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SHE HEARS MR. MONTGOMERY give a quick, sharp inhale. Chewy goes, “Self-immo what ?”

Emma makes a mostly successful effort to not roll her eyes again. Poor Chewy. He’s hot, with kind of a young Chris Pine vibe, but he’s also basically an idiot. He would’ve never gotten into Ridgemont if he weren’t legacy. If his parents hadn’t promised a new wing for the athletics building.

What makes Emma feel a little bit sorry for him is that he knows this.

She can see it in the slightly apologetic way he turns in his assignments, and how he talks loudly about anything and everything he can think of (usually boobs) whenever he passes the construction site, with its sign that reads C OMING S OON : B ALLANTINE A THLETICS F IELD H OUSE .

“Don’t worry, Chewy,” she says. “You’ll understand in a sec. This is a descriptive essay, after all. It’s got a lot of visuals, which I understand boys are geared for.”

Chewy smiles and nods. “Visuals. Sweet.”

Emma looks down at her essay. It’s three pages long, typed in Garamond (her favorite font), and practically overflowing with specific, concrete details, just like Mr. Montgomery wanted.

She clears her throat again. Her hands shake a little. But she finds the courage to begin. The question is, will she be allowed to finish?

She’s written her essay exactly the way it should be, open to close: an attention-grabbing statement, followed by a walk-through of the elements she is proposing, and then an explanation of why.

Emma is very aware that the shock value of her first line might have the power to knock Mr. Montgomery off his heels.

She just needs him to stay that way until she gets to the all-important explanation.

“Four days from now, I will lock myself inside a Ridgemont Academy room, where I will set myself on fire,” Emma says evenly. “My essay today will describe exactly what will happen to me, and ultimately explain why I would choose to engage in a very public social suicide.”

Chewy’s mouth drops open.

Mr. Montgomery barks, “Emma, what, wait—”

But she ignores him completely. She imagines that she’s alone, reading out loud to herself, just like she did last night at 3:00 a.m. She practiced her performance a dozen times, ignoring the light snores that crept out from under Olivia’s CPAP mask—something that hasn’t made it into her OnlyFans stream yet.

No one can accuse Emma of not taking the assignment seriously. She just needs to make sure everyone understands exactly how serious she is.

“Fire needs fuel to burn,” Emma reads, “so my first step will be to douse myself in gasoline. While there are numerous other flammable liquids I could use, including paint thinner, lighter fluid, and nail polish remover, gasoline has a low flash point and burns extremely hot, so that’s what I’m going with. Also, it’s just kind of classic. ”

She is dimly aware of the room getting noisier, of the sound of Mr. Montgomery pushing back his rolling desk chair.

She keeps on reading. “Fire needs oxygen, too, so I’ll be wearing loose-fitting cotton clothing.

Linen would work, but linen takes too much time to iron, and I want to look my best at my burning, although I’m not sure what filter works best with flames.

” She smiles ever so slightly at her joke, but she doesn’t look up.

She’s pretty sure no one will be smiling back.

Instead, she imagines they are all gaping at one another, all of them asking with their eyes, Is she serious?

And, oh yes. She is.

“When I light my vintage Zippo (thanks, Grandpa) and hold the flame against my sleeve, my shirt will catch instantly. The fire will quickly spread across my chest and shoulders and down my legs. In a matter of seconds, blisters will erupt on my skin. My hair will ignite.”

In a crown of flames, she wanted to write, but then she crossed it out because it sounded too pretentious, which is exactly what she doesn’t want—to be one of them, lost in their own success story, not aware that the microcosm of their elite lives is built on a crumbling foundation.

She risks a glance at Chewy. The shock on his face makes him look even dumber than usual—whether that’s because he still hasn’t figured out what self-immolation is or he’s having to grapple with his first experience of being concerned for another human being, Emma’s not sure. Either way, he’s still hot.

“The pain will be the worst at the beginning,” Emma says, “before my nerves die. But I know that I won’t have to bear the pain too long.

The smoke and fumes entering my respiratory tract will kill me quickly, if shock doesn’t do it first. Either way, I’ll die in a matter of minutes.

Excruciating, agonizing minutes, sure—but minutes nonetheless. ”

Spencer Jenkins goes, “That’s so sick !”

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Mr. Montgomery hurrying toward her from the back of the room. “Emma,” he’s saying, “Emma, that’s enough!”

She raises her voice. Starts to read faster.

“I won’t stop burning when I’d dead, though.

The heat of the fire will make my skin shrink and split open.

This will expose my subcutaneous fat, which is an excellent fuel source.

The fat renders out—it liquefies, just like butter in a hot pan!

—and then it’s absorbed into whatever surface I’m on. ”

But now Mr. Montgomery is right in front of her, and he’s got his hands on her upper arms and he’s pushing her toward the door.

Emma doesn’t try to resist, but she doesn’t stop talking either.

Good thing she has the essay memorized. “This is known as the wick effect,” she calls over his shoulder.

“Now, muscle is much harder to burn than fat, and bone is even harder than—”

But now he’s maneuvered her into the hallway and kicked the door shut behind them.

He stares at her, his face white with shock.

She can smell the cologne on his neck and the coffee on his breath.

She has the wild, fleeting thought that Lizzie Grunwald would die of jealousy if she saw them right now, because Lizzie’s had a crush on Mr. Montgomery ever since the very first day of school.

Even with the door shut, Emma can hear the uproar she’s caused in the classroom.

People asking if others think she means it, boys debating if her clothes will burn off before her skin blisters and if that’ll be sexy or not, and someone telling Rhaina that her thoughts about French horns still matter.

It’s exactly what Emma wanted. But the problem is that she’s not done . She has another page and a half of her essay to go—the part where she explains why .

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Montgomery hisses.

“I’m reading my essay, like you told me to,” she says calmly. “Aren’t you going to let me finish?”

“No, I am not!” Mr. Montgomery bristles. “How could you read something like that?”

“You said we could pick any topic we wanted,” she points out. “We just needed to include lots of specifics and details.”

“I said you should write about the beach!” he cries. “Or your pets!”

“You didn’t tell us things we couldn’t write about it. And to be fair, I did give a warning.”

“How can you not understand how inappropriate this is?” His hands are tightening on her shoulders, his grip starting to hurt.

And while Emma can’t deny Lizzie Grunwald’s assertion that Mr. Montgomery is “bookishly handsome,” she also can’t get past the fact that she just announced her intention to set herself on fire, and he’s worried about the inappropriateness of the situation. Not, you know, her actual physical safety.

“Maybe if you had let me finish, you’d feel differently.” Emma tries to move toward the door again. She wants to get to the essay’s conclusion—that’s the entire point. She needs everyone to hear it. “If you understand my motivation—”

Mr. Montgomery grabs the essay from Emma. “You are not going to finish.” He practically spits his words in her face. “We are going to see the headmaster. Now.”