say sweetie. It says another s-word. One I’m not allowed to say.

I double-check AK_SalmonGranny’s profile. Little old lady, blue-framed wheelchair, sitting on a wooden dock and holding a huge silver fish by the tail.

Grandmothers must be different in Alaska.

“Sorry I took so long!” Ale bursts in with a loaded bucket in one hand and a bag in the other. “I ran home for these.” She lifts the bag. “How’s it going?”

I point to AK_SalmonGranny’s order details. Ale reads it and bursts out laughing. “You going to do it?”

“It’s a little … aggressive?” I know Dad wouldn’t love the idea of me using cusswords. Even just sewed-on ones.

Ale sets down the bucket, pops a piece of gum into her mouth, and hands me one. “You hate when people stare at your chair, too.”

“Of course.” Who doesn’t?

Dad texts me then, telling me he’s going to be later than he planned.

“I say do it,” Ale declares. “That lady seems cool. My abuela would never order something like that.”

“Can you imagine Nonny doing it?” I say, and we both crack up.

“Besides,” she says, “money is money, right?”

“Money is money,” I agree. “But I’ll have to think about this one.”

“Enough business for now. Here.” Ale thrusts the bag she’s still holding at me. I dump it on the bed, and a silky, gorgeous shimmer of cloth and ribbon slithers out.

“I love you forever.” I pick out some shiny black and red pieces that will be perfect for my pirate fairy costume. There’s a big outdoor fairy festival every year two towns over, and we’ve been going together since our moms used to take us in our strollers. We design our costumes way in advance.

Ale pulls some ribbons from the pile and weaves them into her long braid, then lays a few combinations on the bedspread. “You better! I had to fend off my sisters for these.” Ale’s aunt Rosaria makes custom dresses for weddings and First Communions and quinceañeras. Ale and her sisters and cousins all take turns getting the leftover scraps of expensive fabric and fancy ribbon. Whenever it’s Ale’s turn, she brings the haul over, and we work on costumes for ourselves.

“You still going with the bee fairy?” I ask, looking at her black, gold, and white choices.

“What else?” Ale holds two bits of gold ribbon over her head like antennae. “If business keeps up, I might get my new hive by spring instead of next summer.”

Ale’s all about bees. She’s determined to become a Master Beekeeper (only she calls it Mistress High Beekeeper) before she turns sixteen. It sounds like a lifetime to me, but Ale insists it’s basically impossible to do that quickly. Which means, of course, that she will.

“That’s amazing!” Ale’s been saving her profits for a huge, super-fancy hive that looks like a tiny house—shingled roof, wooden windows, copper accents, the works. It’s like a designer dollhouse built for bees—and crazy expensive. For a bee house, anyway. I can’t judge, though, since my goal will cost even more than the honeybee mansion.

That gets me thinking about what I’m saving for, so I roll to my wall chart and admire the numbers on the little printed thermometer stretching up the wall to my ultimate goal—and the picture taped beside it. As soon as these latest orders go out, I’ll add some more red to the thermometer and be that much closer to my dream.

A high-end, multi-link-suspension stunt chair.

Coil-over shocks. Floating rear axle. Skate wheels.

Built for WCMX. The ultimate ride. Then I’ll finally be able to get serious about skating without worrying about tearing up my regular wheels all the time.

Because when I’m skating, flying free … that’s when I can truly be me.

3

Emmie Surprise

My growling stomach reminds me to start dinner after a while, so Ale brings the laptop to the kitchen and plays videos while I make Emmie Surprise, my second-best recipe. I last until I’ve cooked the pasta and peas. Once the ground turkey’s browning in the pan, I crack.