Birth of a Bullet

Higher

'Fuck no, I ain't 'fraid of heights.'

Rod watches me with a marked disinterest, his cigarette hanging from his mouth when he ain't talking or sucking on it. I can tell why Fir likes him - it's precisely 'cause he doesn't realize that the cigarettes an' his jacket make him cool. You don't just get to be cool an' then get rewards 'cause of it: it's the other way round.

The heaps of sand are further down than I thought they'd be, but I'm okay. There are tracks from where bulldozers dug round during the day, but now there's just a big rusty bucket of dirt to mark the terrain. Everything smells like chalk. 'Way rad!' Fir exclaims, waving his hooves round the house of concrete, 'great call to bring us here, Rod. You bring any girls here?'

'Of course not,' he snickers. He smirks an' Fir joins in on the chuckling automatically. Boys have a telepathic bond at times like this. 'They wouldn't dare trespass and get caught; explaining that at home.'

We spend a good couple of minutes above the construction zone, just standing round as Rod's in no rush whatsoever. The foundation of the building's got impressively solid stairs, leading up to nothing an' a bunch of green goo in rubbery pipes. It's a little like when me an' Fir climbed the market roofs after everyone's come an' gone.

Rod's just one year older than Fir, but when he's sitting on the stairs like that he seems far older. Like, an age not even going to school, taking his time smoking the one cigarette. 'Best place to bring girls,' he suggests, 'is the minigolf course. There's booze and just old folks and they'll say you're so thoughtful for not taking them to a bar. It's just a half bit to get in.' He laughs an' I can see Fir's fidgeting thoughtfully. 'If you practice a little it's easy to impress 'em. Then you can say it ain't no big deal and they'll be even more impressed.'

Half a bit is more than either of our allowance, though Fir gets money for clothes or other 'essentials' when he asks. Course he just nods like it ain't much just the same, his hooves in his pockets. That never struck me as fake till now.

The streetlights pop on, creating a tunnel of small orange spheres. We know we have to get home, but Fir pretends otherwise so that I would have to bring it up. 'A little longer, little sis,' Fir says dismissively, an' he an' Rod ditch the girl talk for some school paper that's going on about. The foamy green stuff is harder to the touch than expected an' I explore the upper floor, where the construction workers hid a bunch of packaged tiles for who knows what.

'They just want everyone to fail so that you try harder during the exams next year,' I hear Rod call, 'it don't mean shit.'

For kids in my class it's not something to talk 'bout at all. Best is if you're not really bad or really good, but there are different rules for different classes. Before winter I fumbled the ball at dodgeball a couple of times so I got called a klutz-clod an' stuff like that, but that never happens when Basil or one of the other sporty kids stumbles in the halls.

Five minutes more an' I'm getting weary of just standing round. Getting down's a little more scary than getting up here. 'We have to be home now,' I comment, so Fir laughs softly. I crouch near the scaffolding as he says to Rod, 'I guess I've got to get her home now.'

On the way home we find a large desk planted at the corner between Mr. Appleby's shop an' the Corner Market. It's a great desk with three shelves an' a gnarly sort of top with spirals etched into it, but we no longer have any time to play with; the sun's well on its last hour. Fir can't help himself though an' says, 'Next time you're going home by yourself.'

I'm still curious 'bout Mr. Appleby, an' two weeks ago Aurora told me she had snuck into the back of the store an' found a secret laboratory there. Inside, Mr. Appleby had been experimenting with hydra embryos an' sparkling gemstones, finding a way to reanimate the creature inside an aquarium. I asked Mom 'bout embryos but she just gave me a death stare an' told me not to talk 'bout such things till I was older.

'I bet I can get home faster than you can anyway,' I dare, 'going round through Breakaway's faster.'

'I ain't stopping you,' he says coolly, trotting homewards as I round the corner into Breakaway Street. Sure, it's longer in some ways, but if I gallop I'm sure I can skirt the distance in no-time. Then I just have to rest for a moment so I don't look like I'm too exerted from the effort. I think 'bout his stupid face for a while, but when you gallop hard 'nough it's like you're gliding an' time changes. It pushes you forward without actually moving - that's how it feels anyway.

Halfway into Breakaway Street I stop to pick up a coin, but it's just a bottle cap smashed into the pavement. Panting, I realize that just 'cause I've stopped now I'll never get home before Fir, so I just stand there for a moment. No use getting nauseous now.

'Hey, it's Grace!'

I never jump when I hear my name, but thankfully it's Double Button - though she's redone her mane since we went to Seedling School together. It's all long an' flowing an' beautiful like you see in the magazines. After I catch my breath I ask her how she's doing an' she replies, 'Sis got accepted and's moving to Manehattan. So rad! She's an architect, remember? So she's making houses in Manehattan now.' She's brimming with pride, but I can't tell whether it's 'cause of her sister or 'cause she can say architect.

I tell her that that's cool an' eventually she asks if I still got trouble flying. 'Never had a problem,' I say, 'it's just there's lots of stuff in the way on the ground. More practical to go by hoof.' She does a slow ah an' I ask if she's ever been inside Mr. Appleby's shop.

She looks upstreet with a weird look an' says, 'Nah, but I've been in the back of The Exotic and saw their supply. They've got like a hundred melons in boxes there, yet I've never seen anyone eat a melon round here.'

'There's experiments going on in the back of Mr. Appleby's shop,' I say, stressing experiments so that it says way more than mere experiments. It says monsters, secrets, danger, an' death. Excitedly I add, 'We're gonna find proof an' go to the police an' get a reward soon,' but Button just looks at me weirdly, like she understands me but doesn't know what to say.

She looks at her hooves for a moment an' then looks up again. 'Gotta go help my sis pack,' she says, 'was sure nice to see ya again.'

She trots off to the other side of the street without any hurry at all. Ponies are weird, I think: they always want to talk, but they never know a thing 'bout what they're saying.

Mom can be a real cunt sometimes.

Instead of telling me to wipe my shoes she says it by sigh, an' even the trouble of opening the door twice is dragged out into theatrics. First she pretends to give up an' then she moves her head sideways like it's the biggest trouble in the world to open the door again while she's right there. I did tell her once to give me a key, but she doesn't trust me 'nough. At least if I had a key I wouldn't have someone else open the door, but I suppose she's afraid I'd stay out all night an' sneak in when everyone's sleeping. Fir has never used his key even once, always ringing an' knocking just the same. Maybe he lost it somewhere.

Speaking of: Fir tosses me an ah, you're here sort of look from the living room threshold so he doesn't have to bring up our race. There's no point in saying that I saw an old classmate an' that's why I took ten minutes, 'cause he wouldn't believe it anyway an' probably arrived minutes before me even if I hadn't.

The table is set an' food is some sort of brown sludge, but of course Mom makes me wash my hooves first. When we're all sat down she asks 'bout school, but neither of us cares. Impatiently she suggests Fir say something 'bout his paper but he just mutters that he'll study with Rod, 'splaining that he already completed it once last year an' knows what to expect.

'Rod doesn't know what he's doing,' I say, drawing cold looks from both Fir an' Mom.

'As if you'd know,' Fir laughs, 'if I didn't take you with us you wouldn't even know his name.'

'Dear, you can let your brother speak for himself. He's certainly old enough. And haven't I told you not to wear that at the dinner table?'

Questions aren't always questions. Sometimes they're statements, other times they're punishment. She's referring to the cap Uncle Faireweather gave me but I decide to play dumb for a moment an' then ask, 'Mom, is Uncle visiting again some time soon?'

'Don't change the subject, dear, it's not polite. Take the cap off.'

'But it's Uncle's favorite--'

'Young lady. You take the cap off this instant. Good. Very good. Now, would you like to say something about why your brother got home before you?'

He sends me a glare of smugness an' I want to kick him in the face. Maybe strangle him a little, too. 'He smokes,' I say simply.

She hesitates just a moment, but it's enough. 'That's not your business, now is it?' she says eventually. That's one week after lecturing on me not to smoke. Two weeks after doing a big speech 'bout birds, bees, butterflies an' never masturbating. Smoking, she had 'splained, was something idiots did to look rebellious, and inevitably kills you an' your family from inside.

Fir latches onto Mom's disapproval. 'Besides,' he says, 'the only reason I got home before you did was because you thought you could get here faster by taking a detour. You wagered and you lost.' He turned to Mom with a trained look. 'Sorry, Mom, I couldn't stop her.'

'Says you! The only reason I didn't get here before you was 'cause I met someone from school.'

'Oh?' Amusement flickers in the resident asshole's eyes. 'And did they have a name? Like, was it a cute boy, maybe?'

'Now, don't tease your sister, Fir. Next time don't take your sister--'

'He didn't take me!'

Abruptly she rises to her hooves an' tells me I won't get dessert if I don't behave myself at the dinner table. Tempting, considering there's no pudding, but somehow it's less bad to sit there like a mute fool. Mom an' Fir are quiet too in the house's maximum politeness zone now, though sometimes he throws me a nonchalant glance that's neither cruel nor 'specially nice. He knows my temper is too much for me. He's a fucking asshole, after all: He doesn't need to speak up to irritate me. He knows it, too.

Mom chews her rehearsed chews an' stretches every single fork movement. The picture of perfection. Yesterday I had a dream where I stabbed her in the eye. I have fifteen minutes at the dinner table to think 'bout that. Not even a boring radio play to distract anyone, and sure 'nough, again there's that smug smile: He has all the time in the world to gloat. Maybe he's getting to be more an' more like Rod and'll start spending all his allowance on cigarettes.

Tonight I stroke myself to the Biology textbook where two dogs are mating - it's kind of weird with the internal picture, but it shows the dick pushed in well 'nough under the glow of the flower lamp. Halfway in I take a quick break an' think 'bout Mom's lesson. What she doesn't know is that being in school means you know when a teacher believes what they say an' when they just want you to think something or do something a certain way. This lesson was a hundred percent bullshit. So what if Fir gets to smoke 'cause "he's a stallion now" an' I can't wear Uncle Faireweather's cap at the dinner table? I don't care. At least for a moment I don't even care I have to go to school in the morning.

Don't think 'bout that now.

Out

I want to wake up an' discover it's Freeday every day. No luck today. A brief flash of fear 'cause of the slime that came out overnight. I can picture Mom freaking the fuck out an' then also being teased by Fir 'bout "cute boys" forever an' ever. But life doesn't end yet today, so there's little point in panicking now: I just need to be more careful from now on.

School itself is an exercise in pretending to pay attention to the endless procession of classes. I swear Mrs. Worth gets more an' more blind by the day an' that soon she'll wear glasses with her eyes drawn on. History is something of a mixed bag: I have no idea what the monologue is even about, but I can easily slide my sketchbook underneath the textbook an' draw the two castle tigers swinging their swords. Worst of all is Maths. You either know the particular exercise an' spend a full hour completing the same problem, or, as it is today, you don't an' have to pretend you do - all the while trying at least a little to get things correct another way.

Only recess offers any excitement, but it's mostly navigating between the bitchy older girls an' the guys who insist on obstructing every passageway possible. There's a loud burp and Ruff an' Constante exclaim their re-ah-relaxed! thing in approval; going all the way with their trademarked high-pitched stutter-phrase. When I'm round the corner of the lunch hall though, I hear Aurora getting snippy with a bunch of girls 'bout Mr. Appleby's shop. 'You betcha he's hiding some shit there,' she insists, 'like, maybe he's killed someone so he could get the embryos. Like, a zookeeper who found a pregnant hydra who was injured in the bog. And he had to kill 'em to harvest the embryos.'

She's animated, but the other girls don't seem quite taken, content with nodding lazily. Riverswim's there, by far the oldest round an' the hardest to impress. When I come closer I see that there's also the Feltway twins from 'next-door' an' dead-eyed-as-always Tangy in her Ruby Marvelous shirt. Aurora's still got this tidy audience undecided. 'Could be,' she suggests then, 'he's keeping someone down there in the basement. Most stores got a basement to store what they ain't selling right away. Everyone knows that. I should go and find out and get a reward.'

'What if he's keeping body parts down there?'

They're all looking at me now, finally figuring I've snuck behind 'em. Riverswim's got a thick bruise under her eye, but that's prob'ly 'cause she's from 3C. (It goes well with her lipstick.) Everyone in 3C plays hoofball an' gets in fights all the time, even the girls. Aurora's the only one with a real expression an' it's quizzical an' ready to counter. 'Why would he do that?'

'Cause he's a vampire?'

'Shut up, Grace,' she answers simply. 'You've never even been in there. If you were you'd not be so stupid 'bout it.'

My heart's racing. Did she just put sarcasm in my name? Sure, she's told me to shut up before, but she's never tried to put me in my place like that in front of others like Jazzie would. 'Specially not in front of older girls like Riverswim or the Feltway twins, who's eyes I feel immediately. I try not to think 'bout last week when we speculated 'bout those hydra embryos either.

'Oh yeah?' I start , 'I ran into an old friend just yesterday, an' she says she knows for a fact that he's a vampire. She's seen him bite someone, just watching from the window.'

Aurora's unimpressed an' turns back as though she forgot I was here in the first place. 'Maybe this "old friend" needs to get her eyes checked! Give it up, you're just making shit up.' She pauses an' then lowers her voice: 'None of us are buying your pathetic attempts at attention. Are we girls?' She looks round the company an' obviously no one's impressed. Pretty sure Tangy is genetically programmed to not care 'bout anything.

'We'll see,' I warn, putting my hoof to each an' every one of 'em - even Riverswim, who seems more confused than offended. 'We'll see if that's how it is!' I'm shaking so bad I have to pretend to be real serious.

It's a frightening look into the life of the lesser girl status. From the corner where the fence an' the wall meet I get a nice angle on all the other kids, an' it's dead obvious that the middle-of-the-pack girls resolutely band together to make sure they don't drop down below. Is it dangerous then to have relied on just a single friendship up till now? Sure, I've never been on Aurora's level, but she's always tolerated my presence. Now, even Tangy's hanging with her. Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions. It's easy to jump to conclusions, alone in the corner outside. I wonder if boys experience it like this but I doubt it. From what I've seen, boys don't really think too far ahead 'bout much of anything.

A curious thing happens while I'm outside though. The fence door opens an' in breezes a tiny girl, flanked on one side by Principal Mazie an', on the other side, presumably, her mother. Her mother's wearing sunglasses an' is way more muscular than Rod or the toughest boys from 3C. By contrast, her daughter is shorter than the shortest girl from my class an' she's wearing a bright green shirt that somehow makes her look even smaller. Her bright skin is an interesting camouflage, though, but in that company it's a hopeless affair. Even the rope skipping girls stop their routine to gawk at the arrival. Convicted asshole an' regular stay-after-classer Lindon stops tousling some other boy's mane to make sense of it, 'specting perhaps that she's a witness of some heinous crime, 'cause her mother'd be the perfect security force. The principal waves her hoof now an' then, indicating parts of the playground as they canter towards the school building, though she's talking exclusively to her mother. Most compelling of all is that the new kid is smiling the whole way through. Not laughing or saying anything; just smiling.

When we're back in class I expect the worst, but Aurora doesn't seem to remember my warning or telling me I'm full of shit. When I sit down she simply scoots to the edge of her chair an' whispers 'bout the new arrival in the other class. 'Her name's Switch-Go,' she confides, 'but she's from the Bayleaf Republic so no one can pronounce it correctly. And she can't speak properly either. Fizz and Curly thought she was a guest or something; that she ain't old enough to be out of elementary school, but she's got her textbooks and everything.'

As she pauses an' I check to make sure the teacher's not yet arrived I wonder how she knows all of this. She's only just arrived during recess. Have they run into each other in the hall? 'If she can't understand us, why's she in class here?' I ask her.

She gives me a duh face an' then humors me just the same: 'To learn to do it, of course. Her parents probably got a job here so now she's got to go to school here.'

Maybe it's the comfort in talking with her without animosity again, but I don't want these rumors to end. I want to know 'bout Switch-Go's language. I want to know how old she is - is she a year or two too young, as her looks suggest? I want to know if her parents are crime bosses or something else. Mostly I want to know if Switch-Go's staying for good, but I can't ask her any more: Mr. Pressing stumbles in at last an' I discover it's time for Physics. I hate Physics.

There's a big fight after school an' I'm there to see it happen from the start. Well, I don't know what set it off, but there at the swings Cats from 3C pushes poor Dudsie, so he's hunched an' red in the face. I can see that 'cause I had to go the long way round the playground, as a bunch of guys were blocking the way with their card game. Pretty soon everyone's circled round to look, an' I'm pretty sure everyone's feeling sorry for Dudsie, who's a pretty pathetic boy for someone in third class. He's got a face a bit too round an' a neck a bit too short for his body, an' he sucks at sports AND at school, which never happens.

Cats is grinning like an idiot an' turns round confident that the battle's over, but then a weird thing happens: Dudsie ambles forward - he can only amble - an' then suddenly launches himself at Cats; Cats stumbles back with a confused look on 'em - more indignant than anything - an' sort of leans into the swing by accident. Then he tries to pick himself up an' buckles under his own weight, the swing easing forward so he slumps back an' drops onto the tiles neck-first. There's a big ooh from the crowd an' then there's a big hush, 'cause everyone's wondering what's coming next. Dudsie's got this regretful look 'bout 'em - the same that Fir got when Mom caught him stealing chips years ago - an' he can't run or rush in or say something. He just stands there.

When Cats recovers, Dudsie just has to stand there an' take it, covering up his face feebly as Cats lands hook after hook, screaming obscenities. I'm thinking he started out so well: he should've followed up on it or just ran from that point, an' I know it wasn't that he had too much pride. He was afraid to run away even more than he was afraid to fight 'em. Cats got him in a chin hold sort of thing an' I can see Dudsie's getting all sorts of commands whispered into his ears, 'cause he's got just 'nough space to whisper back at Cats, prob'ly saying that he's a pussy an' that Cats is stronger than he is. By the time the teachers finally rush in to break things up, Dudsie is crying worse than I've ever done. It's the first time I'm glad I ain't a boy.

Dress

There's nothing worse than shopping for clothes when it's not a schoolday. Mom puts on her golden necklace move-by-move as I watch the mailmare finally reach our side of the street. Her manner of breathing in itself is a message. I guess it's to make sure I can't forget an' I can't really act surprised when she says it's time to go. Once before when the cheque was delivered I asked her what we'd spend it on, an' she's never forgotten. She also reminds me I can't wear my cap 'cause it "doesn't fit a young lady trying on a dress". At least I have experience in looking stupid.

In the old center there's a row of pricy shops of which there's one most dreadful of all: Rare Couture. In Rare Couture they have clothes made to "a conjecture of provisional measurements" which, I think, means they just have clothes ready-made that they pretend are made to a customer's measurements. As we canter through the old center, though, I try to take my mind off the dreary prospect of withering in that shop for hours by asking Fir something: 'Why did Cats have to beat him up that bad?'

Briefly he gives me his skeptical look; a raised eyebrow an' comical smile, but then he prob'ly realizes I'm serious an' says, 'If he didn't, he'd have to beat him up even worse later. So he got it out of the way then and there.'

There's the sound of a music box coming from an antique store, so I feel like we're commentators at an old-fashioned boxing match. 'Why? Dudsie was only defending himself. He just sort of got lucky when he pushed 'em.'

Fir is genuinely surprised I don't know this. He says, 'He should've not pushed him back to begin with. If Cats didn't beat him up he would've been weak, see? Then, he'd have to do it twice as hard later so ponies'd know he still ain't a pussy. Maybe more than twice as bad.'

My next question is more serious, but before I can ask it, Mom calls, 'Stop talking to your sister about fighting, Fir.'

'She started it,' Fir sighs.

It's curious to me how boys need to prove themselves like that. Where does this judgment come from, anyway? How is it determined how much punishment is proportional? Like, if a tough kid would've pushed Cats round, would he have beaten him up less? Or even more? He might've died, then. It begs the question how Cats is still in school at all, an' not expelled or in prison.

The window sills above us are old but pretty, like hidden souvenirs left there for anyone who dares to look up the arches. I think 'bout Dudsie getting beat up by Cats, an' telling 'em it's not a fair fight; 'splaining that Cats is a dirty asshole jealous of everyone smarter than him, which prob'ly includes just 'bout everyone. I'd laugh modestly an' let 'em make the first move, dodging his wild dash an' delivering a fierce chop, followed by a galloping jump-kick to the back of his head. My karate's too fast for him an' Dudsie looks on at me like it's me that's the older kid. I can beat up six ponies at once without breaking a sweat.

Fir gets to go to the game store at the corner while Mom an' me browse Rare Couture. That's to say, she's browsing an' I'm, as she'd describe it, "moping'. There's only three rings of dresses, connected by the double stairway, but I know it'll take her at least an hour. When she passes near the dressing room stools I ask her, 'How come I can't get something cool? Like, a game or a comic book or something?'

'Because you're getting a dress,' Mom says simply. 'And tomorrow you get to try it on when Aunt Palais and Mrs. Breezeport visit. Don't sit around like that: There's no reason to be bored with your own behavior.'

I sit up straight an' keep my eyes open so she won't tell me again, but my thoughts are elsewhere. Aunt Palais is prob'ly the least interesting mare I've ever met, yet Mom keeps inviting her over just the same. It's like she doesn't even realize all the relatives do when they're over is sit round an' talk bout family an' the news (an' yeah, maybe to recommend speech therapists... fuck that). Uncle Faireweather's real nice though, but apparently too busy to visit. I can't blame him. If I was him I'd be too busy to visit Mom too, an' I'm betting the only reason he visits at all's 'cause of me an' Fir.

Uncle Faireweather was a close friend of Dad, so I often picture 'em sailing together, though I don't know what Dad's really like, so my pictures don't get very far. I just think of their boat bobbing on the water an' that's enough, usually. Today it's a little different. There's rain an' Uncle Faireweather's saying they need to get the water out, throwing bucket after bucket overboard. Turns out Dad's a great stunt flyer, but Uncle Faireweather's the most experienced sailor round. Of course I can't go sailing with him 'cause it's "not safe".

I'm presented with a white an' pink monstrosity, an' though I had decided to accept the first dress Mom would throw my way, I quickly scheme my way out. From the dressing room I call that it doesn't fit right round the waist. It's shit to wait round longer an' have to deal with Mom's harrumphs, but shit is still better than whatever that dress is. It would make me look like a dollhouse princess or an old lady trying to be sexy, an' beyond that, Mom doesn't realize it's got no proper wing slits. (I'm always the odd one out an' paying the price for it.)

There's a plaque in the shop that says that a "Miss Rarity" pursued her dream of fashion so that everyone can look as striking as they feel, an' now there are boutiques as far as Prance an' Manehattan. All of this must surely be great if you give a shit 'bout clothes.

When we finally go to the counter with this flowy green dress the lady beams at me an' says, 'You'll look gorgeous in that, all right!' It's just sincere 'nough for me to mutter, below my breath, 'If anyone needs that to look gorgeous they must be ugly as all fuck.'

When school looms it's impossible to enjoy yourself. It's not actually true so much, of course, but it is when it's something less regular, like Aunt Palais an' Mrs. Breezeport's arrival. The mixtapes I've got are boring 'cause I know their high energy blarings aren't really 'bout anything. The rappers rap 'cause they rhyme, but I can't really tell what the words are - I could put on The Softcorner, but I don't want to. Song after song passes by. Love, partying, heartbreak, an' something 'bout the police never catching "true G's". All of it while looking out of my window an' not really seeing anything. No birds on the balcony; bricks, trees, a bored gardener ignoring the pink an' white blossoms, and, if I pretend I can look past these buildings, I can see the Great Market an' Mr. Appleby's shop.

Fir has escaped, saying he's studying with Rod. (As if.) I wonder where I'd escape to if I could. It's fun to think 'bout running away, but it's stupid fantasies like that that make living life twice as hard. There's no running away; just the prison of reality. I'd prob'ly canter downtown though an' see if I can sneak into any private properties, like the complex next to the baseball cage with the inner gardens an' bridgey corridors, or maybe somewhere round Marigold Square where there's lots of big gardens.

It's so bad I offer to get groceries. After all, if I show off some good behavior, I can perhaps say I'm sick halfway into the visit an' she might believe me. 'We do have need of a cake,' Mom agrees, giving me a way-too-detailed description of the cake she's looking for. It's the basic cake I was thinking of, but of course she doesn't believe I know it, so she repeats it three times an' writes me a note.

It occurs to me that Mrs. Oceano at the Corner Market is from the Bayleaf Republic too, just like the new kid at school. She's 'bout my height, which pretty much proves that ponies over there are pretty short overall, 'cause she's prob'ly old 'nough to be my grandmother. I get the cake an' she asks me if there's a birthday, but when I mutter no she doesn't press it. She's nice like that. Her shop's got a messy look behind the counter an' in the vegetable lane, but the other corners are always super clean. I'm pretty curious why, but instead I ask her, 'Is Bayleaf a nice place to live?'

She considers this for a moment an' then says, 'It's got some nice places. Just like most of everywhere else. Big bears though, that'll eat you alive.' Then she laughs her hiccup laugh an' I know she's just teasing me. I laugh with her 'cause she's always been nice to me.

While she fits the cake in a box I ask, 'What's your word for "hi"?'

'My word? "Hi!"'

She pauses in quiet amusement, unfolding an' re-folding the box. Then she says, 'We greet each other by kicking each other in the head and stealing each other's lunch money, haha!' Her only alternative to the hiccup laugh is to actually say "haha", an' that's when she's at her most sarcastic. 'Sometimes we even use nunchucks for more conversation.'

'There's a new girl at school from Bayleaf,' I say, 'an' they say she can't understand us.'

'Well now you know the language,' she returns brightly, succumbing to another hiccup laugh. Then she gives me a raspberry lollipop an' wishes me a nice day.

'Thank you,' I gush, easing the box on my shoulders.

Outside there's a bit of a commotion coming from the Great Market, an' maybe I was just too busy thinking 'bout the cake to notice it before. There's a juggler, I think, but I can't glimpse anything 'cept ponies' rears an' little kids slurping their shaved ice, yet the voices together are deafening. Weirdly, through the commotion I hear my name called an' wonder what kind of unknown ally would emerge: maybe it's Double Button again, wondering if she can come over like she did a few years ago. Then I see the Feltway twins an' the Queen of the Class herself wiggling through the crowd an' I ain't even disappointed much. Jazzie's wearing a nearly transparent blouse an' has her mane in curls, which is her number one trick at looking older even than the Feltway twins. 'Oh, Gracey,' she croons, 'did you have a good time in there?'

'What, in the Market?' I answer, confused as they trot halfway towards me. 'What sort of stuff's going on there?'

'Yes, in the store,' one of the Feltway twins agree, 'did you have a good time in there? That's what she asked.'

Slowly I slip my raspberry lollipop in my mouth an' shrug. Jazzie follows the lollipop with her eyes an' comments, 'Compensating for something?'

There's a trick to knowing there's an in-joke made at your expense, an' it's basically that when there's two questions in a row that you can't really answer - aren't supposed to answer - then you're made fun of. But outside of school there's no reason to play into their hooves. 'I was just wondering what's going on there? Is there a juggler or something?'

'Oh, it's not something you'd like,' Jazzie decides, 'being a girl with quite different interests and all.' The Feltway twins giggle at this but none of 'em have mean faces; they just have a wash of entertainment carried over, an' if I want to insult 'em I'd just ask if they're drunk. It's easier to just say bye an' canter home, though.

They call something after me, but I have no idea what they're even saying. I'm sucking that raspberry lollipop an', together with the noise from the Market, it's hard to hear much of anything. You have to finish gifts, but it's weird how the lollipop doesn't taste like raspberry at all. It's kind of gross an' not at all like it was last time.

Superheroes that don't make it to the comic books have meaningless powers. Aunt Palais can ignore the cake while eating it. Mrs. Breezeport sits opposite of her, hooves crossed an' carrying an invisible staff over her knee. Mom sits in between so she can look at me the whole way through. The entire thing is like an extended performance, and that fucking dress just won't sit right.

Mrs. Breezeport's talking 'bout her husband who works in metal treatment. 'So it's far more sophisticated than one would think at first glance,' she stresses, her hoof opening an' closing like a baton, 'and it's not strictly hard work that landed him that promotion. No. "Unbridled foresight and loyalty in cooperative initiative."'

They go on endlessly like that, Aunt Palais nodding slowly as Mom squeezes general assent onto Mrs. Breezeport, who's husband has quickly become the main topic of conversation. He's strong, smart, family oriented, an' a career visionary all in one. Prob'ly he's got a huge dick too.

Eventually, though, Mrs. Breezeport remembers I'm wilting at the table an' she turns to me. Maddeningly she switches her tone of voice an' says, slowly, 'And how about you, Miss Grace? What's your favorite subject at school?'

My gut reaction is to speak even more slowly than her an' stretch "having tea and cake" out forever, but I remember when last year Mrs. Breezeport asked me 'bout my favorite word. I had replied then that it was "oligarchical" but Mom quickly told me not to "play smart" an' that my favorite word couldn't be anything I picked up from the papers an' didn't know the meaning of. So, now, I can't even answer that it's recess.

'Biology, Mrs. Breezeport,' I decide eventually.

Now, maybe she was prepared for all answers possible 'cept mine, 'cause she just continues like it's a game show. 'You must be proud of your brother, who's getting to be a handsome young stallion,' she speculates.

'Yes, Mrs. Breezeport.'

'Are you both doing well in school then, Miss Grace? It's very important to do well in school, even at the times you don't know why. So, you'd do well to listen to your mother and do your best.'

'Yes, Mrs. Breezeport.'

'And have you given any thought to what you would like to be?'

This is a trickier question an' I make sure not to move my eyes from her as I think of a good answer. Something 'impertinent' obviously would not do, but worst of all would be if she would follow up my answer with more elaborate questions. I can't just say that I don't know - or don't care - but it would almost certainly be acceptable if I would say I'd like to be a doctor or a metal worker. Mom stops me though by doing her fake cough. 'Grace, be a dear and get our company some more of those tea biscuits, will you?'

Scurrying into the kitchen, I wonder if she thought I couldn't answer that question in any way satisfactory. If I had said what I intended to, almost certainly they'd be impressed with me, and perhaps, Mrs. Breezeport would even have gone on 'bout her husband again. When I get the biscuits an' readjust my dress - which seems intent on riding up my crotch an' refuses to stay strapped round my shoulders properly - I hear the three of 'em talking away in a curious hush. It's not like they're whispering, but that just makes it all the more suspicious. Leaning just outside the doorway I try to make sense of their secret conversation.

'...to think I had worried about him, Dahlia, but you've taken care of him wonderfully, all right.' Aunt Palais was talking to Mom, there, but whenever I hear her name it's like she's someone else. She continues: 'I regret to say that, though you've been nothing short of admirable, it's his sister that concerns me the most. She reminds me more of him each time I see her.'

'You say that,' Mom answers sternly, 'but remember she's not trying to be like her father anymore. At all. She's just trying to find herself now.'

I try not to move so much that I'm shaking. 'That's good,' Mrs. Breezeport agrees, 'it's no good when you have to make her choose. And it's more difficult than when it's a separation. In a separation, ponies develop in their new roles, and pretty soon, when they're older, they realize they don't have to choose between the two. After my first marriage, Burdock didn't want anything to do with me, but now he visits every month. You can't put a price on that, and what a strong, independent and clever stallion he is now. But you wouldn't have thought it back then. Back when they're that age they--'

They stop talking the second Mom sees me entering the living room, pouring fresh tea an' then starting up bullshit 'bout the coming summer. Mrs. Breezeport remarks I've picked the perfect dress for the season an' there's instantaneous agreement all round.

'I didn't pick it,' I say, immediately regretting it. It's as if being in the kitchen has hit a reset an' I have to tell myself again to stay calm an' collected. For all that, none of 'em notice my inappropriate response, which is somehow worse.

'I was just telling your mother about my children,' Mrs. Breezeport says in her slow motion voice, crossing her hooves twice over so that her lap is like a landing strip for her cup an' saucer. 'You must look forward to going to the beach and playing with your brother in a few months.'

'Yes, Mrs. Breezeport.' I empty the biscuits on the tray an' put the packaging alongside the nearly finished cake.

'Fir spends most of his free time studying,' Mom says proudly, 'and I'm happy to say that Grace is finally following his example.'

Aunt Palais laughs politely an' it suddenly strikes me that she's not just older than Mom, but also older than Mrs. Breezeport. Sure, Mrs. Breezeport's got lines on her face an' has children as old as Mom an' Aunt Palais, but it's Aunt Palais' laugh that betrays the deeper understanding. It's like she knows what's going on below these conversations. That makes her scary-dangerous, of course, 'cause no doubt she knows what I'm doing; might even know what I'm thinking right now.

Mrs. Breezeport finishes her tea with an upward glance. 'That's so good of you, Grace,' she says, 'you'll make your mother proud then, won't you?'

There's a bit of nausea building, an' the smell of the cake doesn't do me any favors. It's weird, but I can't really say anything 'bout it. It's like it's more trouble than it's worth. I nod an' say, 'Of course, Mrs. Breezeport.'

I remember a dream I had last night, or maybe the night before last, where I fly through the house like an untethered balloon. It's not a pleasant thing to remember, but it's prob'ly the nausea that's doing it. Even as I slip out of my dress it's like I'm bobbing along the ceiling of every room - even Mom's bedroom, which is as much off-limits in my dreams as it is here. It's filled with the old music Fir insists she still plays when we're at school, an' if I try hard I can almost remember what it sounds like. I put on my cap an' shamble to the window, leaning on the corner desk. It's a silly habit, 'cause there's never really anything to see there.

On impulse I rummage through the piles of notebooks an' faded exercise books an' find the old photograph of Dad. It's worse quality than I remember an' I can only see his face, really, with a backdrop of blackened bricks. He's smiling at the camera, but not in a happy way; more like he's just stopped whatever he was doing an' is tired. Easier to remember his accomplishments: Fastest out-of flight school to complete the Lichtwacht Test; Second pegasus ever to complete a triple spin-twister in a flapless vertical. Never heard Fir rave 'bout any of these things even as a kid, so I guess like Mom he's just naturally dumb to that kinda stuff. No pegasi. I wonder how much 'bout him Mom didn't tell me, but decide quick enough that it doesn't matter. I bury the picture frame under the books again an' move back to the bed.

Being sick is a lot like dreaming in that you think things but can't really control 'em, an' then they're kind of real. Flying round usually ends like that... I make it to the balcony, where there's no real ceiling an' nothing to hold on to - the drainpipe slips from grasp, anyway - an' I float up into the sky.

Nuisance

At PE Aurora's rushed ahead, for whatever reason, so I'm putting on my gym shoes by myself. She's been sat next to me here since the very first day of school - we just sort of ended up together, in almost every class an' in spots like this. There's a lot of unspoken alliances in middle school, an' they're never really questioned, I guess, 'cause maybe when you do they sort of crumble to pieces.

The weird thing is that there's always a bunch of girls sitting on the pommels an' benches in the back while everyone else is sporting. Aurora's there with Jazzie an' nerdy Quartz, an' sure, Jazzie's there a lot of the time, just chatting away, but Aurora? That's never happened before. An' it's just soccer - that's just running back an' forth after the ball an' little else. (I've always thought it kind of weird that when girls are sick, Mr. Starflex will let 'em sit it out, but when boys are complaining, he calls 'em out for, as he put it, "kidding", an' pays close attention to 'em to make sure they ain't slacking off.)

I keep looking to their corner, expecting 'em to be looking back at me, but each time I look they're just chatting amongst themselves, paying no heed to the soccer game at all. Curiously I'm actually pretty good at it: almost every time I look back, the ball's shot near me with a huge amount of empty space round me. It's nice not being on goal for once; I can trot round however I want. After the class, though, I can't help but ask Aurora what she's been discussing over there all class. I ask it innocently enough as we ditch our gym shoes, an' sure 'nough, her response is equally innocent. Softly, just soft 'nough so no one else hears, she says, 'Oh, it's just about Mr. Appleby's. They asked me to take them, but I ain't sure.'

There are times when I think everyone's just a little bit too crazy, but as I'm hurrying through the hallways I'm reminded of Uncle Faireweather confiding to me during his last visit that when you're sailing, you're bound to have a couple of ponies on board that you normally wouldn't tolerate having near you all the time. Going to school is kind of like that, 'cept that there's an entire fleet of ships, crossing between each other, with sailors boarding an' departing all day. Still, Uncle Faireweather did stress that it's important to find 'nough common ground to coexist, but I doubt his sailors are this fucking impossible.

Maybe it's that I'm so lost in thought that I rush my way to the Biology lab far more than necessary, but there's no one there at the top of the stairs. I peek through the lab door's window an' find it's empty inside. The door's unlocked as well, so in I go. I've never much cared for the lab - it's hardly as exciting as it's made out to be - but I spot the big lizard model on the desk under the bone posters, surrounded by tiny dinosaurs an' the pre-historic equine skeleton. It takes some crouching to look underneath it, but there's nothing there--

'Pardon?' Mrs. Shellski seems genuinely surprised, so I'm automatically embarrassed. 'What are you doing in here?'

'Oh,' I stammer, 'I was just looking at the lizard, an'...'

'You're not supposed to be in here until I open the door,' she says simply. I've never known her to be so no-nonsense, but apparently she's not having a good day, 'cause she's really mad at me. Most of the other kids made their way up the stairs an' they're waiting behind her as she repeats, 'You're not supposed to be in here until I open the door. Now, get to your seats, everyone.'

I take my place at the front of the lab next to Jazzie, still reeling from being confronted so seriously for no reason. Can Jazzie tell I'm feeling like a pirate now, 'cause of my thinking the school a fleet of boats an' strolling into the unlocked door? I somehow expect her to say something even though Biology's the one class she behaves herself an' also the single one she's next to me. I hear her words come in deliberate as bullets, not even caring that she's whispering loud 'nough for Mrs. Shellski to hear: 'I know what you were doing in there, Gracey-lacey, dreaming of that shop lady again. So. Bad.'

Fuck you, I think at her, I ain't even gonna try to figure out what the fuck you mean. I don't say a word though, I just look straight ahead an' pretend she doesn't exist. It never works, but it's all I have.

To make the bell come faster I order my five favorite songs of the day, though I've not listened to the radio much lately an' forgot which songs completed my previous top 5. I'm certain I want Street Symphony by Yours Truly in 4 or 5, but that's all that comes to me. I watch a fly buzz its way along the upper windows while one ear's making sure Mr. Paleo's still harmlessly reciting the colonial times. Most of my thoughts keep returning to Jazzie's maddening attempts at pissing me off; a sure sign that she's succeeding. She prob'ly listens to Ruby Marvelous like every girl does.

I'm pretty sure there's a bunch of boys an' girls laughing at me as I trot through the halls, but I'm equally sure I'm imagining things - hard to tell those things apart now. I ain't imagining the scene outside though. Lots of boys are apparently starting up a soccer game along the fence, both brick sides goals of some sort, but half of the place is obstructed by a whole bunch of girls laughing an' calling things at someone. Aurora an' myself find each other right round the time we see it's Switch-Go, looking up weakly as some of the loftier girls of her class (I make out the backs of the black-maned girl an' Pearl) rummaging through her bag an' tossing out various belongings. I see lipstick tossed out - giggles - then needle an' thread, again greeted by giggles. Scissors: giggles. Among all that, they're calling, 'Slinkie!' like it's her new insult-name. Then, when her tormentors are done an' kids are filing through the gate, Aurora passes her an' whispers snidely to her, 'Slinkie!' an' before I know what I'm doing, I do the exact same thing. 'Slinkie.'

We don't get to go through the gate though, 'cause for some reason Principal Mazie was right behind us an' refuses to see or hear anything 'cept us. In fact, she doesn't even help Switch-Go collect her things - something she does so meekly that it's as if she doesn't know she's just been hit an' mugged by 'bout half her class. Principal Mazie grasps us both by the shoulders an' neither of us can muscle free - she's held us in a lock of guilty, an' I feel myself shaking with the desire to cry.

It's stupid to defend yourself by talking 'bout what other kids do, an' Principal Mazie just knows it's equally stupid to make us say things we don't believe or understand. Quietly we're put in the classroom an' she slips us two pieces of paper for us to fill in. 'When you're done, see me next-door,' she says, using the inner door to go to the other classroom.

It takes us a minute to realize the obvious way to complete the questions is to both do one half an' then copy each other's answers - 'cept one or two to make it less obvious, of course. We do this quietly 'cause the room's empty an' neither of us really wants to accept what happened. Maybe she's more guilty at getting caught, I think, but I ain't 'zactly sure what I feel guilty 'bout. I should've told Principal Mazie that "Slinkie" ain't even an insult; should've told her that all these other kids got to go home unpunished an' that they actually hurt her. Switch-Go, on the other hoof, doesn't even understand our language.

Aurora's taking her time with her half, so I lazily sketch dog an' cat ponies in my sketchbook. Her lack of intensity together with her denim shorts suggest she's in the park doing crosswords. Drawn to the scribbling of my pencil, she whispers to me, 'What's that for?'

'What do you mean what's it for?'

She shrugs then an' I feel like we're each other's accomplices. Bank robbers. Safe crackers. Murderers at large. It's an oddly liberating feeling to experience when undergoing punishment, but it's easy to admit it: Staying after class is not even an inch as bad as school, where everyone's watching for you to stumble an' kids are trying to put themselves over you at every moment. No point here. I even feel like I accomplished something when we give Principal Mazie our papers, an' I make sure not to look smug when she discharges us.

'See you tomorrow,' Aurora says, an' I realize Fir's long gone home. The unfairness of that one-sided report Mom's bound to get takes all the wind out of my steps. The hallways become desolate, an' Aurora trotting left at the gate where I go right is like my lone ally abandoning ship. It'll be nothing but a beatdown at home.

But, I reason when I find the street quieter than usual, I'm still free. No one's caught me yet. Discharged. An' if I'm fucking stupid enough to call a girl names for no reason, I'm pretty sure I can run with that an' see where I end up. The obvious road then is towards the city. I've never, ever cantered there by myself, but it doesn't really matter. If I end up lost I can always go back, an', anyway, it's still light out. Better yet: barely any kids round here. They all play at the park, at the baseball cage, or at home. If I had some candy this would feel even better. When I'm home I can just say I headed straight home after detention.

Postponing is addictive. I manage to get 'nough money from the supermarket floor to get some chips but they don't have the chunky ones that everyone likes. Worse yet, there's a stallion in the grass square looking at me like I'm trespassing for the entire time I'm munching . It's prob'ly been hours since I've left the school grounds, but I've not found anything much worth finding, an' so it's equally pointless to just go back.

There's a cool club with black wallpaper rounding the corners of the doorway. It's an old corner building that's real close to crumbling to dust, an' maybe it's chance an' maybe it's not, but I remember seeing this building before. Pretty sure, in fact, we've passed it when we've gone to some fancy restaurant when I was young. It's still there, though it's a quarter to get in an' I'm already in the doorway. Loud music booms cross an' two guys in spiky armor yell at each other as they're ushered in by the doorpony. He's got a ring through his nose an' is wearing what looks like plastic underwear over his head. He's also 'bout twice my age an' doesn't feel the need to even say anything; he just peers down at me with an I can't believe this look. I wish I had my cap on me. I'm pretty sure it makes me look a whole year older.

'Go home, kid,' he says when he decides that I'm just gonna linger at the doorway forever. I was enjoying myself though. The music makes no sense, but it's comforting like a factory of weird noises you don't really have to listen to. I look at him pleadingly, but he's immune. My eyes divert to this poster declaring in erratic letters NUISANCE NIGHT.

'Chill out,' another voice says, swinging to my rescue. He's at least a year older than Rod; maybe even three years older, an' he's got these crazy, vibrant hair extensions in his mane, each colored differently and flashing as the club's lights change color and direction. 'She's a friend of Ebony,' he adds. Thankfully, the doorpony accepts, an' my mysterious rescuer leads the way further into the club.

There's a long bar leading all the way in towards the dance floor, where only a couple of ponies are - it's still early, apparently. Still, there are a few of the guys I saw earlier, sitting on a stony bench 'gainst the wall, talking an' drinking freely. The stallion says something near my ear I can't make out an' then points opposite the bar, where a short corridor caves into a hidden alcove with two empty tables. I sneak in there, hoping I won't just be abandoned there to be kicked out again. There are metallic plaques covering parts of the floor an' I have a great time imagining my hooves clinking over 'em, the music far too loud to actually hear much of anything. It's a small surprise then when I see those purple an' green hair strands shimmering next to me when we sit down.

It's more quiet here, but he's still shouting to be heard. 'I didn't know what you wanted,' he 'splains, 'so I figured you'd like a beer.' He slides the beer on the table awkwardly, but it's somehow still cool. I have a great time thinking for a moment how easily he'd beat up Fir. Or just 'bout anyone I know. He's got these metallic shoulder pads an' a couple of biker-style patches on his vest. Stitches on his pants.

'Beer's fine,' I say, trying to think of something appropriate to say. He reads me easy enough, though, pre-empting me stumbling round words, an' whispering in my ear, 'It's okay. You don't have to drink it. You can have a sip and I'll finish the rest later. Oh, and if anyone looks at you funny tell 'em to buzz off.'

'Never been here,' I admit after a short while, 'but I like it. Is it always like this?'

He bobs his head to the music an' swerves his ear towards me, then pauses, an' finally decides he heard correctly, saying, 'There ain't always live music. Tonight's a local band. Not quite like this, though -' he waves round himself grandly '- more edgy underground punk; like The Pillagers or Prosecution.'

I nod but he gulps down half his beer, burps, an' then calls, 'That's right, I forgot this is your first time.' He stops an' chuckles, then pretends to slap himself. 'You should come here more, y'know, you'd get along fucking ace with my sister. She could show you all sorts of things. She's the only one who smokes in here. She's got a pass.'

'I don't mind smoking,' I say, an' then boldly take a swig from the beer. It tastes like carbonated vomit going in an' like oil going down. I keep a straight face an' am relieved when I see he's looking at the bar. The alcove is getting a little crowded as more ponies are shouldering in.

'They're setting up. This your first gig? You don't wanna miss it.'

N9ghtmare 99 plays a kind of music I've never heard before. It's like... none of 'em know what they're doing: they're just making stuff up an' somehow they're aligned. The sight of the guitarists an' drummer banging an' wailing, smashing an' yelling is one thing - a portrait of an illegal violence - an' the sound is something else. But then, it's not 'zactly good either. It's just loud an' the only words I can make out are "fucking pissed" an' when they yell "fuck off shit face I'm gonna murder your place; I've gotta mind to steal a rake fast rearrange your face". Then the guitarist pulls a crazy face an' coaxes some squealy static out of his instrument; the speakers match up an' there's hiss with a deafening block of beep-buzz.

It's impossible to expect this music. Or even then to predict what they're doing next. I think they'll fall over dead, but they don't; one of 'em keels over an' then picks himself up to screech at the microphone. I keep expecting the crowd to laugh, or just lose interest, but a two dozen guys just launch themselves 'gainst the stage. Pretty soon I realize I'm the only one just sort of standing there, an', though it's just by myself, I give the air a couple of kicks, pretty much like the N9ghtmare 99 do all the time, an' I figure that, with this much noise, an' this little lighting, it doesn't matter anyway.

The guy finds me between songs. 'Oh, I forgot, I'm called Crayzer here,' he calls, 'and my sister's Ebony.' He's drinking both of his beers an' holds 'em up like he's thanking me. I know it's temporary, but, it's never been this easy to not think 'bout anything else. A rush surges inside an', maybe it's the beer, 'cause I have more energy than ever. Crayzer looks over his shoulder once more as he slow-dashes back to the front, calling, 'Having a fuckin' good time or what?'

Detention

So this must be what a hangover feels like. Every muscle in my body hurts. Even the wafts of hot air from the bakery remind me that everything hurts. I'm pretty sure I'm too sore for school. Perhaps all the ponies at Nuisance Night stay home today. They can't all go to school, can they? The apartments cross the street play host to a few boys sharing a bag of chips, like there's no hurry at all.

In the past when I replay in my head those incidents when Mom's seething at me, I would alter it so that I've got a retort for everything she says, but today it's like I just let it all happen again. From the moment I saw her tired, wide-eyed face opening the door, an' I said, 'Good evening, Mom,' it's a straight repeat all the way through. Playing it cool like that didn't work one bit. It's just like shrugging when she scolds me for swearing over breakfast or interrupting her stupid radio soaps.

I'm pretty sure that if there's a Freaking Out Award to be won Mom's got a whole collection stored in her bedroom somewhere, an' fuck, this was the freak-the-fuck-out that put all freak outs to shame. Fuming, hysterical, an' constantly complaining that the neighbours won't know what to think 'bout all the noise; complaining like it's not her exclusively shouting an' screaming.

I just took it. Summarizing the punishments is easy 'nough. First, I was going straight to bed. I was exhausted anyway. Second, going straight home after school an' staying in my room. Third; grounded for at least a week. It's pretty mild overall, really. She's got me locked inside 'nough as it is. You can't twice enslave a slave.

It didn't feel like a retort at the time, but maybe the reason I can't really change anything that happened was 'cause at one point - an' this was the only time I really said anything - I said that Fir can pretty much do what he wants an' never gets shit for it. It wasn't an excuse or anything, even. 'Don't change the subject, young lady,' she said with sudden restraint, 'and you can stop your crying. You've got nothing to be sad about.' Her nostrils flared an' her eyes were nearly filled with tears.

That's Mom, all right, even when she's angry she can collect herself enough to be important an' just. It must be nice to only worry 'bout your daughter being out at night.

'One sec,' Fir says, plodding to the other side of the street where Rod an' the almost-but-not-quite 3C Cruiser (I think he's in 3A) smoke a cigarette before school. They're leaning 'gainst the Community Center wall, which is prob'ly the domain of dog piss, but the two of 'em don't seem to care. I wait just out of reach of their conversation, an' just by watching 'em I'm pretty sure Fir only skirted over to prove that he belongs there, an' not 'cause he has anything to say.

Class must be starting any moment now so I'm quietly zigzagging my way closer. 'Oh, I'd kick his teeth in,' Cruiser grunts, 'he's nothing but bad news with a face only his mother could love.' They laugh an' Rod suggests, 'But don't talk such stuff around Fir's sister; she'll tell on you.'

He says that for my benefit, laughing to make sure everyone knows it's a joke. The only one not amused is Fir, who says, 'Stay back, Grace, we're talking about something serious.'

I give him a yeah right sort of look an' pretend to be inching back to the other side of the street again. There's an old mare leading a yapping little dog, or the dog's leading her. Still, I can hear Rod speculate, 'She got dumped 'cause she's boring trash, not 'cause she was cheating on him. No one cheats on that guy, believe me. He takes it real serious, 'cause he's got a little brother they say was stillborn. So he don't cheat and no one ain't cheatin' on him.'

Of course no one asks who says such things or where those stories come from. I figure it's just boy talk, but still, when Fir finally joins up with me before the last street corner I ask who they're talking 'bout. 'See ya later,' Rod calls, 'gotta smoke one more before I can take it.'

Fir first tells me, in a serious, non-teasing sort of way not to wait round for him like that. 'If you're doing nothing,' he says, 'you've gotta look like you're doing something. Either you're thinking 'bout something or you're looking for something in your pocket. But not rushing to it: that makes you look stupid and confused. Just do it slowly.'

Then he 'splains that it's Riverswim's boyfriend who broke up with her an' also adds, 'The thing about the stillborn's that it's not just a stillborn. That's actually true.'

I'm pretty sure a stillborn's a baby who's born dead, or has been dead for a long time when they see it, but I make sure not to rush him along so he can 'splain what's so special. It's a serious hush that goes before the story, an' then he makes me promise not to tell anyone else. We slow to a crawl so we don't arrive at school before he's 'splained it. 'Okay,' he says when he accepts my promise, 'what they say is - and that's from Riverswim's family who knew the doctor - that once they saw his brother was stillborn Moss changed. Like, straightaway-changed. No, he didn't become all angry or anything like that. Or sad. He just became real calm, and the doctor himself said that it was like his little brother joined him up there.'

'Up where?' I ask.

'Up in his mind, of course.'

He keeps it at that an' we separate, an' I don't know if it's the story, but when we split he gives me a very suspicious look. Now I know he wants to canter the halls alone so as not to be teased 'bout going with me, but it's like he's been planning to give me that look all morning. I can't believe he's in cahoots with Mom 'bout these kinds of things - after all, he once complained to her that me going to his school at all was like a death sentence for him. So, it's gotta be like he's been thinking 'bout it in another way, an' I think, has he been going through any more changes then, or is it me who's changed this time?

There's a weird feeling in the class room, like everything's changed. I think it's the story Fir just told me an' the intense night before, but then I see Quartz sitting next to me polishing her glasses an' I think, oh, Aurora's home sick or something, but she's right there at the front-left of the class, wearing a new pink button-up shirt. Looking right at me. It's hard to read her look: If anything, it's remarkably pensive.

Just a hoofful seconds later Mr. Voluble trots in for Language, a large stack of textbooks blocking his face. These are then distributed through class, but when he passes me he says, 'You can catch up later. For now, if you will go see Principal Mazie?' (This is something adults do; phrasing their orders as offers, so that not only you have to do something, but you also should feel thankful for it.)

Confused, I leave my seat an' go for the door. I hear Jazzie saying, in a mocking voice, 'Mr. Voluble? Where's Grace going?'

'That's none of your business, Jazzie,' Mr. Voluble says, 'she'll be back before you know it.'

I can hear her exaggerated pouting from the hallway.

Principal Mazie's office reeks of dust in the way that most stale parts of school do, an' I wonder briefly if she's just sitting round here all day. I've been here just once before, when I had completed grade school, an' had found it such a pleasant little room at the time. I loved the filing cabinets particularly. It was like they were storing lots of important things 'bout everything an' everyone, an' each little section was reserved for something special.

She tells me to sit down an' hides her papers under the two stacks on the side of her desk. The chair's too big for me an' I feel stupid, but there's no reason for me to feel guilty 'bout anything. Sure, the Switch-Go incident was embarrassing, but she punished me for that herself. Not unkindly she says, 'I've got something here that I think belongs to you,' an' promptly retrieves a black package from a clanging drawer, placing it on the desk resolutely.

I analyze the object an' see it's all wafery an' crumbling at the corners - it's an ashy remnant of something, an' for a short moment my mind starts racing; thinking 'bout things I've set on fire in the past, though I've never even done something of the sort. Only slowly do I start 'specting something serious; reaching for the charred remnants an' trying to leaf through the pages which promptly crumble at the touch. I'm pretty certain. Someone's burnt my sketchbook.

'Did you put a light to your book?' Principal Mazie asks, prob'ly trying her hardest to get eye contact with me, but I just lean off of the chair so my chin's right 'gainst the book. I think of the drawings that are - were - in there, lost forever. Maybe twenty or thirty pages' worth. Eventually I mutter, 'Who's burned my sketchbook?'

Sure, I know the answer, but it's like I'm waiting to hear it so I'm no longer staring so helplessly. Stillborn brothers, what's the deal? Who wants another brother anyway? I know what it's like to have a brother, an' big brothers are far worse, no doubt 'bout it.

Eventually Principal Mazie says, 'Aurora said that you burned it after class yesterday because you were angry with me and wanted to burn down the school, and that you threatened her not to say anything.'

Like Moss upon seeing the baby in the hospital I'm utterly calm. Simply, I don't know what to feel, an' I think maybe I ain't supposed to feel anything, an' maybe none of this is very important anyway. I even forgot Principal Mazie's question till she repeats it: 'Did you put a light to your book? That is your book, isn't it?'

'It's my sketchbook,' I say, 'but you can have it now. Not much point for it now, I guess.'

She stands up an' I see her shadow bow over me, an' when I look up again there's a plastic beaker with water in it. 'Wait here for five minutes before returning to class,' she says, 'but - look at me, Grace.' I look at her face an' it's stern to the point where it ain't much else. Then she says, 'If this trouble between the two of you won't go away, you must see Mrs. Kindheart's office. Over there, down the hall.'

'I ain't sure,' I say, aware that I'm mumbling very strangely. 'Aurora's my best friend.'

Mrs. Kindheart may be the school counsellor - psychiatrist; psychologist; shrink - but she's also a definitive sentence to the lowest rung of all.

My surreal day continues way past just the new neighbour in class. Quartz herself even seems reluctant to be sitting next to me, and between classes Jazzie's constructing something between an insult an' an explanation for what happened before I got to school today. Normally everyone's talking at once, but even the boys are listening today. First, between Language an' Maths, she tells me, indirectly, 'Quartz, watch out she doesn't burn your underwear too! Bet she'd like that.' Then, before History, she declares, 'No one wants to sit next to you, Grace. Maybe you should stop being such a psycho. I swear, I wouldn't be surprised if you end up in jail if you don't get a clue.' 'What a clueless cunt,' echoes Rasp behind me with genuine disgust. Just a couple of months ago Jazzie was making fun of Rasp's crazy curls going this way an' that, asking her again an' again where she got her mane done. It's all forgotten now.

Not for a moment did I tell myself it's over. At recess Aurora's waiting for me, surrounded by one half of the Feltway twins an' a girl I think's in Fir's class. She's pretending to hide from me there before the lunch hall, saying, 'You've got problems, Grace. Don't take it out on me.' I don't know if she's playing the victim or the bitch. I can't even say anything. 'I hope you're okay,' she calls after me when I manage to wriggle past 'em towards the playground, 'I hope you get checked out!'

That shit's worse 'cause my neck aches an' my shirt's sticking 'gainst my chest. Still, the weirdest thing of all's yet to come. At the bench Ruff an' Constante play cards, all the time reaching for their cards to stop the wind from picking 'em up an' sending 'em flying, talking openly 'bout Aurora's new boyfriend. It's a good thing I'm a girl, so that despite my new status as the school's resident trash bag I'm still invisible to 'em an' can hear 'em talk all 'bout it.

'That's like one day after breaking up with Riverswim - you know, that witch from 3C. He must be like four years older than her!'

'Shows you she's kinda pretty for her age,' Constante agrees, 'maybe all the older boys want to fuck her.'

They chuckle, unaware that they're basically saying that the only reason they themselves don't want to have sex with her's 'cause they're too young. (Too young being, evidently, 'bout her age.) An' who'd want to, anyway? If only they knew she was such a bitch. Ruff an' Constante might be in my class, but I know nothing 'bout their families an' who they've dated. Could it be that no one knows a thing 'bout Aurora, instead focusing entirely on the truly popular girls like Jazzie, an' the rad girls from third an' fourth class?

They start talking 'bout another couple making the rounds in school, but it's too gross to stick round for. Boys must be immune to that kind of talk. Even my temporary corner, all the way at the edge of the fence, is occupied by a soccer game. All I can do is just sort of linger near the swings.

I can't help but wonder if Aurora had a similar sort of experience after detention; if, while I wandered into the dark club, she had gone a different way an' ended up somewhere unexpected as well. Maybe she's found a box full of bits or rad action figures somewhere, or instead watched someone get into an accident; standing right there as they'd fall off a roof. An' whatever she went through, good or bad, it just changed everything.