Page 29

EMMA’S FATHER GLIDES off in a chauffeured Lincoln Navigator soon after breakfast. He waves as the car pulls onto the road, his phone already pinned to his ear.

Emma lifts a hand in return. “Goodbye,” she whispers as the car grows smaller in the distance. “Have a nice life. Or at least, a busy one.”

She really hopes he will. He’ll remarry, of course.

Some tanned, young tennis-playing blonde, a daughter of Boston high society.

Someone who stays equally busy with her garden club and Orangetheory classes.

Someone who will be content with things looking like they’re perfect and not care how they actually are.

Maybe he’ll even have more kids. He’s only forty-six—he’s got plenty of time.

She wonders if he’ll figure out, next round, that maximizing billable hours isn’t the best parenting strategy. That money is so much less important than he thinks it is. Success, too, for that matter. She wonders if he’ll figure out that pouring himself into work won’t save anyone—not even him.

Probably not. As the saying goes, a leopard doesn’t change its spots.

Amur leopards are on the brink of extinction.

Emma turns and goes back to her dorm room. Olivia’s blasting Taylor Swift and checking her outfit in the full-length mirror. She’s wearing a halter top, baggy low-rise jeans, and black platform Converses, just like every other day. Her skin is dewy and perfect.

“Hey, Liv.” Emma slips into faded Levi’s and a rumpled white button-down.

Olivia whirls around to face her. “Oh, my god, Emma! Your phone’s been blowing up ! Where were you last night? Did you sneak out? Were you with a guy? Did you and Thomas get back together?”

Emma almost laughs. Her roommate’s the one person on campus who doesn’t know what’s going on.

She’s probably spent 90 percent of her time online since Emma posted her video, but the most important part of social media to her is the me.

Emma doubts she even looks at her feed or anyone else’s posts; she just goes straight to her latest, looking for likes and new follows.

Or, if it’s her OnlyFans, her account balance. A better name for her would be Oblivia.

“I spent the night in the nurse’s office,” Emma finally says. “I thought I was coming down with something.”

Olivia takes a quick step away from her, covering her mouth and nose with a manicured hand.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says. “I’m not contagious.”

And I’m not—high anxiety coupled with a feeling of dread is not something she can pass on to someone else. But awareness, and making sure everyone has all the facts? That’s a virus she can create, and hope that it burns through the population.

When she picks up her phone, she sees 232 new texts. Classmates—neighbors—cousins she hasn’t seen in years: everyone’s writing. They beg to know what’s going on, urge her to text them back, or tell her in all caps, DON ’ T DO IT .

Is yr dad gone? writes Jade. Call me NOW.

Thomas writes, lunch—meet me at the field LY.

“LY” stands for “love you.”

She’s about to read a text from Elliott when the battery dies.

“Shit,” Emma says.

“Everything okay?” Olivia asks as she brushes her long, soft hair.

No, Olivia, everything is not okay. Would you like me to tell you all the ways in which everything is fucked?

“Yeah, totally.” Emma slides her computer out of her backpack. “Have you seen my phone charger? Or my computer cord?”

Olivia shakes her head, watching the effect in the mirror as her perfect curls toss.

Emma realizes that the cops probably took them, just in case she considered strangling herself with one of them.

She opens her laptop. Her battery is at 35 percent, and her heart is pounding. Time to see how far her message has reached.

She clicks over to her second YouTube video, which she reposted under a new account a mere hour after Mr. Hastings made her take it down.

The views are staggering. In disbelief, Emma scrolls down through hundreds of comments.

A lot of people are urging her to get help. Others are offering her matches.

You’re an inspiration, writes GalaxieStar.

I wish i was brave as u, says tommyboy09.

Get outta here while you can.

Will u be my gf?

I feel u bae—i’m catchin the bus too.

Emma doesn’t know what “catching the bus” means, but she thinks it’s funny that some random person called her “bae.”

A charger drops with a clunk on Emma’s desk. “Here,” Olivia says, “use mine.”

“Thanks,” Emma says woodenly. She plugs in her phone and watches as it comes back to life.

Another text comes in with a ding. It’s from a number she doesn’t recognize. Google emma on fire , it says.