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SO SHE NODS and says, “Yes. I understand you. I understand that you’re trying to take away my right of free speech. Just like you did with the newspaper.”

She crosses her arms, pleased with her deft shift in topic.

Now Mr. Hastings will have to address the fact that she was the editor in chief of the Ridgemont Trumpet for four whole months before they censored her right out of it, mostly because of the word he struggled so hard to enunciate a few moments earlier.

But it’s Mr. Montgomery who speaks first. “Emma, be reasonable,” he says. “We couldn’t have you writing upsetting things in the school paper.”

“You mean you can’t have me writing the truth,” Emma says.

“It’s very complicated,” Mr. Hastings says.

“No,” Emma says. “There’s nothing simpler than the truth. The problem is that no one ever wants to hear it.”

That’s why she wrote the essay for Montgomery’s class—to tell the truth. But they stopped her before she even got there. They got hung up on the gruesome details.

In a matter of seconds, blisters will erupt on my skin. My hair will ignite.

Okay, maybe she could’ve been a little more subtle. If she had, maybe she’d have gotten to the last line: You— all of you— are sleepwalking through global catastrophe. And with my death, I intend to wake you up.

“Emma,” Mr. Hastings says, “we’re worried about you. You are a brilliant student—a leader at Ridgemont. Please don’t let all that slip away.”

“Correction,” Emma says. “I used to be a leader at Ridgemont. After I realized that everyone here walks around with blinders on, I decided I didn’t want to lead sheep.

” The leather creaks as Emma gets up from her chair.

“I can’t believe my grades actually matter to you when the whole world is in crisis. ”

Mr. Hastings blinks at her in surprise. “We aren’t talking about the world here, Emma—”

“Well, you should be! That’s my entire point.” Which they would know if they’d let her finish reading her essay.

“You’re trying to distract us from the problem at hand,” Mr. Hastings says, “which is your erratic and disturbing behavior.”

Emma barks out a laugh. “If my behavior is what you think is ‘the problem at hand,’ you haven’t read the news.”

Mr. Hastings reaches down and extracts that day’s New York Times from his recycling bin. He pushes the paper toward Emma so she can see the headlines: H UNDREDS F EARED D EAD A FTER M YANMAR F LOOD ; T HE H UMAN C OST OF A B ROKEN I MMIGRATION S YSTEM .

“I read the news every day,” he says quietly. “But my job is to care for the students under my charge. Which is why I’m putting you on academic probation and making you an appointment to speak to the school counselor.”

“And you’ll rewrite your essay,” Mr. Montgomery adds. “And it will be well crafted and appropriate, the way your essays were last semester. You are capable of it, and it will be good for you.”

“It’s a challenge you can rise to,” Mr. Hastings agrees.

“However, I will add that I do want our students to find their work fulfilling. Like Mr. Montgomery, I believe an appropriate topic is necessary, and I also believe that you can find one that you care about. It seems that global issues matter to you. Why not write about climate change? Or our failing health care system?”

Emma wants to scream. Everyone’s so desperate for her to be the happy, active girl she used to be.

She’s been the freaking Ridgemont poster child, getting straight A’s in her classes, leading student clubs, dominating on the soccer field and the tennis court.

Everyone misses that girl terribly, and they’d do anything to get her back.

Hell, even Emma misses her. But she can’t get her back.

That girl is gone forever. That girl died in December too.

“People already write about those things,” Emma says quietly, tapping her fingernail on his copy of the New York Times.

“No one is listening to scientists, to experts, to doctors and lawyers and people with a string of degrees after their names. No one is going to listen to a privileged white girl unless she does something drastic. I already rose to your challenges, and I accomplished nothing that actually mattered. I don’t want to be your poster child anymore. ”

Mr. Hastings leans across his desk so his face is barely a foot away from hers. She can see the individual pores on his nose.

“But do you want to set yourself on fire?” he asks.

“Of course she doesn’t!” Mr. Montgomery exclaims. “She just wanted to shock all of us!”

Emma’s seen what Mr. Montgomery drives: a Honda Civic.

His suit jackets are off-the-rack, not tailor-made.

He probably eats the heels of his bread loaves, drinks Walmart coffee, and drives to school every day believing that none of his rich students have any real problems. But we’re living on the same planet, and the outlook is not good.

Mr. Hastings, however, is still holding her gaze, still waiting for an answer to whether or not she actually wants to set herself on fire … and he looks like he might actually care about her response.

Emma swivels away from Mr. Hastings and offers Mr. Montgomery a half smile.

“It was a good presentation, admit it,” she tells him.

“ Everyone was paying attention. You can’t say that about anyone else’s essay.

You could barely keep your eyes open during Rhaina’s exploration of the joys of a French horn. ”

Mr. Montgomery stiffens. He looks like he’s being strangled by his tie. “I won’t tell you it was good.”

Emma lifts an eyebrow, mildly surprised. Sure, she’s failing English now, and most of her other classes. But she used to get A’s in her sleep. “Okay, then,” she says. “What grade would you give it?”

She tries to make it sound like she doesn’t actually care all that much, but there’s still a little bit of pride deep down, a tiny place inside of her that wants to know she could climb out of this hole she’s dug for herself—if she really wanted to.

“Setting aside the issue of the topic and its utter inappropriateness for AP English,” Mr. Montgomery says, “I’d give you a C plus. Maybe a B minus.”

“That’s it?” Emma is truly surprised.

Old Emma would have spent ten minutes before class drafting essays, spouting clichés and well-worn phrases that she knew adults liked and would reward with A’s. But she put real effort into today’s essay, revealed in those pages her heart, soul, and core beliefs.

“The sentences were elegant,” Mr. Montgomery goes on. “The details were awful but powerful. However, I asked for an essay that described your personal experience. Your essay came from research .”

Dammit. The man is not wrong.

It’s ironic, though, isn’t it? In another few days, she actually would be able to write about burning from personal experience. Except for the whole problem of being dead.

“I understand your point,” she says calmly. “I’ll try to do better next time.”

But if Emma gets her way—and she usually does—there won’t be a next time.