I hated school.
I hated the teachers, the students, the classes, and even the old, crumbling building. The military school that he attended for fifth grade had looked promising in the brochures, but no such luck. The rules were too strict, the teachers were too apathetic, and the students too rowdy and impolite. Not to mention that I was one of the youngest ponies there—being a delinquent at eleven was, actually, not very common.
None of the teachers cared about me. Some even went as far as teasing me about my dyslexia and ADHD, as if I could help the fact that I'd been born that way. And the other colts and fillies were merciless about it as well—they came up with new, demeaning things to call me every day. None of them wanted to be friends with me. Even among rejects, I wasn't wanted.
I didn't tell my mother this, though, in any of the letters I sent her. I told her about school in the vaguest way possible, sugar-coating all of the bad parts (everything) and highlighting the things I liked (nothing). I wasn't exactly sure if it qualified as lying, but I still felt bad when I sent the letters. It was better than unloading all of my problems on her when she already had enough to deal with. I made her life so, so hard and there was no way that I was going to make it worse by telling her I hated everything. She was paying good money for ME to be there, anyway. Let her at least think it was going to good use.
Today, I'd been sitting in science class, dozing off as my teacher had been droning on about the different things that were necessary to pony survival. Food, water, air… blah, blah, blah. As if I didn't know that I'd die if I didn't eat or drink or breathe.
"There's one last thing that few ponies know is necessary to survival," she said, pacing back and forth in front of the students. They all looked just as bored as I was. "Pony contact."
I blinked and sat up in his chair. What did she mean 'pony contact?'
"Studies conducted in the past have shown that foals who grow up without proper amounts of positive contact are more prone to becoming involved in illegal behaviors, having depression, anxiety, or being more aggressive," she continued. "Some results have even shown that foals who are fed properly and kept in sanitary conditions can even die if there's no physical contact. Which, I believe, makes it necessary for pony survival."
I frowned. I wasn't hugged everyday and I was fine. Right?
"On average, a pony needs a minimum of three instances of positive contact each day. More is always better, but three is enough." My teacher's eyes swept across the classroom. "It's been said that positive contact while one is young is a way to subconsciously assure somepony that the world is a safe, welcoming place. It's also used to convey positive emotions like love or care."
She looked at the class—a bunch of bored, angry teenagers who'd been dumped there as a last resort. "How do you think not having these things could drastically change a ponies life?"
That night, I couldn't fall asleep. I tossed and turned in my bed, unable to get the thoughts of my science lesson out of my head. Surely you could be just fine if you weren't hugged. There were tons of people who'd grown up in rough places but turned out great when they got older. I shouldn't be worrying about it. I was…
…not fine.
I was in a military reform school, dummy, my mind whispered. I've been kicked out of every other one I've ever been to. I have never had friends. How is that fine?
I suddenly thought of his mother, the one person on the planet that seemed to actually care whether or not I existed. I thought of how she kept sending ME to these far away boarding schools, making sure that I was only home a couple times a year and during the summer. I'd always reassured myself that it was because she didn't want me near my stepfather, but I wasn't so sure anymore. It was almost like she was trying to get rid of me.
I was a mistake, after all, wasn't I? Like I believed the load of bull that my father had been 'lost at sea.' My mother had probably just accidentally gotten pregnant, didn't know where the father was, and was just too caring of a pony to have an abortion. So she would just send me away somewhere else, let the teachers and principals deal with me.
My eyes stung. No wonder she'd always recommended I should go to a boarding school year after year. I looked like my father, anyway—she probably didn't want to have that around. A constant reminder. Maybe she figured I'd do better on my own. But I couldn't even do that. I couldn't make friends, or get good grades, or even be good at anything. I couldn't even stay out of trouble long enough to make it through one school year.
Tear stains appeared on my pillow. I wondered how I could end up so lonely even though I've tried so hard.
I thought of the three touches again—have I had my for the day? Well, one of the fillies a little older than me had shoved me out of her way while she'd been moving through the hallway. That didn't exactly count as positive. Another colt had tripped me in history. A teacher had hit me over the back of the head with a ruler when I'd accidentally fallen asleep in class. Somepony had thrown a paper ball at the back of my head at lunch. Somepony had 'accidentally' hoofed me in the gut…
I gingerly reached up to wipe the wetness off my face with the back of my hoof.
One.
I let my hoof rake through my too-long mane, brushing the damp strands out of me face as I rolled over on my side. I could almost imagine that it was my mother's hoof, not mine.
Two.
My front legs wrapped around my body, hugging himself, as if I could hold myself together with just pure willpower.
Three.
