Page 20 of Emma on Fire

The poster, she sees, is hand-painted—a sloppy picture of Earth underneath a smiling sun. HAPPYEARTHDAY, it reads. LOVEYOURMOTHER.

Emma snorts. One of the students, a freckled freshman, turns around.

“Great poster,” Emma says. “Way to stand up to Big Oil.”

He looks at her in confusion.

“Earth Day!” she says. “I mean, seriously? As if paying attention to the planet once every three hundred sixty-five days could ever make any kind of difference. But really, I do like the painting. The sun’s very nice.”

Before he can answer, she walks away, heading toward the nearest open classroom door. A teacher whose nameshe doesn’t know is lecturing a roomful of wide-eyed ninth graders. “Now the twenty-two letters of the Phoenician alphabet are basically simplified versions of Egyptian hieroglyphic symbols,” he’s saying. “But does anyone want to guess what the Phoenician alphabet was missing?”

Silence. Then two tentative hands get raised.

“Vowels,” Emma says from the hallway. “The Phoenician alphabet didn’t have vowels. Like Hebrew.” Everyone turns to look at her. “You know—A, E, I, O, U.” She pokes her head into the room. “Ais for animal species, thousands of which are threatened with extinction due to climate change.”

“Can I help you?” the teacher asks, walking toward her with a concerned look on his face.

“I don’t know, can you?Eis for emergency, as in ‘We are in a climate emergency.’Iis for the ice in the Arctic, which is melting a hell of a lot faster than anyone ever thought it would.”

The teacher says, “This is extremely disruptive. Go find your own classroom.” And he shuts the door in her face, after taking a quick glance up and down the hallway, as if expecting to see white-robed orderlies coming after her with syringes.

Emma turns away. Raises her voice, backpedaling as she moves away from the classroom. “Ois for our oceans, which are becoming more and more acidic because they’re absorbing so much of our excess carbon dioxide.” Sheknocks her fist against the wall as she walks, dragging down the Earth Day poster. “That’s only one of their problems, though. They’re also getting too warm, and we’re totally overfishing them. And hey, let’s not forget that giant garbage patch of microplastics in the Pacific.”

She passes open doors, catching glimpses of classes, students craning their necks to see what’s going on out in the hallway. “U—what shouldUstand for? Oh, I know—how aboutunderwater? Sea levels on the East Coast will rise a foot in the next thirty years. That should be fun!”

The bell rings. Students stream into the halls. They glance at her, then away when recognition sets in. It’s just Emma Blake, breaking down again, making a scene. If only they would realize she’s not trying to gain their attention for herself—it’s for the world. Ultimately, it’s forthem.

“That takes care of our major vowels,” Emma says, walking among them, raising her voice so people can hear her over the din. “So let’s do consonants! Gotta back up toB,of course.Bis for burning fossil fuels, which is what got us into this mess.”

Most kids elbow past her, some giving her a wide berth, like they might catch her crazy. But Emma isn’t daunted; there is method to her madness. Her voice gathers power. She sees a boy with floppy brown skater hair stop to listen.

“Cis for the carbon emissions that come from burning these fossil fuels.Cis also for Celsius. Earth’s temperaturehas increased by almost one point two degrees Celsius in the last hundred and fifty years. Once we hit one point five degrees,Cis for all the coral reefs that’ll die.”

“What is she talking about?” someone behind her asks. Not “What the hell is wrong with her?” Maybe she’s getting through, gaining a foothold.

“Floods and droughts both become more frequent,” Emma goes on. “Lightning strikes will increase! It’ll mess up your daddies’ golf games. Do you think that’ll make them pay attention to the earth?”

She feels a hand on her arm. “Emma.”

She shakes it off. “Where are we?D.Let’s see—”

“Emma.”

She’s pulled all the way around, and now she’s facing Rhaina Johnson, the uber-nerd from her English class. They’ve probably never said one word to each other before, but Rhaina is gripping her now by the shoulders and looking straight into Emma’s eyes.

“Hey,” Emma says wryly. “If you give me a second, I can get toF. I’ll try to find a way to get French horns into the climate crisis.”

“Are you drunk?” Rhaina demands. Her cheeks are pink, and her yellow hair is escaping from its double French braids.

“Of course not,” Emma says. “I feel a little weird, though. Can you OD on Advil?”

“Okay, are you having a breakdown or something?” Rhaina blinks up at Emma, who’s three inches taller at least.

Emma shakes her head side to side. Nope, no breakdown here!

Spencer walks past, staring at them. Ava, hurrying to catch up with him, widens her eyes in their direction.

“Hey, babygirl,” Emma says, and Ava’s eyes look like they might pop out of her head. “Your hair looks fantastic, by the way. Do me a favor and recycle that two-hundred-dollar shampoo bottle, okay?”

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