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Celia:
ikr
Celia:
and she actually burned herself
Jade:
guess im gonna fail my french test
Celia:
come to my room at 7
Jade:
k
Celia:
CHAPTER 11
AFTER HASTINGS LETS her go, Emma wanders over to the humanities building instead of going to her next class. Edgar Ridgemont, the school’s founder, scowls down at her from his gold-framed portrait in the main hallway. Next to him, in a smaller portrait, is his wife, Lucinda, whose family money built the school, though she never got any credit for it. She also couldn’t even send her own children to Ridgemont, because she had three daughters, and the school didn’t accept girls until 1975.
Emma scowls back at Edgar Ridgemont, holding her hurt arm away from her body. She can feel the pain all the way from her shoulder deep down into her stomach, even though the actual burn is just a hot, blistery circle on her forearm, in the middle, between her wrist and her elbow. Taking a shower is going to be excruciating.
She knows she ought to go to her next class, but what’s the point when she’s already failing? What’s the point of anything? Why does a diploma matter in a world that is falling apart?
She watches two students taping a poster on the wall next to Triple R, which is what everyone calls the Ridgemont Reading Room, a place where kids can study if they don’t want to be in their rooms or the library. Triple R has vending machines and computer terminals and drawers full of school supplies for the taking, but Emma never goes inside anymore. It’s try-hard territory. It’s where students with long-term goals go. Emma’s one goal is decidedly short-term.