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Mrs. Vickers is suddenly Emma’s favorite person in the world.
“Ma’am,” Wozniak begins, “it’s because of what Emma has been through that we were instructed—”
“She’s been under a lot of strain lately, poor thing,” the dorm monitor goes on, “and having you two bursting into her room is hardly going to help with that!” Her voice rises in pitch as she works herself into a maternal fury.
“Ma’am,” the male officer says, “we’re here because we were called by a concerned member of the Ridgemont community.”
“And as another concerned member of the Ridgemont community, I am going to ask you to leave.” Mrs. Vickerseven shakes a skinny finger in his face. “I’ll take care of her. I’m her dorm mother, and that’s what she needs right now. A mother. Not a shakedown!”
“But ma’am—”
“The proper term ismadame,” Mrs. Vickers says stiffly. “I am of French extraction.”
French extraction? This is news to Emma.“Merci,”she whispers. “Je t’aime,Madame Vickers.Je t’aimeso much.”
Meanwhile, the male officer is eyeing the one drawer he opened, fingers twitching to dig in.
“I swear to God, creeper,” Emma says, “if you touch my underwear—”
Wozniak, looking uncomfortable now, fiddles with her braid. “Look—” she starts to say, but then Headmaster Hastings barges into the room. His tie’s slanted, and his pocket square’s about to fall out. He’s out of breath.
“Mr. Hastings,” Mrs. Vickers says, “tell these people—”
“The police are here for Emma’s protection, Mrs. Vickers,” he says firmly. He squares his shoulders. “They will be searching her room for weapons.”
“Weapons?” Emma repeats, incredulous. “I’m not a school shooter. I don’t have anything dangerous in here. As I already told these two.”
I haven’t bought the gas yet.
“Emma,” Mr. Hastings says sternly. “You know very well that we’re not worried about you being a harm to others.”
He nods to the male officer, who practically dives at Emma’s dresser, thick fingers pawing through her things.
Emma puts her head in her hands. She wasn’t expecting this. She just wants it to be over. “It was a joke,” she says. Her voice is muffled. Then she looks up, pleading. “A prank. I didn’t really mean it.”
A variety of expressions cross Mr. Hastings’s face. Anger. Disbelief. Hope. “A prank,” he says quietly. Then he sighs. “I wish I knew that I could believe you.”
Emma blinks innocently as Wozniak picks up a pair of scissors and deposits them into a ziplock bag. Emma’s letter opener—a present from her grandma that she’s never once used—slides into the bag beside it.
“Do they really need to take my school supplies?” Emma asks Mr. Hastings.
“They will be taking any sharp objects. And I will be calling your father. Again.”
He looks so unhappy about this that Emma nearly laughs. She gets it: she wouldn’t really want to talk to her father right now either. “Ask him about Marcus Aurelius,” she says.
“What? Why?”
Emma shrugs. “My dad quotes him a lot.”
“I fail to see what that has to do with you,” he says stiffly. A bead of sweat slips down his cheek.
Poor Mr. Hastings. Who’s he supposed to believe, thekid who says she’s going to burn herself alive or the father who insists she won’t? Between the two of them, Mr. Hastings is in way over his head. Worse still, he looks like he might already know it.
“Nothing,” Emma says. “But he might be nicer to you that way.”
CHAPTER 20
AS THE COPS are pawing through the closet, and Emma and Mr. Hastings are staring at each other, an unfamiliar young woman with short chestnut hair slithers into the room. “Emma Blake?”