Page 26

THE PEMBERLY GUEST room is twice as big as Emma’s dorm double, and it takes her twelve seconds to make a lap. She feels like a cheetah in a zoo, wearing a path around the perimeter of a chain-link enclosure.

Cheetahs are threatened with extinction due to habitat loss, poaching, and the illegal pet trade.

She makes her hands into fists. Come on, Emma. Figure it out, problem solver. How do you overcome the obstacles and achieve the goal?

Three species of tigers are already extinct.

She pauses at the window. It’s evening now, and the light slants golden across the quad. She can see Elliott passing a football with a senior whose name she forgets. Braydon or Caden or Aiden—another rich white boy with a beach house on Cape Cod and a spot waiting for him at Harvard in the fall.

You think the world can’t touch you, she thinks, as he runs toward the ball with an easy, graceful lope.

She almost feels sorry for him, this boy who has everything.

Someday he’ll realize how messed up the world is.

Maybe it will be when the economy crashes and he can’t get that six-figure job that was supposed to land in his lap.

Maybe it will be when he finds out there’s not enough water in the world for everyone and he googles how a person dies from dehydration.

Maybe it will be when his first child is born with a serious congenital issue because the mother’s body is loaded with microplastics.

But whatever it is, and however long it takes, when it does happen, it’s really going to suck for him.

Because it’ll be the first time he loses something.

Emma knows this firsthand. That’s because she had everything once too.

The senior catches the ball one-handed. Does a goofy end-zone dance.

“Wake up,” Emma whispers to him. “Wake up and smell the dumpster fire of your future.”

A knock sounds on the door, and Emma steps away from the window. “Yeah?”

“Can I come in? It’s Ms. Reddington.” The teacher gives a small, nervous-sounding laugh. “I mean, may I.”

Ms. Reddington was Emma’s ninth-grade English teacher. She introduced Emma to Jane Austen and Evelyn Waugh, Jude the Obscure and Madame Bovary. She marked up Emma’s essays in red pen and told her she had talent; she encouraged her to start writing for the Trumpet .

Emma hesitates, then says, “Sure, okay.” Maybe it’ll be nice to talk to her old teacher again. Even if it’s awkward, it’ll probably be more fun than pacing the generically pretty room like a caged animal.

The door swings inward, and Ms. Reddington is there in a yellow dress, her big brown eyes full of concern. “Hi, Emma,” she says. “It’s been a minute, hasn’t it? I just wanted to check in—you know, see how you’re doing.”

“I’ve been better.”

“Oh, honey,” Ms. Reddington says sympathetically. She looks like she wants to give Emma a hug, but Emma takes an almost imperceptible step backward. Rachel Daley wore out her human touch meter for the day, thank you.

“Have a seat,” Emma says. Suddenly she’s nervous.

She can feel her pulse quickening, and words come tumbling out of her mouth.

“I wish I could offer you something, but I’ve got nothing here.

In the dorm we have snacks, and I have a mini fridge.

I keep all kinds of different seltzer flavors in it, and Olivia uses it to keep her face masks cold.

She’s a skin-care obsessive. Basically a walking Sephora. ”

She cuts herself off before she mentions Olivia’s other online endeavors.

She’s babbling. It’s because she’s afraid of what Ms. Reddington is going to say.

Something like Emma, I’m so worried about you.

Emma, you used to be such a good student.

What’s going on? Why are you saying these crazy things?

Emma just wants to not answer any questions.

Ms. Reddington smiles and sits in the overstuffed armchair. “I’m good, thanks.” Then her face grows serious. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but I knew your mother.”

A pit opens up in Emma’s stomach. All the words fall into it. This isn’t what she thought Ms. Reddington was going to say at all. And just like the boy out on the quad, she has no idea how to handle it. “How did you know her?”

“We both went to Barnard. Not at the same time—she graduated ten years before me—but we were literature majors, and we had professors in common. We were part of an online alumni book group. We were reading all the great Russian novels.”

“She never told me that.” The sudden heaviness in Emma’s stomach makes her feel almost physically ill.

She had no idea that her mother was reading Dostoevsky in a book club.

And maybe this exact detail doesn’t truly matter, but it’s yet another example of something she didn’t know about her mom.

She mentally adds it to the list of things she didn’t know about Claire, wondering if anyone ever truly knows anyone else.

There are so many, many things she’ll never know unless someone else tells her, trusts her. And so many more things that Emma will never know at all.

“Why didn’t you mention this three years ago, when I was in your class?” Emma asks.

“I don’t know. I guess—I guess I was too scared to bring it up. She’d just … just passed, only six months before.”

Emma says wryly, “You thought that maybe if you brought it up, suddenly I’d remember that my mother was dead? Like maybe I’d forgotten?”

Ms. Reddington flushes. “No, no, not that—”

“Sorry,” Emma says. “That was rude. I get why you didn’t mention it. And you’re right. I was trying to keep it together. I was trying to forget.”

“Losing a mother is terrible no matter when it happens,” Ms. Reddington says. “But you were only a freshman. I can’t even fathom it.”

Emma watched her mother’s face bloat from chemotherapy. She watched her hair fall out. Her steps grow uncertain. Her body grow more frail. And then, finally, less than a year after she was diagnosed, Emma watched her die.

Emma can’t fathom it either, even though she lived through it.

Ms. Reddington leans forward and holds her hands in prayer position. “But what I came here to say, Emma, is that you have lost so much, but you have so much more to live for.”

Emma’s stomach hits rock bottom, and stays there.

Ms. Reddington was doing so well, and then she trotted out a cliché, something she might have picked up off a Brené Brown Pinterest board before coming to visit Emma.

The truth is that Emma doesn’t have so much to live for.

In fact, she can’t think of a single thing.

And there are many, many good reasons to die.

But if she’s going to make that happen, it’s best to pretend that people are capable of changing her mind, and that she’s listening.

“I still think about your essay on Elizabeth Bishop,” Ms. Reddington says. “That’s how good it was.”

“‘The art of losing isn’t hard to master,’” Emma says, quoting the first line of Bishop’s most famous poem. She looks hard at her teacher. “I don’t agree with her, you know,” she cries. “Art has nothing to do with it. It’s just shitty luck and taking it on the chin.”

“You’re angry,” Ms. Reddington says gently.

“Of course I am!” Emma says, not understanding how her teacher can treat such a simple statement as if it were an emotional breakthrough. “I’m sick and tired of losing members of my family!”

She gets up and starts pacing the room again. How much does a five-gallon canister of gas cost anyway? Twenty-five bucks for the gas, ten for the jug itself? If ordering from Uber Eats really did work, she’d have to leave a big tip, because that much gas would be heavy.

“Suffering is inevitable, but it is not evenly distributed,” Ms. Reddington murmurs.

Emma ignores this; it is definitely not news.

Maybe she doesn’t need that much gas after all. Maybe she only needs enough to get her clothes wet.

“The last time I talked to your mom, she told me a funny story about you,” Ms. Reddington says. Emma’s ears prick. “About the time you were in a dance performance, and you were supposed to dress up in your parents’ clothes—”

Damn it, she’s heard this story a thousand times. “And I was too little to understand that it was supposed to be funny,” Emma says woodenly. “So when we got onstage and the audience started laughing, I started to cry. I was totally humiliated.”

“But you kept on dancing, didn’t you?” Ms. Reddington asks. “You were suffering, but you kept on going .”

Emma’s surprised that an English teacher, of all people, would use a metaphor that blatantly obvious. And retro. Like the Energizer bunny.

But again: it’s best to pretend she agrees.

“Yes,” she says, nodding. “I just kept on going.”

“Remember that,” Ms. Reddington says urgently. “Remember that whenever you remember your mother.” Her eyes start to glisten. “She was so proud of you. So, so proud. She knew that you were going to grow up to do great things, even if she wouldn’t be around to see it.”

Emma smiles at her old teacher, lips stretching tight over her teeth. She really is trying her best to help. She just doesn’t have any idea what she’s talking about.

I’m going to do a great thing, all right. But it means that I’m not going to grow up.