The Doll Graveyard

The Doll Graveyard

(Dedicated to Mystic Pegasister for her undying support)

We're at Yogurtalooza, where you pump your own yogurt into the trough size of your choice. I'm suspicious because Mom hasn't said a word about all the super-sugary toppings we glopped on. Uh-oh. I was right.

"Aunt Mystic has given us a wonderful gift," Mom says. "A new start on life."

"Mom! You're not seriously thinking of moving us to that house in Canterlot, are you?"

She sucks butterscotch off her spoon and gazes up at the swirling fan. She is seriously thinking about it! "We really need to move, kids."

"No, we don't!" It's not the first time she's said it, but this time there's an affordable way to do it. I beat my spoon on the metal table. "Our house is perfect for us, whether he lives there or not."

He hasn't lived with us since April first. April Fools' Day. Ha! That's the day Jacob came home from soccer - not that the little twerp's a great athlete - and said he'd seen Dad across the street from Songwriters where the team went for Cider after practice.

"You must be mistaken," Mom said that awful day. "Your father's at market in Appleloosa buying for the furniture store. You know that, Jacob."

Jacob raised his chin in the air. It's his I mean business look. "Is not. He was across the street from Songwriters, and he was pulling some mare's hoof."

Mom turned white, then greenish. "Jacob Weir, are you lying?"

Jacob held up his hooves in a V. "Cub Scout's homer, Mom, honest."

The beginning of the end.

Mom's name is Diamond Tiara. Dad's name is Storm Chaser. All my life it's been Diamond-and-Storm, run together like they had one name. But now it's Storm-and-Chasity-and-Crimson, Chasity's son, who's Jacob's age. I'm furious about it, and that's the truth. You would be, too. I've got red eyes, and when I'm mad they shoot daggers at ponies. Gram used to say, "Autumn Weir, you have the personality of a curly-haired, fiery redhead. How did you ever end up with that lovely green hair, straight as rain?" Okay, Gram was a little biased.

Jacob's the one with the curly hair and curly eyelashes that are wasted on a colt, and the black hair like Dad's.

Dad who? Oh, yeah, the stallion with the other family.

Once Dad had all his things out of the basement, including his tackle box and fishing rod from when we used to Horsetooth Reservoir together every Memorial Day weekend, the Big question that's been hanging over was, What's next? Now I know.

Yogurtpalooza is filling with teenagers on summers vacation, laughing and hoof-bumping, not a care in the world, while my  world is collapsing all around me. It so isn't fair.

"We need to get out of Ponyville," Mom says. "Too many memories here."

Jacob keeps quiet, as usual, and just picks at the drizzles on his yogurt. So I drag him into the argument. "You don't want to move, do you Jacob?" He grunts, which gives something to jump on. "See? He doesn't, either. Come on, Mom, it's not like we're going to run into Chasity when we go Maremart to get TP, I mean, really, Ponyville is big."

Mom's sigh shakes her whole face. "It's a small world after all."

Which reminds me of last summer when the four of us went to Disneigh World.

That'll never happen again.

~~~~~~

Two weeks after Aunt Mystic's funeral, our house has a Sold sign in the front yard. If it would do me any good to plant myself on the front steps and refuse to go, I would. But it's hopeless. We're packed, and our voices echo all over the empty house as the last of our things are loaded into the carriage.

Jacob sits up front with Mom; I sulk in the backseat with Cookie, our cute kitten, who seems really excited about all this change. She doesn't have to leave her friends and go to a new school. I lean forward and practically shouts in Mom's ear, "Cookie is the only one who's happy about this move, Mom. I hope you know that."

You've been clear on the point," Mom says, glaring at me in the rearview mirror.

It's an endless two hundred miles to Canterlot. Mom's run through all of the songs on the playlist she made for the drive, and the carriage's filled with stony silence. Too much time to think.

My heart clenches as Mom pulls into the winding driveway that leads to our house and two others way up a hill. The minutes the carriage doors open, Cookie bounds out, Jacob right behind her. Just Mom and me left in the sweltering carriage.

Wiping sweat off her forehead, she says, "It's a nice house, isn't it? We'll be okay here, you'll see. The change will be good for all of us. It'll get us far away from . . ."

Lately we've both talked a lot in unfinished sentences, and I know just what she means. Away from Dad, away from the other family.

I miss Dad like mad. In fact, mad says it all.

"You'll start to feel at home in time," Mom assures me as she jiggles the house keys.

"Never," I snarl. I get out and slam the carriage door so hard that the wood rattles.