Page 39 of Emma on Fire

“I still think about your essay on Elizabeth Bishop,” Ms. Reddington says. “That’s how good it was.”

“‘The art of losing isn’t hard to master,’” Emma says, quoting the first line of Bishop’s most famous poem. She looks hard at her teacher. “I don’t agree with her, you know,” she cries. “Art has nothing to do with it. It’s just shitty luck and taking it on the chin.”

“You’re angry,” Ms. Reddington says gently.

“Of course I am!” Emma says, not understanding how her teacher can treat such a simple statement as if it were an emotional breakthrough. “I’m sick and tired of losing members of my family!”

She gets up and starts pacing the room again. How much does a five-gallon canister of gas cost anyway? Twenty-five bucks for the gas, ten for the jug itself? If ordering from Uber Eats really did work, she’d have to leave a big tip, because that much gas would be heavy.

“Suffering is inevitable, but it is not evenly distributed,” Ms. Reddington murmurs.

Emma ignores this; it is definitely not news.

Maybe she doesn’t need that much gas after all. Maybe she only needs enough to get her clothes wet.

“The last time I talked to your mom, she told me a funny story about you,” Ms. Reddington says. Emma’s ears prick. “About the time you were in a dance performance, and you were supposed to dress up in your parents’ clothes—”

Damn it, she’s heard this story a thousand times. “And I was too little to understand that it was supposed to be funny,” Emma says woodenly. “So when we got onstage and the audience started laughing, I started to cry. I was totally humiliated.”

“But you kept on dancing, didn’t you?” Ms. Reddington asks. “You were suffering, butyou kept on going.”

Emma’s surprised that an English teacher, of all people, would use a metaphor that blatantly obvious. And retro. Like the Energizer bunny.

But again: it’s best to pretend she agrees.

“Yes,” she says, nodding. “I just kept on going.”

“Remember that,” Ms. Reddington says urgently. “Remember that whenever you remember your mother.” Her eyes start to glisten. “She was so proud of you. So, so proud. She knew that you were going to grow up to do great things, even if she wouldn’t be around to see it.”

Emma smiles at her old teacher, lips stretching tight over her teeth. She really is trying her best to help. She just doesn’t have any idea what she’s talking about.

I’m going to do a great thing, all right. But it means that I’m not going to grow up.

CHAPTER 27

AFTER MS. REDDINGTON leaves, Emma resumes her pacing. She wants to make another video, but she doesn’t have her phone.

So she circles the room again and again, thinking about what to say once she gets it back.The world’s richest 1 percent own nearly half of the world’s wealth. Two billion people live in countries where there’s not enough water. Wildfires are raging in the Arctic Circle.

She pauses by the window for a moment. Elliott and Aiden/Braydon/Caden have gone back to the dorms. The sun has slipped down behind the blue hills on the horizon, and the crickets chirp like crazy in the meadow. As Emma’s standing there, the bell in Carter Tower rings, signaling quiet time on the Ridgemont campus.

Emma’s mind is not quiet.Neverquiet. Like an earworm, a chorus of bleak facts runs through her head.Our oceans are dying. Suicide rates are climbing. Wars rage. Children starve.

Claire is dead.

Claire is dead.

Claire is dead.

Of all the terrible truths, this is the most unbearable. Emma sinks to her knees and rests her head on the windowsill.

I could’ve handled all of it, Claire, if you would’ve just stayedalive.

Another knock—so gentle at first she thinks she imagines it—sounds on her door. Then she hears a voice that still makes her heart do a tiny leap inside her chest.

“Emma? It’s Thomas. Can I come in?”

Emma doesn’t answer right away. Now bittersweet memories are pushing aside all the bleak facts.

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