Free In the Fifth at Malory Towers by Enid Blyton

— mouth down, brows frowning, surly expression. Hold it, hold it! I want it for my Scowl Book. It’s called 'How to Scowl', and it’s really interesting. You should see some of the scowls I’ve got!”
    Moira and Gwendoline, who knew they had contributed to this unique book, immediately scowled with annoyance, and then straightened their faces at once in case Belinda saw them. Blow Belinda! One couldn’t even scowl in peace with her around.
    June stood still, scowling even more fiercely. “Done?” she said at last. “Well, I wish you joy of all your scowls — I’ll be willing to come along and offer you a good selection any time you like. It’s an easy thing to do when any fifth — former is around.”
    She stalked off, feeling in her pocket for the lines she had learnt for Mam’zelle. They hadn’t really taken her very long. Thank goodness for a parrot memory! June had only to read lines through once, saying them out loud, to know them. Others with less good memories envied her tremendously. It didn’t seem fair that June, who tried so little, could do such good work, and that they, who tried so hard, very often only produced bad or ordinary work!
    “Blow!” said Irene, suddenly, putting down her pencil. She had been composing a little galloping tune, the one that had been in her head for some time after she had heard the galloping hooves of the horses in the drive. “I’m just nicely in the middle of this tirretty-too tune — and I’ve just remembered it’s my turn to do the flowers in the classroom. I ought to go and pick them before it’s quite dark.”
    “Let me go,” said Catherine, putting down her darning. “I’ll be pleased to do it for you. You’re such a genius, Irene — you just go on with your tune. I’m only an ordinary mortal — no gifts at all — and it’s a pleasure to do what little I can.”
    She smiled her beaming smile, and Irene felt slightly sick. Everyone was getting tired of Catherine and her martyr-like ways. She was always putting herself out for someone, offering to do the jobs nobody else wanted to do, belittling herself, and praising others extravagantly.
    “No thanks,” said Irene, shortly. “It’s my job and I must do it.”
    “How like you to feel like that!” gushed Catherine. “Well — I’m quite busy darning Gwendoline's stocking, so if you really wouldn’t like me to do the flowers for you, I’ll...”
    But Irene was gone. She slammed the door and nobody except Catherine minded. They all felt like slamming the door themselves.
    “I do think Irene might have said thank you,” said Catherine, in rather a hurt voice. “Don’t you, Maureen?”
    Maureen felt that everyone was waiting to pounce on her if she dared to say “yes”. Irene was so very popular. She was hesitating how to answer when the door opened and Irene came back.
    “Someone’s done the flowers!” she said.
    “Yes — now I come to think of it, I saw Clarissa doing them,” said Mavis.
    “What on earth for?” demanded Irene. “Gosh — I hope people aren’t going to run round after me doing my jobs! I’m still perfectly capable of doing them.”
    “Well,” said Darrell, suddenly remembering, “it’s Clarissa's week, idiot. Your week is next week. You looked it up this morning.”
    “Gosh!” said Irene again, with a comical air of dismay. “I’m nuts! I go and interrupt my own bit of composing, and rush off to do a job I’m not supposed to do till next week. Anyway — it gave dear Catherine a chance to make one of her generous offers!”
    “That’s not kind of you, Irene,” said Catherine, flushing. “But never mind — I do understand. If I could compose like you I’d say nasty things sometimes, I expect! I do understand.”
    “Could you stop being forgiving and understanding long enough for me to finish my tune?” said Irene, in a dangerous voice. “I don’t care if you “understand” or not — all I care about at the moment is to finish