Page 41 of Emma on Fire

Emma feels the sting of tears in her eyes. She didn’t break up with Thomas because they fought or found out they were too different, or because of any of the other million reasons two people might pull away from each other. She just stopped being able to feel anything but despair. “You deserve someone happy,” she said to him. “A nice, normal girl who laughs and play sports and does her homework and knows how to fall asleep at night. You don’t want me.”

She couldn’t explain it to him, but she didn’t feel like a person anymore. She wasanguish, walking around in clothes.

“But Idowant you,” he insisted. “Nothing you do or say is going to change that.”

She knew he meant it. Or at least thought he did. But for his own sake, she told him they were through.

Thomas’s long, graceful fingers cover hers. “Em?” he says.

She pulls her hand away. She can’t let him touch her. They don’t live in the same world anymore. Thomas has a soccer scholarship to Stanford, whereas Emma is going to turn herself into ashes.

“I think you should go now,” she says.

He doesn’t want to, she can tell.

“I’m tired,” she says. “I’m just going to go to sleep.” She adds, “Lori’s out there. She’ll keep watch.”

After Thomas reluctantly leaves, though, she doesn’t sleep. She goes to the window, where the moon floats above the quad like a great white eye. The campus is quiet, and she is alone. The world is still dying, and Claire is still dead.

Why would she want to stay here?

CHAPTER 28

The day before the fire

THE SMELL OF fresh pancakes is nauseating.

Or maybe Emma feels sick to her stomach because everyone in the Ridgemont dining hall is staring at her.Thisis why she’s been avoiding the place.Thisis why she’s been surviving on cold Pop-Tarts and Lärabars.

Some kids try to be subtle about it—Zadie from French class sneaks glances out of the corners of her sly green eyes—but most gawk openly.

“For seventy-five grand a year, you’d think they could get some decent chairs around here,” mutters Emma’s father, shifting around uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s like sitting on a pile of kindling.”

Byron Blake arrived at Ridgemont Academy after getting a call from Thomas last night, and his thundering voice awakened Emma from her half sleep.This is no way to treat my daughter! She’s coming with me!

“I don’t think they designed the chairs with a six-foot-five man in mind,” Emma says quietly.

Byron’s head swivels as he scans the room. In his custom black suit, he looks like a rich, pissed-off undertaker. “A lot of ninety-pound weaklings around here.”

“Dad!” Emma exclaims. “Don’t be rude.”

“The truth is never rude,” Byron says. He glares at his pancakes before cutting the whole stack in half with a violent slice of his knife. “Undercooked,” he mutters.

Emma sighs. She’s glad he rescued her from solitary confinement. But that doesn’t mean she wants to sit here, hair unbrushed, wearing the sweats she slept in, and eat pancakes with him. He’s always been gruff, but his roughness and impatience have only gotten worse since her mother’s death. And then, when Claire died…

“The bacon’s too fatty,” he says.

Emma bites her tongue. Slowly butters a piece of toast she doesn’t feel like eating.

Then Byron looks up from his breakfast and trains his eyes on Emma, his gaze sharp and probing. “I don’t appreciate what you’re doing,” he says. “This supposed cry for help—it’s nonsense. I know that, and so do you.”

They’re tucked away in a corner, but Emma can feel everyone’s eyes on them. She pushes her thumb into the burn on her arm. The sudden flare of pain somehow reassures her. It reminds her of what’s at stake.

“I agree,” Emma says. “If it were a cry for help, it would be nonsense. But I’m not asking for help.” She locks eyes with her father. “Everyone seems to think I need it. But I don’t.”

“How’s your arm?” Byron asks. As if he knows what she’s doing right now.

Emma stops pressing on the bandage. “It still hurts.”

---