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Who the hell is this?
Hastings must recognize the new arrival, because a look of barely repressed fury fills his face. He tries to block her from advancing any farther into the room. “We don’t need you here. You are on private property—”
“Good morning, Mr. Hastings,” the woman says brightly. “Nice to see you too.”
She darts past the headmaster and over to where Emma is sitting on the bed. Mrs. Vickers has to scramble out of her way.
“Emma, my name is Rachel Daley, and I’m a reporter with theBoston Globe.” She hooks a thumb in the headmaster’s direction. “I used to be with theUnion Leaderhere in New Hampshire, which is how Mr. Hastings and I became friends.”
She says the wordfriendswith a touch of sarcasm, drawing out thesat the end so it comes out as a menacing hiss.
Meanwhile Hastings is audibly grinding his teeth. “This is private property, Ms. Daley,” he says. “I can’t imagine how you heard about Emma’s situation, but I’m afraid you’ll have to go.”
“How I found out?” Rachel asks, real confusion clouding her eyes. She glances at Emma, who shakes her head. If Hastings doesn’t know about the YouTube video yet, Emma certainly doesn’t need him finding out now. He’ll probably have the cops take all of her shoelaces too.
“Emma is in perfectly good hands, and you need to leave,” Hastings says, pointing out the door. “If I have to ask the officers to escort you out, I certainly will. This is a Ridgemont issue, concerning only Ridgemont staff and students. There’s no reason for the public—”
“Does the entire Internet count as public?” Rachel whispers into Emma’s ear. Emma doesn’t know if this woman has her back or is threatening to tell Hastings about the YouTube video, but either way, she needs to keep her here … and keep her happy.
“Why should she leave?” Emma asks. “It’s already a freaking party in here, so what’s one more?”
“Mr. Hastings doesn’t like me,” Rachel says to Emma. “I wrote a piece about private schools—you know, their elitism, their inequity, the way they brush any harmful or shady occurrences under the rug—that he found objectionable.” She turns to smile glitteringly at Hastings. “But it’s all water under the bridge, as far as I’m concerned.” She sits down on the end of Emma’s bed. “Why I’m here today has nothing to do with Ridgemont,” she says, “and everything to do with you. I saw your video. You’re putting out a powerful message, Emma Blake.”
She gives Emma’s leg an affectionate little tap.
Emma scoots away—I don’t know you, don’t touch me—but she’s thrilled that her message has gotten to someone who’s paying attention, while also being not thrilled at all that this stranger just outed her in front of Hastings. She didn’t make the video so Kiara Chang could hijack her content or random TikTokers could set her words to music. The whole point was to be taken seriously.The world is in grave danger.
“Video?” she hears Mr. Hastings saying. “What video?”
And that pretty muchguaranteesshe’s going to be taken seriously now. The only problem is, Rachel might have also just made it impossible for Emma to carry her plan out.
Rachel withdraws her hand from Emma’s leg. “Sorry,” she says. “I have four younger sisters—we’re touchy!”
Claire and Emma weren’t touchy. They weretalky.
Whether Claire was at Ridgemont, Harvard, or JP Morgan, she would call Emma every Sunday at 3:00 p.m. on the dot. “How’s my little sis?” she’d ask, and Emma would say, “Little? I’m taller than you are,” and Claire would pretend like this was news. “Really, when did that happen?” And Emma would laugh and say, “When I was in seventh grade!” The whole silly routine was just how they saidHello, it’s me, I miss you.
They texted and called and wrote actual letters, with nice stamps and beautiful stationery. They told each other everything.
Or so Emma thought.
Oh Claire, oh Claire, why didn’t you tell me how much you were hurting?
Wozniak knocks over a pile of shoeboxes with a clatter. “Sorry!”
Jones is still pawing through Emma’s drawer. He pulls out a long, narrow velvet box.
“It’s a fountain pen,” Emma tells him. “Not a weapon.”
Jones opens the box, stares at the contents, and tucks it into the bag anyway.
“Do you think it’s right for them to be doing this to you?” Rachel asks Emma.
“Doesn’t seem like I can stop them,” Emma says, watching as all of her socks end up on the floor next to her underwear.
“Do they have reasonable suspicion that they’ll turn up something illegal?” Rachel asks, glaring at Hastings.
“It’s time for you to leave, Ms. Daley,” Hastings says.