It seemed to come right out of thin air. In the space between ticks of my ornate grandfather clock, an idea materialized in the warm, lavender-scented air of the interior of my boutique and flew like a Wonderbolt into my head. I felt thunderstruck. Ideas seldom come with this sort of ferocity, and I know from ample experience that when they do, they are almost without exception sure to be a success.
Trying my best to hold onto this idea—which I’ve always felt is a lot like trying to hold onto Opal when she knows I’m taking her into the lavatory for a bath—I stood from the chaise on which I’d been lounging and made my way with urgent hoofsteps to my workroom. I paused only to change the sign from “Open” to “Closed.” This idea was too important, too big, too tremendous to be interrupted for a petty two-bit dress alteration (the overwhelming bulk of my business). I needed absolute silence and solitude, and I aimed to have them at any cost.
I walked into the workroom, scattered with scraps of fabric, dummies in various states of dress and undress, and crumpled-up papers that held discarded designs. Lighting my horn, I shut the door behind me, then summoned my sketchbook and drawing supplies to my desk. I used a simple pencil to do the general outline of the design, then settled in for a long evening of work with my colored pencils, to fill in the details.
As I worked, I felt in the throes of some kind of fit. Feverish with my own artistry, I even resented the innocuous tweets of a bird in the tree outside my window, feeling how they pierced my otherwise perfect bubble of concentration. In fact, if I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn I was under the influence of that dreadful book Spike and I found in the Castle of the Two Sisters a few years ago.
I worked in short spurts of quiet thought, interspersed with longer periods of translating the vision in my head to the page. During these translations, my colored pencils must have seemed like a rainbow blur. (I must remember to never say that aloud, lest Rainbow Dash catch wind and adopt it as an obnoxious nickname for herself.) In this manner, I managed to pass several productive, undisturbed hours.
Then I heard a knock at the door. The pounding felt like a wrecking ball in my mind, and I heaved a deep sigh through gritted teeth. One would have though ponies had the common courtesy and sense to read the sign before they beat on my door. I rolled my eyes and tried to go back to focusing on my work, assuming that whoever it was would eventually be literate enough to figure out that they should go away.
No such luck to be had. I heard the door open, and familiar voices calling, “Rarity!” My family. Thoroughly upset at having to leave my work while so deeply ensconced in “the zone,” but knowing that I couldn’t reasonably ignore them now that they were in the building, I laid down my supplies and walked to the door. I opened it to find my mother, father, and little sister looking at me.
“Took you long enough to answer,” said Mother. “Didn’t you hear us come in?”
“Well, yes, I did, but I suppose I was confused,” I answered. “You see, I had the ‘closed’ sign out.”
“Oh come on, Rarity, we’re family,” said Father. “That sign’s to keep out other ponies, not us.”
I gave a very forced smile, fighting to keep it from turning into a snarl of rage. “Be that as it may, might I ask to what do I owe this unexpected, unannounced pleasure?” Of course, I knew fully well that there were usually only two reasons my parents visited Carousel Boutique: picking Sweetie Belle up, or dropping her off. They certainly weren’t picking her up.
Mother grinned widely. “Your father and I just decided to take a last-minute trip to Baltimare!” she said, with an air like she was telling me I’d just won front-row seats to Sapphire Shores.
“Which means I get to stay here for the whole weekend!” Sweetie Belle chirped.
It was more than I could bear, the thought of a whole weekend of work, lost. I could barely focus on the most menial of tasks when Sweetie Belle stayed with me, let alone something of the magnitude of the project I’d just started. “Did it ever occur to you,” I said slowly, expending all my effort just to keep my voice level, “that dropping an unexpected houseguest on somepony like this would be considered by many to be very rude? I happen to be in the middle of a very important design project.”
“You can work on your little dress drawings any time. Family’s more important,” Father said.
And that was what did it. Something inside me snapped as soon as I heard “little dress drawings.”
“How dare you?” I shouted, my voice suddenly shrill and shaky. “Those ‘little drawings’ happen to be my career, and more importantly, my art! What kind of parents are you, to trivialize me, your own daughter, so heartlessly?”
I could see both of them recoil in the face of my rage. Sweetie Belle, meanwhile, was cowering like a foal. In that moment, however, it brought me nothing but a delicious rush of sadistic pleasure. They’d all taken me, my art, and my accomplishments for granted for far too long, and I was ready to give them the punishment they deserved.
At last, Mother tried to speak up. “Honey, we weren’t trivializing anything. We were just saying, isn’t it more important to spend time with your sister than to be shut up in your room all day?”
I screamed at them again. “Why should Sweetie Belle be any more important than me, Mother? Because she’s the ‘baby’?” I demanded.
“We weren’t saying that at all, Rarity, we were just—” Father started, but I had heard enough.
“Save your breath, I’m leaving!” I stormed past them to the front door. Opening it, I called over my shoulder before going out, “And none of you had better be here when I get back!”
I walked out and closed the door gently behind me (I was tempted to slam it, but I am not an animal). The cool air of the evening soothed my face, hot as it was with all my anger. I noticed the sun just touching the western horizon, bathing everything in a gold glow. I stomped off down the road, not looking where I was going. I only knew that I wanted to put as much space as I could between myself and my brutishly insensitive parents.
Still fuming, I noticed only vaguely that I was passing Sugar Cube Corner, when a thought hit me. What hypocrites my parents were! They thought I was selfish, just for wanting to focus on my work instead of my sister, yet they were being just as selfish, dumping one daughter off on the other so they could go off on yet another one of their pointless vacations. My only regret was that I hadn’t brought this up when I was still back at the boutique. What would they say to that?
By the time this line of thought played itself out, I found myself trotting toward Sweetapple Acres. That made sense, given my wish to put distance between my parents and myself: the farm is on the complete opposite side of town from the boutique. I kept walking, thinking it might be nice to talk to a friend about my problem.
I came near to the farmhouse and heard Applejack hailing me.
“Hey, Rarity,” she called, coming out to meet me.
“Hello, Applejack,” I said.
She came closer, near enough to see me in detail. “Hoo-wee!” she said. “Rarity, you look madder’n Granny Smith did when they stopped selling her favorite denture cream. What’s eating you?”
I took a deep breath, and began to explain everything that had happened.
“And I cannot believe that I come from such uncultured swine!” I concluded my story with an indignant sniff.
Applejack, who had been listening quietly while I spoke, smiled and shook her head. “Rarity, sometimes I just don’t know about you. Ain’t you got no respect for your ma and pa?”
“I hardly think I should have to respect them when they so clearly do not have respect for me!” I said defensively.
Applejack didn’t respond right away; instead, she gazed out over the orchards of her farm. She remained that way for a good long while.
Finally, she turned back to me and said, “What do you think of when I say ‘roots’?”
“Roots?” I said, taken aback. “Applejack, what in Equestria does this have to do with—?”
“Just answer the question, Rarity.”
I thought for a moment. “Um… I suppose I think of something dank. Dirty. Decaying. Disgusting, really.”
Applejack chuckled. “Right there’s the difference between you and me. When I think of roots, I think of something a whole lot better than ‘dank’ and ‘dirty.’ I know they ain’t much to look at, but roots give food, water, and stability—without roots, apple trees’d fall plumb over, that is if’n they didn’t die of hunger or thirst first.”
“I… I suppose I never thought of it like that.” I said.
“And the same goes for your family, especially your parents. Even if they ain’t the prettiest, or the smartest, or the most understanding, they try their darnedest every day to make sure you grow into the sweetest apple in the orchard.”
Applejack’s words struck something inside me. It was suddenly clear how rashly I’d acted. After all, hadn’t my parents come to the very first fashion show I ever put on? It had only been the shoddily-sewn works of a foal, but they had acted as though it was the highest of fashion from Manehatten. Hadn’t they always supported me? I suddenly couldn’t remember why I’d blown up at them for one single moment of indiscretion.
“So…” I said finally. “Without my roots, I wouldn’t be here.”
“You got it,” said Applejack. “I know family ain’t always easy to live with—you think I like taking care of a batty old mare, a stubborn stallion, and a filly that loves mischief like Pinkie loves dessert? It’s a lot of work, and it’s tiring, but I do it because I know in my heart that I wouldn’t be the mare I am today without all three of them.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Applejack. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I have some apologizing to do.”
