Page 54 of Emma on Fire

“Northwest, confirm,” Wozniak says, eyes still holding Emma’s.

“Northwest, on the way. Just keep her talking.”

Wozniak actually rolls her eyes, and Emma feels a pang of sympathy for her, and what it must be like for a female security officer. It’ll be even worse for Wozniak once everyone knows that she had Emma cornered and backed off.

“Sorry,” Emma says, stepping carefully backward. “I’m not trying to make things harder for you.”

“Then don’t,” Wozniak says, her voice hard and flat. “Just stop.”

“Sounds so simple,” Emma scoffs.

“That’s because it is,” Wozniak says, taking another step forward.

“Youstop,” Emma says, raising the lighter. “That’s what’s simple about this. You stop walking toward me, or I burn.”

Wozniak stops, lips thinning, eyes still searching Emma’s. “Holy shit,” she says. “You’re really going to do it, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Emma says, throat clicking as she swallows. “I really am.”

Then she turns and runs.

CHAPTER 45

NOSTALGIA HITS EMMA hard as she looks around the newspaper office on the third floor of Foster Hall. Along the east wall are computers with giant monitors for laying out the paper. Three printers, two copy machines, and battered copies of theAP Stylebookand theAmerican Heritage Dictionaryline the south wall. There’s a whiteboard for brainstorming story ideas. And a big, dusty monstera plant that the freshmen are in charge of watering, and which consequently is always on the brink of death.

How many late nights has she spent in this room, writing her columns? She could’ve done it in her room on her laptop, but she loved being in the office, imagining her future as a journalist.

A future that will never happen.

She sits down in her old chair. Considers firing up the desktop and typing a letter to whoever gets on next.By the time you read this, I’ll be gone…

It’s so cliché that she almost laughs.

Whoever found the note would tell the story for the rest of their life. She imagines Prue Bailey, the stoner editor, collaring some poor unsuspecting ninth grader: “You know, a lot people say this room’s haunted…”

Emma abruptly stands. Enough reminiscing and fantasizing. It’s time to make her video before Jones and Wozniak figure out where she is and batter down the door. She pushes two desks in front of it, just in case. She’d left Wozniak standing in the woods with a horrible decision to make—follow, and be responsible for Emma’s suicide, or not follow, and be responsible for Emma’s suicide. Emma hopes she’ll understand, hopes Wozniak realizes that she’s not to blame—the whole world is.

She positions a chair in front of a blank white wall so no one will be able to tell where she is and props her phone on a nearby file cabinet. She shivers slightly, her wet clothes suddenly chilly in the air-conditioned building.

Quickly, she blocks everyone she thinks might try to reach her: Thomas, Jade, Olivia, Celia … Now there will be no interruptions.

Emma steels herself for a second before she opens herYouTube app and hits the camcorder icon. When she selectsGO LIVE, it asks for a title. She types “Emma On Fire.”

She clicksPUBLIC. ClicksNEXT. Snaps and uploads a thumbnail photo. SelectsGO LIVEagain, and the picture on her iPhone goes from black and white to color. She’s broadcasting. It’s happening.

But for some reason, starting to speak feels harder than holding her arm over the Bunsen burner flame. The seconds tick by. Ten of them, then twenty. Emma swallows. There’s a ringing in her ears. How is she supposed to begin? She touches her burn, and the pain brings her back. Reminds her what she’s here to say.

“Hi, guys,” Emma says. Her voice croaks. She smiles nervously. “Well, here I am. As promised.” She glances at the left side of the screen. Already there’s a chat.

Omg dont say ur really doin this.

In the upper left corner of her screen, next to the little icon of two heads, is the number six. It means only half a dozen people are watching her.

Emma blinks, and it’s twelve. Then twenty-eight. Then seventy-three.

“It’s early,” Emma says, “but there are a few of you here. Maybe you’ll text your friends and tell them to tune in. It’ll be like a watch party. The worst one you’ve ever been a partof.” She gives a half smile. “But let’s remember that it’s going to be a lot worse for me.”

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