In Which Coco Pommel is Tricked into Writing Two Six-Page Essays on the Same Subject, Or, How to Inflict Literary Torture
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a student in possession of bad grades by the end of the semester must be in want of some way to cheat the system. Or however that’s supposed to go. I slept through that part of language arts. Writing’s not really my thing, okay? Or reading. Or anything else that doesn’t interest me.
See, I have very particular goals in mind. And, see, anything that doesn’t directly tie into them isn’t my problem. This is how I’m able to put up with like ninety percent of my school life. My parents don’t expect too much from me, my teachers don’t expect too much from me, so I don’t expect too much from me either. If it comes down to it, the things that don’t get me any closer to my dreams just don’t matter, and language arts just so happens to be one of those things.
Most people don’t get that, but for my sake, I hope you do, Dean Cadance. Like, I sure won’t pretend to regret my actions, ‘cause I know I had the time of my life gaming your system.
That’s not what you usually hear from your students, is it? Good. I like confusing people and changing myself in the blink of an eye. Not to the point that Sour Sweet does—damn, I could never get on that chick’s level—but just enough to turn everyone’s attention towards me.
For example: I know for sure I could never write the world’s most sincere apology essay. Every time I’ve ever apologized in my life, someone’s always told me I’m half-assing it, so like everything else, if I’m not the best at it, there’s no point, okay? What I can be the best at is being as blunt as possible about what went down.
First, it was the cake, and then my reputation, my grades, and everything else went down from there. But mostly, it was the cake. That damn cake.
If I would’ve known the first challenge of the Friendship Games (which, by the way, haven’t actually been about friendship for, like, ever) would’ve been about baking stuff, I would’ve bribed my kid sister to do it for me. You probably know her, Sugar Belle from freshman year, the home-ec prodigy, the one who can actually cook, for Faust’s sake. Stuff a wig on her, make her say ‘okay’ enough times, no one would’ve known the difference, and we would’ve actually won the stupid contest. Better yet, Sugar would’ve finally gotten her new mixer and I’d finally stop hearing her whine to my parents about it.
But no, Cinch just had to say, “You know who’d be really good at the cooking challenge? The fashion students! Making clothes and making food are definitely the same thing!”
(You probably knew better, Dean Cadance. Because you’re so smart and understanding of everything. You wouldn’t act that way unless you were threatened or something.)
So me and my semi-best friend Upper Crust were paired up, which I guess kinda made sense. Her name, after all, at least has something to do with cooking. Mine, on the other hand, just means “princess,” which I totally am, but has nothing to do with the situation, okay? Someone also told me it meant “go away” once, but haters gonna hate. My parents always told me it was better to ignore bullies.
Anyway, back on topic. I say semi-best friend because seriously no one in the fashion program really likes each other. They’re all caught up in their own worlds, and I love them for that. They get me, because they know it’s everyone for themselves. That’s how it’s gonna be for all of us after high school, and so every class period is like one big competition. So, if anything, Crustie and I are the reason the word “frenemies” was invented.
(She hates being called that. I found that out one day when she thought she could walk by me in the hall without acknowledging my existence.)
I’m not gonna bore you with the details because everyone at Crystal Prep already knows. I, Suri Polomare, cannot trace the Pona Lisa onto a cake. Out of all the things I’ve been insecure about in my life, that one never came to me until it was too late—because it’s freakin’ insane, okay? My sis has been trying to copy that for, like, weeks, and still hasn’t figured it out. It took me long enough to get the stupid tiers to stack on that thing, much less put a dumb pattern on the inside.
That incident confirmed what I already knew: I hate cake. I threw so many tantrums on my birthdays that my parents eventually just decided to stick a bunch of candles in a pie and call it good. At least pie isn’t heavy when your “friend” doesn’t lift a finger to actually help you hold the thing.
(Crustie said it was because she’d just done her nails, but I knew the truth. That nail polish was a one-coater quick dry. Cake takes at least a half hour to bake. Bullshit.)
Oh, right, language. Got a bit carried away there. Just…the whole school suddenly hates me for dropping a cake and still worships her like crazy? And whenever I say anything about this, people tell me to ‘stop being so bitter’? Seriously?
So that’s basically what happened after the whole cake thing. Crystal Prep may lose at the Friendship Games, but they’re number one at holding grudges. It got to the point where I half-wondered if I could sneak away to CHS and get as many friends as that turncoat Twilight did. Sure, I wouldn’t have a prestigious fashion program on my future résumé, which was pretty much what kept me here in the first place. But at least I’d be spared from total embarrassment.
(And one time when I spied on them, I figured out a way to make it big in the fashion biz anyway. See, this one girl, Applejack or something, was outside campus waiting for her “Uncle Mosely.” Who happened to be this big-time Bridleway producer. I got his business card when no one was looking, for completely professional reasons. And even if my intentions weren’t all pure, and they rarely are, he’s still hot as all Tartarus and my type. Surely, with you being the love freak that you are, Dean Cadance, you’d understand.)
But then again, somehow I hadn’t quite gotten that desperate yet. Even if I still had a pretty damn good chance of making it without Crystal Prep papers, I still had my pride, okay? I knew having them would give me a better chance in the world than trying to get together with some flashy producer who was probably way out of my league anyway. (Emphasis on probably.)
So I stopped spying on CHS a couple months ago, but not without realizing something really important first. From my observations there (please slap me if I ever say anything this nerdy ever again, okay), I was able to figure out that the girl that ended up saving all our butts used to have her share of problems with her rep, too. Somehow or another, the school ended up forgiving her, even after turning into a literal freakin’ she-demon. I figured that if she made it look that easy, I could make everyone love me even more than before in a couple weeks tops.
I figured the first step was to figure out just what made people like that gal so much and do it even better than she did. I’d be Sunset Shimmer Crystal Prep version so hard that the original would go down in history as Suri Polomare’s Canterlot High version. And since “save everyone within a fifty-mile radius” and “stop the county from collapsing on itself and falling into a universe where horses talk” were pretty unrealistic goals for someone without magic, I knew I had to start small.
Somehow, in all these shenanigans, I ended up joining choir. After trying to help everyone left and right, people just ended up getting annoyed with me and figured I was faking it. (They were probably right.) Then I realized that I’d never really heard anyone diss the choir girls, and that the girl from CHS saved everyone once while singing. I was decent enough at it, and for all anyone knew, some other strange hazard could’ve happened during one of our concerts.
And you know the really weird part? I actually got into it. Not as much as fashion, of course, but when I sang, I just suddenly stopped worrying about what everyone else thought. It was corny as all Tartarus, and I knew some of the girls probably laughed at someone like me joining. We sure weren’t anywhere near being friends, but for once, I was finally on the right path, okay? Practice every day, stay up sewing designs every night, homework became a second priority to me.
(As if it was ever anything else.)
It was something that I could escape, okay? Just study well enough for the tests, and all the missed assignments would vanish into thin air. I’d pull a fast one on all those teachers, and probably a few students too while I was at it. Everything was so small, and avoiding it was a cinch. (No pun intended.)
And then it happened. After an entire year of reading silly little poems and short stories, Ms. Yearling finally decided we were ready for a full book. She probably wasn’t that stuck-up about it, but that was sure how it came across to me. All the other language arts classes had read it for summer break, but she was AWOL the first month of school, so she figured she’d push it back to the end of the year. Back when she’d first talked about it, I just figured that was, like, an eternity away.
(Future Suri’s problem, okay?)
So just when the weather was finally getting nice again, we all got this hulking mass of paper on our desks and were told we had a month to read it. We’d spend a day or so going over each chapter, and then we’d read boring research essays and watch scholars pull theories out their asses. Finally, when all that joy and fun was over, Yearling would have us write a whole stinkin’ essay right at the end of the year when all the choir concerts and fashion showcases were. Or, as some students preferred to call it, finals week.
Now don’t get me wrong, I was actually going to do the right thing for once and read it, but by page five, I was sooo bored, okay? I couldn’t understand a single word of it, so I went to the library computer and pulled up FlameNotes. I kept doing this for most of the assignment, getting one-paragraph summaries just tiny enough for me to check up on in between practices. And, for the most part, Yearling didn’t catch on ‘til the end.
(I remember her saying something like, “Faust be damned, Ms. Polomare, it’s only 180 pages. I expected better from you.”)
Just like everything else, I thought I could totally get away with this. And then I remembered the final paper and remembered who my true enemy was. It was never the cake after all. It wasn’t even Crustie.
It was The Great Gaitsby, which I never really found to be all that great after all. And of course, there was always its partner-in-crime, the six-page, one-inch-margin, twelve-point, double-spaced, and more-hyphenated-rules-than-I-can-count essay. I was certain they’d both play a part in my downfall.
See, I’m sure you know about the fashion program requirements, and how you have to have certain grades to stay in. Because it’s a “prestigious honor” and all. Problem was, I’d been goofing off so much that I had a C- in the class, and anything below a C was “not to be tolerated.” Needless to say, finding out how much this dumb paper would be worth threw me for a loop, since there was absolutely no way I could succeed.
I had two weeks before finals, which might’ve been enough time for some nerd to read an entire book and come up with something decent. But I was never a nerd, and reading never came particularly easy for me. Getting a tutor would’ve been, like, so embarrassing, especially with how my parents would always brag about Sugar’s amazing grades. So there was no way they could know.
Still, I buckled down, okay? For about a half hour. I got most of the first chapter finished and was just about to check my email for important student stuff. I only got as far as the homepage and a headline that told me to “check out Sapphire Shores and Countess Coloratura’s new single.”
(What, and I wasn’t supposed to listen to it?! I have been waiting for those two to team up for, like, ev-er. And they’re releasing an entire album together! Who could blame me?)
Anyways, three days and three chapters in, I realized the odds might be stacked against me. That possibility really caught up to me when I was five days and still three chapters in. I kept telling myself that I needed this more than anything, but just like anything else, it went through one ear and came out the other. As if all this wasn’t enough on me, my plan just had to pick the absolute worst time to start working.
I’d shown off even more than usual in fashion class and was wiping everyone’s floor in it, so it figures people there would start wising up and sucking up. That, plus the mid-semester runway showcase and all the choir shows, were finally starting to get my name out there again. And with that came party invitations and everything I’d ever wanted…until I got home at 1 ‘o freakin’ clock and realized I still had to finish the chapter.
(I’ll admit, I was fooled by this more than once.)
Either way, reality slapped me in the butt pretty bad when the Friday of pre-pre finals week hit. From what I could tell, some try-hards were already being slapped right along with me, but at least they knew what they were doing. Me, on the other hand, not so much. All I knew was that if I didn’t come up with something over the weekend, I’d be screwed, okay? The pressure was caving in on me, and I couldn’t just quit choir or everything else at this point. If I couldn’t give that up, what on Tartarus could I give up?
And then I realized something else: who said that something had to be legal?
See, there was this one weird chick who’d been following me around for like a month, who told me she had trouble making friends, too. She’d given me some sob story about being sick for months, closed off from people, taking all her classes online. I didn’t believe a word of it, and even if all that was true, why would someone like her have had trouble making friends? She was cute, smart, and plus, all the other fashion kids are super popular anyway. If she could have just dropped the whole shy act, I swear to Faust she wouldn’t be half as annoying as she is.
I could argue about this until we’re both blue in the face, but point is, a month ago, Coco wasn’t there. Now, she was, and she hadn’t stopped latching onto me since I designed some dress for class. It was literally the most basic thing I’d ever made, and yet I swore she got stars in her eyes just looking at it. She found out we had choir together, and got stars again. Even when she showed me up in class time and time again, she’d always give me her stupidly mocking little smile and say, “Next time, they’re sure to like yours better.” Sooner or later, she’d turned into a whole damn galaxy determined to revolve around me.
(How bad was it? She’d sit at lunch with me every. Single. Day. Even when I said I was trying to work on homework. Instead of backing off, she’d help me through like I was some sort of idiot, and then sixth hour, I’d realized that I’d actually done part of the assignment. Good for my grades, not good for my rep, okay?)
Coco should’ve been up to her tricks that Friday, just like always, but this time, she told me something that I never thought I’d ever hear. She needed my help.
“Please,” I’d scoffed. “Like you really need it. Give it enough time, and you’ll beat me at everything.”
“Not at crocheting,” she’d replied, shaking her head. “You’re so amazing at that. I keep messing up my hat, and I definitely want to make a crocheted beret for my project outfit. I really don’t want to fail my first final with Ms. Hemline, since I’ll have two more years with her.”
Normally, I’d tune it out and just give some her some faux-friendly advice I’d heard on TV or something. But for once, after all the desperate places I’ve been, I listened all too well. Because now I had some leverage over her, and there was no way I was letting go of that.
“Sure,” I’d answered with my best fake smile. “I can help you with that. But only if you help me with something else, okay?”
That idiot didn’t stand a chance. Everything in my voice went straight over her head. So, I figured, why tell her everything I had planned for her? Why not sugarcoat it?
(Note: I say “sugarcoat” in the non-Crystal Prep sense. If I were to “Sugarcoat it” in the Crystal Prep sense, there was no way she would’ve agreed to it. There’s such a thing as too much honesty, honey.)
“Geometry, I’m guessing?” Coco had asked. “I’d love to, but the last chapter was super hard, even for me. I’m just as stumped about it as you are. You should probably ask someone else.”
“Language arts, actually. I took on too much and didn’t have time to read the book, and no matter how hard I try, I just can’t get through it. I know you came from another school, but I’ve seen you carrying around that same book, and you seem like you understand it a lot more than I do.”
As if she wasn’t already taking all this well enough, her eyes suddenly lit up again once I mentioned the class reading.
“The Great Gaitsby, right? I love that book. Usually, classics aren’t really my thing, but I’ve read that one twice. I came in too late to read it along with you this year, but I still did it on my own time. It reminds me of home, and I always love to look at what Manehattan was like back then.”
“Yeah, yeah. Can you at least help me out with it so I won’t be bored out of my mind reading it? I promise I’ll help you out with the hat after.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Coco had reasoned. “Once you get past the language, the story is just so exciting. I mean, flapper dresses, bob haircuts, lavish all-night parties thrown by a mysterious rich man who’d corrupt himself in the name of love, never letting go of his obsession even after she’s in love with someone else? Who wouldn’t want to live in a world like that?”
“That all sounds great,” I’d replied. “Except I don’t like bob haircuts.”
And that was how our two-hour afterschool study sessions began: with Coco suddenly wondering if she really needed another haircut. We went to the library, even on weekends, no matter how much I hated it. But I still had a plan in mind, and I was going to make sure Coco wasn’t going to get through more than twenty pages a day.
Actually reading the book wasn’t going to cut it, because I knew how I wrote essays. I’d dwell on what I was going to write, procrastinate, try to piece together what in Tartarus I just read, and procrastinate some more. And, see, with the way I’d unnecessarily doomed myself, my types of essays weren’t going to raise my grade. It was either getting better at writing papers or getting better at gaming your system.
(Since I’m in your office right now, Dean Cadance, you probably know which one I chose.)
But anyway, I’d distract Coco in one of several ways. Sometimes, I was really that confused about the story when I asked her more questions than she could count. Sometimes, I chose to play dumb and ask her pointless ones, like when I wondered what a mint julep was even though I know damn well what one is. (My parents love them, okay?)
Other times, I’d have to get a bit more creative. For as smart as she was, Coco was as easily distracted as all get-out. Which means I’d accumulated a whole stash of cheap tricks to use on her.
“Hey, Coco,” I’d asked her the Wednesday before finals week, “why do they call it home economics when it has, like, nothing to do with math?”
I swore she spent like a half hour trying to figure that one out. That’s some of my proudest work right there.
The Friday after that, we’d somehow made it through half the book. I guess if we’d tried hard enough that weekend and really buckled down, we could’ve finished it. I could’ve written the essay and maybe gotten a C on it. But, you’ve got to understand, I had been through too damn much for another C, and no way would my parents have taken it lying down.
That Friday, Coco found out she’d have to write two essays. One for her, and one for me. I’d at least showered her with generosity by helping her turn that hat into something somewhat presentable. It was time to collect on my end of the bargain.
Oh, I was expecting her to be insulted by the suggestion, goodie-goodie that she was. But leave it to her to dwell on the wrong thing.
“Why don’t you want to read the rest of it?” she’d asked me. “We’re having fun with it, and I’m sure we can finish it this weekend. I can even help you out with the essay, but…not like this.”
“You did say you’d help me, right?” I’d answered right back, still keeping my voice as sticky-sweet as possible. “If I don’t do this right, I won’t be able to be in the fashion program anymore, and you won’t be able to see me. I might even have to transfer. But you can write essays, and if you do this one thing for me, I won’t ask you for anything else ever again, okay? And you can finally have that best friend at Crystal Prep you’ve been wanting all this time.”
“Yes, but…”
“Plus, I know you barely have anything to do finals week, anyway. You’re in easy electives, your geometry test should go well, and it barely takes you any time at all to study for history. Two six-page essays in a normal week shouldn’t be too much to accomplish, should it?”
I stare straight into her eyes as I say this, trying my best to imitate her excited glow.
“I know there’s a lot of pressure on you,” Coco had replied, “but are you sure this is really the right way? Won’t you just get in more trouble for that?”
“They’ll never have to know. I’ve seen students do it before, and I know where they fail. They turn in the same paper twice. But, if you just put a few of the same words in different places, give the same ideas, they’ll just assume it’s a coincidence. It’s that easy.”
After a few moments of pondering, Coco finally looked back to me, and I knew she’d made her decision no matter how much she tried to tiptoe around it.
“We can still finish the book in time,” she’d said as a final line of defense. “You’d like the rest of it. I promise.”
But she knew. We didn’t have time for it. And even if she did, I definitely didn’t.
On the night before the paper was due, I swear I still saw her typing away at the library computer. Then again, could’ve been a ghost for all I knew.
In any case, I certainly learned my lesson from then. No matter how hard you try, you’re always gonna get caught. Especially when you see a sleeping student up against a computer keyboard, still quoting The Great Gaitsby even in her sleep.
****
A month after the halfhearted apology essay was written, not much had changed. For one thing, Suri was still in school.
Oh, she’d thought summer had come, and when she submitted the paper to Ms. Yearling, she’d grinned like she’d committed the perfect crime. But as soon as the administration found out, they’d shown no mercy.
Dean Cadance had told her that this was the “lenient” punishment. But, as Suri watched the familiar pink-and-purple bun flash across the blackboard, she couldn’t help but wonder what was worse.
“’A beautiful fool,’” Twilight enunciated as she wrote the words across the board. “Suri, can you tell me what this means in the novel’s greater context?”
“It means that you’re not actually a teacher,” Suri answered.
“I’ll have you know that I was certified to tutor multiple subjects, including language arts, and that I came here on Dean Cadance’s specific request. Also, the more you sass me, the longer this session will have to go on.”
“Like it hasn’t gone on long enough already? We’ve spent twenty minutes on the same damn page! You even made me analyze the word ‘the’!”
“’A beautiful fool,’” Twilight repeated, making sure to do her best teacher imitation. “Don’t make me ask again.”
As Dean Cadance walked down the hall to check up on the two students, she swore she could hear an angry “the learning will last forever” and chalked it to Twilight on a normal day.
“Me,” Suri muttered finally. “I’m the beautiful fool.”
Dean Cadance closed the door with a chuckle and whispered to herself, “If you thought these finals were hard, Suri, just wait until you get to college."
Author's Note
I've wanted to write this ever since Friendship Games so I could submit it on a finals week. Twilight literary lecturing is worst punishment, and I like to think Suri's teenage self would've sworn a lot and plagiarized essays for some weird reason. Good luck on your exams, everyone!
(You have no idea how hard I had to work for that frickin' Gatsby pun.)
