Scootaloo was at school when it happened.
Apple Bloom pointed it out.
She explained it was just some paint and made an excuse about going to the bathroom to wash it off.
She picked up her bag on her way.
Locked in the bathroom stall, Scootaloo cried as she worked the orange dye into her coat. It just wouldn't stay away no matter how much she hated it.
It had happened the first time she tried to fly. Her wings hadn't been big enough or fast enough or strong enough to hold her in the air. She'd fallen straight down like a rock.
And then she saw it. Then she knew the truth.
"I'm not a cripple," she whispered, hate rising in her voice, "I can do it. You can't tell me I can't."
She turned to the other side to obscure her shame.
A faint shape in her coat where the dye had faded.
A mark shaped like a blue scooter.
