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Felicity Rivers has learned a lot from her big sister. To not lose her temper, or if she simply must, to apologise immediately and try as best she can to make amends. That true friends are rare and precious and she must try to hold on to them. That Malory Towers is the very best school in the world, and that she must try to give as much as she can back to it.
She wants to give all she can back. It is her very last year, and she never quite thought she would ever arrive at this point. She remembers Darrell and her friends at this age, how old they seemed. How sensible, and grown-up, and ready to go out into the world. Felicity is nowhere near ready.
All Felicity wants to do is stamp her foot and burst into tears like a silly petty first-former because she didn't get what she wanted. She is supposed to be at her lacrosse practice now, offering wise advice to the younger kids, setting a good example as a sixth-former, being cheerful and encouraging and enthusiastic. That is what Felicity does, most of the time. And she works hard at her academics, too. She is never top of the class, not overall, but in some subjects, sometimes, and always high up on the list. Her sister taught her that fun and games were all very well and good, but that she needed to put in the work, too.
She is one of the good ones, one of the ones who gives a lot back to the school. At least she thought she was. She thought she was a decent sort of girl, not the sort to be hiding out in one of the music-rooms sulking and not being happy for her best friend.
Susan deserves to be Head Girl. Susan is responsible and sensible and kind. Susan is the closest thing Felicity has to a sister at school, which is the highest praise Felicity can bestow upon anyone. Susan works hard and plays hard and will be a marvellous Head Girl.
The door swings open and June walks in. June is not sensible. June is not Felicity's best friend, and June is the last person she wants to see right now. She is no longer thirteen years old, impressed by bravado that hides weakness of character.
June sits down next to her, and says, "I thought you should have got it."
Felicity pretends not to know what she's talking about. "Got what?"
"Head Girl, you idiot. No, they're idiots. You deserve it."
"Susan deserves it," Felicity says, hoping she sounds as though she believes this. "Susan's my best friend. I'm happy for her."
June laughs, and Felicity clenches her fists. It is such a horrible laugh.
"I'm not like you," she says, her voice shaking. "I'm happy for her. I am."
"Not like me? I don't care who's bossing us all around for the next year, strutting around like they own the school. But you do." June crosses her arms and looks at her, waiting for a response.
"Go away, June," Felicity says. She will not lose her temper. She will not. She will not admit to this girl that she is just as jealous and petty as June thinks she is.
"I just thought you might want a friend, that's all," June says, and she sounds less awful now.
"I have a friend," Felicity says. And her friend is Head Girl. And she can't stand talking to her right now, because Susan is Head Girl and Felicity isn't, and she can't bear to pretend to be happy for her when she isn't, but Susan is her best friend. A true friend.
It would be very easy to let June be her friend again. Felicity could tell her all her secrets, and June could let her in on her marvellous practical jokes, and it would be like they were kids again, not almost women ready to leave the school in less than a year.
What would Darrell have done? And once she asks herself that she knows the answer.
"I'm going to go find Susan," she announces, and leaves the room. Susan is upstairs in the dormy, and when Felicity sees her she takes a deep breath and then rushes over to her to give her best friend a hug.
"Head Girl!" she shrieks, and twirls Susan around. "You deserve it, old thing. I'm proud of you."
She doesn't feel it, any more than she feels almost grown-up. But perhaps if she acts like it, she will in time.
Her big sister would tell her she was right, and that is enough to keep her smiling at Susan all through the week, until it stops hurting quite so much that she is not giving back to the school all that she could.
Until it occurs to her that maybe she is.