It’s a chilly autumn morning and the whole of Year Nine is assembled outside the main entrance of the school, facing the green area where Alice’s memorial tree is about to be planted. Mrs. Peacock told us yesterday that the tree is called Prunus avium, or wild cherry, and gave us all a factsheet about it. It’s said to be one of our prettiest native trees and can grow up to eight meters in ten years. I must have read that factsheet at least twenty times. I practically know it off by heart.

I look down at my shoes, which, despite all my best efforts, are already badly scuffed at the toes. In ten years’ time, I’ll be twenty-three. An adult. But Alice will still be thirteen. She’ll always be thirteen. While Alice is frozen in time, the tree will continue to grow, blossoming every year in April, the month of her birth.

There’s a horrible lump in my throat. I keep trying to swallow, but the lump is getting bigger. It’s like when I have a sore throat and it hurts to swallow, which makes me want to swallow all the more, even when I don’t need to.

Mrs. Peacock told us yesterday that the spot they have chosen to plant the tree is sunny and sheltered, which means that the fragile clusters of white flowers won’t get blown away too soon, and even when they do fall onto the grass, there will be a carpet of petals to remind us of Alice. Mrs. Peacock didn’t need to raise her voice to get our attention like she usually does. She didn’t need to tell us to be quiet. She only had to say Alice’s name and everyone fell silent and sad.

With the nail of my index finger, I pick the skin away from round the edges of my thumbnail. I’m making it red and sore, but I can’t stop doing it. We’re all getting a bit restless now. The gardener was late this morning and we’re waiting for him to finish digging the hole. It has to be bigger than the root ball of the tree and he is already sweating with the effort.

At last, it’s ready. I’ve been so worried that Alice’s sister might turn up, but she’s not here, thank God. Her mum isn’t here either. Only her dad. He’s standing with the gardener and Mr. Davis, the head. His hands are folded across his chest and he keeps stamping his feet and coughing. I’m glad I’m not standing near the front, because I don’t want to catch his eye. A couple of times he’s looked over in this direction, but I made sure to move my head so that I was directly behind the girl in front and he couldn’t see me.