Page 13 of Emma on Fire

“It wasn’t really self-harm,” Emma says.

“No?”

“It was an experiment.”

Mr. Hastings frowns. “Are you trying to tell me that you hurt yourself during a science experiment by mistake?”

It’s obvious that he wants this to be true, just like he wanted her essay to be simply a thought experiment. The problem, of course, is that it isn’t.

“Hurting myself was a side effect of the experiment,” Emma says. It’s a sentence that’s open to interpretation.

Mr. Hastings takes a large gulp of coffee, emptying his cup in one practiced flick of his wrist. “I don’t understand.”

For a second, Emma is torn. It’d make the next few days of her life—thelastfew days of her life—so much easier if she just lied to him. If she pretended it was all a mistake, and that everything was all right.

But people pretending that everything is all right is exactly whythe whole entire worldis such a mess. It’s the reason she wrote her essay in the first place. So, no, she can’t lie to him. As much as she wants to.

“What I mean is,” she says, very slowly, “the experiment was about measuring how long I could hold my arm over a flame.”

Mr. Hastings pales, his fingers tightening on the delicate handle of the teacup.

“Getting a third-degree burn was a side effect,” Emma says. “Or aresult,you might even say.”

“Oh, Emma,” he whispers. He honestly looks like he’s about to cry. He sets the teacup down on the desk, his elbows following quickly after, his head falling forward into his hands.

She watches his fingers dig through what’s left of his salt-and-pepper hair, noticing the flesh puffing on either side of his wedding ring. Mr. Hastings has clearly gained weight during his marriage, as Emma has read that people in healthy relationships tend to do. It’s odd to think about Mr. Hastings as a real person, going home to his wife, but for some reason she does hope he’s happy.

She turns away and gazes out the window. Two little brown birds keep flying in and out of the bush outside the headmaster’s office. They’re building a nest for their eggs. She imagines little fluffy, dust-colored chicks peeping, crying out to be fed.

Mr. Hastings pulls his face out of his hands. “I’m calling your father right now.”

She assumes sparrows aren’t the world’s most lovingparents. But at least the dad bird won’t always be flying off to his law office. And probably the mom bird won’t die of cancer. Or maybe she will. Emma is sure there’s a study out there somewhere stating that birds are dying of just about everything, because humans are such absolute pieces of shit.

“Emma?” Her dad’s gruff voice comes through Hastings’s speakerphone. “What is going on?”

Emma sighs. “Hi, Dad. How’s trial?”

“We’re not talking about me, Emma, we’re talking about you, and why I’m getting another call from your school.”

As usual, there’s a tone to his voice that doesn’t quite fit his words. Yes, he wants to insist that they’re talking about her and not him, but the annoyance level she’s detecting tells her that talking about herat allisn’t a priority right now. Or probably ever.

“Everyone’s overreacting again,” Emma says.

“To what?”

“I burned myself in science class.”

He waits a beat. “On purpose,” he says. It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to see if I could take it.”

It’s not exactly what she said to Hastings, and it clearly hits him hard. He gets up from his chair, loosens his tie,walks over to the window. She hopes he’s watching the sparrows, hopes that he can give his attention to something that actually matters right now, and not this charade of a family phone call.

Her father grunts. She can picture him now: tailor-made suit, Brioni tie, salt-and-pepper hair perfectly combed. He’s pacing his huge, light-filled office, because Byron Blake doesn’t sit still. Doesn’t suffer fools. And definitely doesn’t want his daughter causing trouble at her exclusive high school. And yet—Byron has a touch of chaos in him, just like Emma does. A rebellious streak. He doesn’t like to play by the rules.

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