A Sea of Purple Stars

Marcus lowered the tailgate and set the ramp against the curb. Nia adjusted her purple spoke guards, then gripped the cold hand-rims. She took a breath, her knuckles pale against the metal. The urgent care doctor had told her to take it easy, but she had refused to stay home.

“You don’t have to go in if the hip hurts,” Marcus said.

“It’s just stiff,” she said. Her voice wavered for half a second. “I don’t want people staring at me like I’m broken.”

“Nobody thinks that.”

“They saw the video, Dad. Everyone in Lakeside Meadows saw it.”

She pushed up the concrete slope toward the front doors. Marcus walked a step behind her, keeping his hands near his pockets so she knew he wasn’t hovering.

At the double doors, Nia stopped short.

The yellow brick wall beside the accessible entrance was covered in purple star stickers. Hundreds of them caught the early morning sun, trailing along the brick, dotting the windows, and sticking in rows along the silver handrails. In the center of the doorway stood Mia Collins, holding three rolls of adhesive foil and grinning, her silver braces showing.

“You’re late, Bennett,” Mia said, slapping a fresh star onto the nylon of Nia’s left shoulder.

“What did you do to the school?” Nia asked.

“Fixed it,” Mia said. She pointed up with a marker-stained finger.

Above the main hall hung a wide paper banner, painted in thick navy and violet tempera: NIA’S CHAIR. NIA’S CHOICE. Two kids from eighth-grade art were taping down the left corner with blue painter’s tape while homeroom students walked beneath it.

A group of seventh graders turned as Nia rolled past the threshold. There was no awkward hush, no sideways looks or pitying whispers. Jackson from science lab called out her name. Someone else tapped her wheel in a quick fist-bump.

Nia looked up at the painted letters, her shoulders dropping from around her ears. A grin broke across her face.

“See?” Marcus said quietly.

“Go to work, Dad,” she said, but she caught his fingers and gave them a squeeze before wheeling toward Mia’s locker.

Marcus stepped back out onto the sidewalk, watching her move through the hall surrounded by backpacks. The knot behind his ribs finally let go.

His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket.

The screen showed an unknown Cedar Grove number. Marcus swiped the bar and brought the phone to his ear.

“Marcus Bennett?” a man’s voice asked. It sounded worn, clipped around the edges.

“Speaking.”

“My name is David Prescott. Tyler’s father.” The man paused, the sound of turnpike traffic rustling through the line. “I saw what happened. I’d like to sit down with you and your daughter tomorrow, if you’ll let us.”