Author's Note

There's absolutely nothing wrong with Sweetie Belle. It certainly has nothing to do with Ponyville Elementary or its teacher, Miss Cheerilee.

An early draft of a collaborative effort with Regidar.

You Think They Don't Know?

The Boutique had never been tidier. Dress orders were lined up on mannequins in order of their deadlines, and each had a selection of fabrics and decorative gems set aside for the finishing touches. Larger bolts of various cloths, common and exotic, were sorted by color and quality in their cabinets. The floor was tidy, mopped, and even polished until it could be used as a mirror.

But Rarity didn't need a reflection to know how she looked. She knew her mane was frizzy and tangled. She knew she walked with heavy shoulders, the usual grace gone from her steps. She knew her eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, though a trip to the sink had at least washed out her running makeup.

"I don't want to go to school anymore."

Rarity pulled a small stool up to her sewing machine, sliding her cloth back into place for the tenth time that morning. The humming and clacking started up again as she pumped the pedal with a hoof. The noise was familiar, and with the right spin, the coarse patterns she sewed into the thousand-bit cloth might pass for art.

"Imagine," she muttered. The whirring of the machine as it pierced the fabric faded from her ears. Already, she could hear the awestruck crowd gawking, her work on display at Canterlot's Museum of Fine Art. The eyes of high society were on her once again.

The plum-coated monstrosity just raised an eyebrow at the accusations. She wasn't angry, or scared, or even smug. She was bored.

"Imagine!" she cried out dramatically. She was the center of attention, her grand and sweeping gestures caught in the flash of a dozen cameras. "The cheap thread, the crude patterns, woven through the perfect fabric of our city, of our nation!"

Newspapers flew past behind her dreamy eyes, headlines bleating their grovelling praise of the week. "Extraordinary Talent in Ponyville!" one read, below a picture of Rarity modeling the bizarre outfit herself. "Fashion Now On Par With Modern Art, Say Canterlot Elite." One, beneath a particularly daring cover that even gave her wings, declared, "Rarity Crowned Princess of Fashion!"

"The princesses? Really? You think they don't know?"

Rarity tried not to let herself be distracted by the jingling of the bell over the door, or by the timid hoofsteps that approached her. Buried in cloth and inspiration, she pre-empted the intruding filly's questions.

"Supper's whatever you like from the pantry, darling."

"Please, Rarity, can't you - "

"Not now, Sweetie! I'm very busy with my latest inspiration, and cannot be disturbed."

"Okay." She didn't hear Sweetie Belle's defeated sigh, she didn't see her sister's awkward and almost cross-legged gait, and that night she slept well for the first time in a week.