Parents—those who wanted to attend—are sitting on either side of the hall with the teachers, mine included. Mum gives me a sad little smile every time I catch her eye. Mr. and Mrs. Dawson are sitting in the middle of a much shorter row of chairs that have been arranged in a semicircle right at the front. Catherine is sitting next to her mum, and a woman I recognize from the funeral is sitting next to her dad. I think it’s a cousin. The outer two chairs are where Mrs. Peacock and Miss Nandy, our form teacher from last year, are sitting. Catherine is talking quietly to her mum, who hasn’t yet lifted her head toward the stage. Maybe she can’t bear looking at the photo either.

I shrink back behind the head of the girl in front of me. The last thing I want is for Catherine to turn round and stare at me, like she did at the funeral. Like she did outside my bedroom window.

Mr. Davis talks of Alice’s contribution to the school community. Her place in the netball team. Her love of art. He holds up a painting Alice did last year—a self-portrait. I remember her doing it. Remember comparing it to my own dismal effort. It doesn’t look much like her, in my opinion, but it’s well drawn. You can see she had talent.

Alice’s mum blows her nose, loudly, and her dad clears his throat. I’m glad I can’t see their faces and I realize now why they’ve sat them there. It’s so people can’t gawp at them when they cry.

Melissa Davenport and Bethany Charles are sitting in the row in front of me, a little to the right. They’ve both started to snivel into tissues. More girls start to cry. From our class, and from other Year Nine classes, too. I should be crying, but for some reason I can’t. It’s not that I’m not sad. It’s not that I’m not hurting still inside, because I am. I don’t know why the tears don’t come, but even when I hold my eyes open for as long as I can without blinking, it’s no good.

I take a tissue out of my pocket and dab my dry eyes, sniff loudly. If I don’t cry, people will wonder why.

Now Miss Nandy is climbing the steps up to the stage. Mr. Davis stands aside so that she can take her place in front of the microphone. Miss Nandy tells us what a lovely, kind girl Alice Dawson was, and how it was a pleasure to be her form teacher. Then she reads “Remember” by Christina Rossetti, followed by an Inuit proverb about stars being openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones shines through to let us know they’re happy.