It had almost been easier, when Sweetie Whitledge had been being downright rude, to respond in kind. It had almost felt good, to shout, to yell and stamp her feet, to let it out; just as it always had, venting to her diary.
But venting out in the open was, as she had already learnt, not a sustainable model for living, lest she want to be that pariah, eternally. (Not that she knew what other options she had, at this point.)
Nor did Jemima want to be a lesson for everyone else, for the likes of bratty Slytherin girls to draw some parable of her, like she was some wastrel, some fallen woman, some useless drudge lying in the gutter! And yet, now that Sweetie Whitledge was almost ignoring her and instead almost just talking to herself, some kind of high-minded, long-winded moral philosophy - Jemima felt worse than ever. The anger in her shrivelled instantly. Sweetie Whitledge, more loyal than she would ever be.
The thought was so horrendous, so hideous, so awfully true, that Jemima felt her insides crumpling and her eyes fill with tears, wishing for nothing more than to be swallowed by the floor. "If you're... quite finished," Jemima mumbled, her face ashen, I'm going to go cry for the next full hour in my room. Even Sweetie Whitledge felt superior to her now, then!
So the least the girl could do, surely, was move out of her way.
But venting out in the open was, as she had already learnt, not a sustainable model for living, lest she want to be that pariah, eternally. (Not that she knew what other options she had, at this point.)
Nor did Jemima want to be a lesson for everyone else, for the likes of bratty Slytherin girls to draw some parable of her, like she was some wastrel, some fallen woman, some useless drudge lying in the gutter! And yet, now that Sweetie Whitledge was almost ignoring her and instead almost just talking to herself, some kind of high-minded, long-winded moral philosophy - Jemima felt worse than ever. The anger in her shrivelled instantly. Sweetie Whitledge, more loyal than she would ever be.
The thought was so horrendous, so hideous, so awfully true, that Jemima felt her insides crumpling and her eyes fill with tears, wishing for nothing more than to be swallowed by the floor. "If you're... quite finished," Jemima mumbled, her face ashen, I'm going to go cry for the next full hour in my room. Even Sweetie Whitledge felt superior to her now, then!
So the least the girl could do, surely, was move out of her way.
