Page 19

EMMA BOLTS UP, gives a shriek of fear, and clutches her pillow to her chest like it’s a bulletproof shield.

“Are you all right?” says the first one urgently, a woman with a long blond braid pulled over one shoulder. Her name tag identifies her as D. Wozniak.

The other one, a man, says, “Emma Blake?” Emma doesn’t bother getting his name. A quick glance tells her this is campus police, not the real cops. Law enforcement JV team has been sent in.

“We’re here for a safety check,” Wozniak says. “Don’t be alarmed.”

“Oh, I’m not alarmed.” Emma throws the pillow aside. “I just might have pissed myself. What are you doing here?”

“We received a call that you were in danger,” Wozniak says.

“I was lying down! The only danger was you people scaring me to death! You could’ve knocked!”

Wozniak nods, but the man says, “We had reports of a threat—a threat of self-harm. Given the situation, we felt it would be prudent to enter.”

Never admit anything, her father likes to say, even when the other side has proof.

“Kicking someone’s door down is hardly prudent,” Emma says. “Like I said, I was just resting. I have a headache. And thanks to you, I nearly had a heart attack.”

Her heart’s still pounding, her thoughts racing. Outwardly, she’ll be casual with the rental police, but inside, she’s freaking out. Who made the call? Who narced?

Jade, it better not’ve been you.

“We’d like to take a look around your room if that’s all right,” Wozniak says, but the male officer is already pulling out drawers, not waiting for an answer.

“Why? What are you looking for?” Emma asks.

They glance at each other. Emma glares at each one of them in turn.

“Do you think I have a weapon or something? I don’t have any weapons! Why don’t you look for my graphing calculator? I haven’t been able to find it for days.”

“We don’t actually need your permission,” Wozniak says.

“Oh, so you’re just being polite?” Emma doesn’t even try to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Gee, thanks.”

“Emma, Emma, what on earth is going on in here?” Mrs. Vickers pushes her way past the campus police and stops in front of Emma’s bed. She’s still wearing her fuzzy slippers, and her hair is in old-fashioned rollers.

“Ask them, ” Emma says. “All I know is that I came back to the dorm because I forgot something, and the next thing I know there’s a SWAT team in my room. A severely underfunded SWAT team,” she amends, hoping to get a crack in.

Mrs. Vickers turns to the officers, and her tone sharpens. “Emma is a lovely, mature, and trustworthy girl. You can’t just barge in on her like this! If you knew what she’s been through…”

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. Vickers even 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 is madame, ” 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’aime so 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, the kid 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.”