Page 25 of Emma on Fire

“Make yourself at home,” Emma says. Then she says what her mother used to say whenever one of her friends came to the house. “Can I offer you a snack?”

“What do you have?” Celia asks, but Jade shoots her a look, and Celia flushes pink. “Sorry, forget it.”

Emma’s mother, Sarah, used to keep homemade biscuits or banana bread on hand. There’s no dorm oven, even if Emma knew how to bake, but at least Olivia knows how to buy snack food at Target. More than once, Emma has watched Olivia shoot a reel about how important a healthy diet is for good skin, only to open up a bag of Fritos afterward.

“Pringles,” Emma says, pulling open Olivia’s snack drawer. “Lärabars, gummy bears, ramen…”

“We’ll pass, thanks,” says Jade, tossing her hair to the other shoulder. Then she leans forward, puts her elbows on her knees, and says, “Emma, we just wanted to come see if you’re okay.” Her brow furrows prettily. “Not to be too blunt, but it sounds like you’ve been acting a bit nutters lately—”

“Jade,” Celia squeals, flushing. “Have sometact.”

“What I meant is that it sounds like things are hard for you right now, and I just want to say, we know what it’s liketo feel a little shit and alone—and we’re here for you, okay? You’renotalone.”

Emma gives her a tiny nod. Of course she’s not technicallyalone;she’s got a roommate who says one thing and does the other; there are eight hundred students at Ridgemont, only 10 percent of whom she can’t stand; and two of her friends are right here in the room. But ever since she came back after winter break—after Claire’s funeral—there’s been an invisible wall between Emma and everyone else. On one side of the wall is the normal world, with classes and friends and crushes and gossip. And on the other side is the grief world, where none of that matters at all. Emma lives there now. Andthat’swhere she’s alone. In a place no one else can cross over to.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Celia asks.

Emma stiffens. “Do you remember when I tried to talk about it, but no one wanted to listen?”

Celia says, “Do you mean the thing you wanted to publish in the paper?”

“Thething?” Emma repeats bitterly.

Celia flushes again. “Sorry. I mean, the piece about your sister.”

“Yes,” Emma says. “That’s exactly what I mean. Did you read it?”

“I never saw it. I just heard you arguing with Ms. Hofmann about it.”

Emma reaches into her drawer and pulls out a coffee-stained page. “Here,” she says. “This is something I actually want to talk about, and what Ms. Hofmann didn’t want you to see.”

CHAPTER 15

INMEMORY OFCLAIRE: ANOPENLETTER TORIDGEMONTACADEMY

My name is Emma Caroline Blake. But for as long as I can remember, I’ve had another name: Claire’s Little Sister. I used to resent it. Now, though, I’d give anything to hear someone call me that.

Claire Isabelle Blake graduated from Ridgemont six years ago. Her list of achievements is too long to publish, so here are a few highlights: All-star tennis player. First chair violin. Senior class president. Valedictorian.

She went to Harvard, where she graduatedsumma cum laude. Then she moved to New York City, where she became the youngest VP in her division at JP Morgan. She lived in a beautiful SoHo apartment with dozens of plants and one Siamese cat.

Claire Isabelle Blake had it all.

Did I mention that she was beautiful? That she knew a million jokes by heart? That she was the kindest, most generous person you’d ever meet?

Well, she was. But in the end, that didn’t matter. None of it did.

This past December, while all of us were home for winter break, my sister, Claire, killed herself. She didn’t leave a note, but I know why she did it.

She was miserable.

The dream child, the brilliant student, the perfect employee: Claire spent her entire life trying to live up to other people’s expectations. Trying to be who they wanted her to be.

It broke her. And it started here at Ridgemont.

We have a reputation for academic excellence, and we’re proud of that. We send so many kids to Harvard, they should pay us a finder’s fee. But our never-ending pursuit of perfection has a dark side. A deadly side.

Relentless pressure leads to perpetual stress. And when anything less than perfection feels like failure, we all lose.

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