Page 12 of Emma on Fire

Four seconds.It isn’t heat. It’sagony.

“Whoa, what the fuck!” Elliott shouts. He knocks her arm away and the burner tips over, the flames shooting sideways. A lab notebook ignites.

People are yelling now. Emma’s vision swims, her brain now processing more than just pain. There’s a red welt on her arm … and the smell of burning flesh. Why didn’t she include what it would smell like in her descriptive essay?

“Stand back!” Ms. Geller’s shouting. “Stand back!” The fire extinguisher sends out a white chemical stream.

Emma falls to her knees. Clutches her wrist, inches from the burn. The first moments away from the flame are somehow even worse. The pain radiates up her forearm. Now it’s in her shoulder. The side of her face. It feels like she’s pressing her skin against a supernova. She feels sick to her stomach. She grabs the edge of the lab table with her good hand. Tries to stand up. Bile rises in her throat.

“Jesus, Emma, are you okay? What were you doing?” Elliott’s voice sounds panicked. High and girlish.

Ms. Geller runs over, her face white as paper. Emma holds her arm like she’s trying to hide it from her. The class is in an uproar.

I did it,Emma tells herself.Now I know what it feels like.

CHAPTER 9

EMMA GETS TAKEN to the headmaster’s office for the second time in two days. She’d be angry about this if she could feel anything at all besides pain.

Idiot, you shouldn’t have done it,part of her says.

I had to,says another part.I needed to know.

But you didn’t need to do it in the middle of class.

“Emma,” Mr. Hastings says, his voice thick with concern, “first an essay about burning—now an actual burn. What on earth happened in chemistry this morning?”

She blinks at the headmaster. Yes, if she had thought things through a little better, then she wouldn’t be sitting in a stuffy office, facing a balding man in a three-piece suit who’s looking at her like she’s gone absolutely crazy. But there’s more in his eyes than there was in Mr. Montgomery’s,who was clearly more worried about the effect of the fallout on his career than about Emma’s physical safety. And Ms. Geller didn’t know whom to care for first—Emma or the classroom full of billionaires’ children who just got their first shot of real trauma.

Emma presses her lips together. She’d like to cross her arms defiantly, but she can’t let the burn touch anything. The nurse, Mrs. Ereckson, has cleaned and bandaged it and given her two Tylenol and two Advil all at once. But her arm still feels like it’s actually on fire. The pain is nearly unbearable. It hurts so bad she can’t imagine it ever stopping. Which raises the question of whether Emma will be able to follow through when the time comes to make her final, unequivocal point.

“Bunsen burners are dangerous things,” Emma says, keeping her voice noncommittal.

“Yes, they are. You nearly set an entire classroom on fire,” Mr. Hastings says. “But that’s beside the point, believe it or not.”

“It was actually Elliott who knocked it over,” Emma says. “If you care.”

Mr. Hastings’s glance darkens. “It’s my understanding that he knocked it over in an attempt to stop you from holding your arm over the flame.” He sighs and rubs one pale, bushy eyebrow. “You’re not here because you’re in trouble, Emma. You’re here because I’m truly, truly worried aboutyou. You led me to believe that your essay was a thought experiment. But self-harm is different. It’s an extremely dangerous thing.”

“No,” Emma says thoughtfully, tilting her head to one side. “I didn’t lead you to believe my essay was a thought experiment. You chose to believe that for your own comfort.”

Mr. Hastings’s mouth falls open, a flicker of something Emma can’t quite decipher passing over his eyes.

At that moment the door swings open, and Fiona Dundy comes in, bearing a tray with two blue china cups, which she sets down in front of them.

“You’re worried about me, so you invited me to a tea party?” Emma asks Mr. Hastings dryly.

“It’s coffee, dear,” Fiona chirps. “You look so tired! And Mr. Hastings drinks the stuff like it’s water.”

“If you’ll excuse us, Fiona,” Mr. Hastings says through clenched teeth—which, yes, Emma can now see do show distinct signs of coffee stains. Interesting that he doesn’t shell out for teeth whitening. Fiona is still hovering, waiting for Emma to take a sip.

Dutifully, Emma picks up the delicate cup, using her good arm. The coffee tastes like ashes. “Delicious,” she says, “thank you,” and Fiona beams at her before hurrying back to her desk.

When the door closes behind her, Mr. Hastings trainshis gaze on Emma again. “I must assume there’s a direct connection between writing an essay about burning yourself and then actually burning yourself,” he says.

He’s a regular Sherlock Holmes, isn’t he?But Emma keeps her mouth shut.

“And as I was saying, self-harm is a very serious issue.”

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