Birth of a Bullet

Calm

I just decide to wear my cap to school. Why have I never thought of carrying it in my bag an' then putting it on the moment we go round the corner? When enough unfair shit happens to you it's easier to bend the rules. Mom had never said not to wear Uncle's cap to school - she just told me to take it off the few times I had it on waiting for Fir to put his clothes on.

Fir himself is being an ass, actually, but I don't really care. He's saying I should stop being such a baby, or something, 'cause I'm kicking pebbles while we canter. He's been doing that before I did it, an' he'll continue to do it for the rest of his life, just not while I'm round. 'Rod tell you that?' I ask, an' he replies with a little laugh. 'Sure, if you want,' he says.

I purposefully kick a soda can cross the road. 'What I want is for you to shut up.'

'Then I suggest you don't ask me anything,' he retorts. 'But sure. You can even have the last word, if you want. I'm all quiet.' He twists an invisible key 'tween his lips an' tosses it over his shoulder.

'You can have it,' I reply, trying to stay perfectly calm. 'I don't care.'

He just nods with an ah sort of noise, an' he knows I'm fuming so bad that he doesn't even need to say anything more. When he's going his way round the school I can't help but tell the school wall that he's a fucking asshole. But what else is new?

There's just no way I can make it through another school week being called a psycho an' fuck knows what else. I practically expect it when I see Jazzie an' her goons waiting for me - yes, actually waiting for me - at the gates. I know 'cause even though a whole pack of boys pass, they keep staring past 'em, right at me. It's a bit far, but I'm certain she's smirking. She wants me to dread what's to come all the way to the gate so that she knows that I know that she knows I'm looking at her an' I won't even be able to trot normally. She doesn't realize it though, but I practiced for this moment going home from school just the day before. Yesterday I inched my way out of class at the end of the day so no one could ambush me on the way out - knowing that you don't gallop from your enemies; you just trot fast so that no one knows you're not always moving that fast, an' no one really sees you. An' now, well, now they don't know why I'm turning right, trotting coolly along Courtsway Lane.

I'm spending a lot of minutes slowly inching along Courtsway Lane thinking 'bout how Jazzie'll rat on me - maybe even telling the teachers that she saw me skipping class - but I ain't annoyed with her right now. Just like when I was in the club over a week ago, it's all merely grade school insults 'bout stubby tails an' being afraid to go down the slide now. It's impossible to be so concerned with school when you're not in it right this moment. Maybe that's how you're supposed to deal with school in the first place. It becomes a lot easier when you don't have to be there at all. Then maybe you can look in through the window an' decide it ain't so bad after all. Fuck. Must be fucking nice being an adult then.

It's sad that the club's bound to be all shut off an' closed, an' I just sit on a bench drinking my juice box an' enjoying the morning sun. Even that simple thing is a great experience, not looking at the sun from inside the class room. But, even so, I know I can't just do nothing all day an' bore myself like that, an' it's just too stupid to scrounge for money to buy chips. No, I'd have to find something important to do. Something that'll change all my fortunes; remake everything so the next time I return to school they won't even recognize me.

For a little while I sit there, waiting for a suitable plan to come to me. There's the street sign at the corner, prob'ly older than the street itself. The street's got a golden arch way further at the end, though there's no royalty there anymore I think. At least the princess rides her carriage through it whenever she visits publicly. (Old ponies an' the radio love that sort of thing. Mom certainly does.) Courtsway Lane leads to the court, but was it built going that way, or instead, did it lead out a certain distance with little else round an' then given that name afterwards 'cause the courtyard's the most important place to go? I've often wondered why I'm me, an' not someone else, but I've never really been able to 'splain the question to myself, an' it frustrated me endlessly when Mom refused to understand it when I put it to her. Now it's like all roads go at least two ways, an' millions of ponies canter 'em differently. The names of the streets then are just kind of stupid, but I always knew that.

It's not Aurora that's steering me all the way round the deadly proximity of school towards Breakaway Street. I ain't sure what it is, but if there's something important to be found, it just has to sit there in the basement of Mr. Appleby's shop. The reasoning for it's that today of all days it's the one day it's closed. It's the feeling Fir talked 'bout when we got a lottery ticket an' he knew we'd win, only with me I know for certain there's something to it.

Fir once bragged he kicked in the shed door of the old lady with the huge garden beyond Marigold Square. He made it sound like it wasn't that he was so strong; it was just that he had the guts to do it an' the door itself's not so sturdy. Mr. Appleby's shop door is flimsy 'nough, for sure, an', looking past the "CLOSED" sign I can see all the lights are off inside. It's just dust blinded by the sun in there, little more than a dusty corner of old junk. I just have to keep standing here an' make sure absolutely no one's round. Just the one mare in the giant green hat passes, leaving the Corner Market an' disappearing all the way down the street. The Great Market's plenty busy, but no one knows I'm here - but can I really just start kicking down the door in broad daylight? I bet Fir wouldn't have the guts to do that. Sheds are one thing, but I'm pretty sure ponies can go to jail for breaking into a shop. All that old lady ever did was yell at us to stay round the tree an' not trample her roses.

'Cause it's schooltime there must be the question in ponies' minds asking if I eloped or something, though maybe everyone's just too busy today. I spend what feels like an hour shuffling through the Market, passing vegetables, candy, an' sewing stuff, an' it's not like I expect to find a crowbar or a rusty poker, but behind those stands there are all these containers an' surrounding junk. There has to be something. Pigeons have a meeting round a bunch of hayfries drowning in daisy sauce. Fir thought it childish to admit to Rod that we climbed these very roofs, but even now it's obviously a feat worth mentioning. I could climb up the blue containers an' jump over - then it's just a matter of not sliding off. There's a toy sword an' ax for sale, but if the sword's really a dagger, then what's the ax? Not 'zactly something.

Something turns out to be a screwdriver, an' I have to pay for it too. The stallion selling it looks like Mr. Gaunt, 'cept he's got a plumber look instead of a Maths teacher, with his sagging belt an' brown bracers reaching out for money. Mom may have decided that I wouldn't get any allowance this month, but I still got a dime saved an' there's a perfectly hefty screwdriver at the tool stand that costs 'zactly that. The hero gets her skeleton key an' no one can stop her now. Anyone who tries gets a karate kick to the back of the head, no apologies.

More precious time rolls by, nervously watching the Market goers trot to an' fro as I gather the strength to do what I set out to do; do what I'm now committed to. I hide my screwdriver an' think 'bout what I'd do if I'd get caught. Sure, I could just run away, which would work great if it was an old stallion yelling at me from across the street, but what if it was a policemare or something? The only thing I could think of was that, with Uncle Faireweather's cap on, I might look like a girl who's parents repair doors an' stuff. So, I would just repair the door, not wrench it open.

There's a distant laugh eerily like Jazzie's that hails from the Market, but of course it's schooltime an' I'm just imagining things. It's crazy easy to wedge the door open - the lock itself is barely even attached to the door! It's like it was gonna fall apart just the same, but the best part is it's still hanging onto the wood even as I sneak inside Mr. Appleby's shop. 'Rad,' I tell myself as I close the door behind me, the knob rattling an' shifting just the least.

The light of the sun is just enough to make it so the ground floor itself is a basement, an' I stop for a moment to collect my findings. It's smaller than I remember it, but not as much as I expected. Besides the old-as-fuck paintings there are the three cuckoo clocks at odds with each other tick-tocking behind the counter; the brass bell doesn't have a price tag an' is just there in case Mr. Appleby's down in the cellar; at least five record players top cabinets an' dressers, an' a whole bunch more antique radios fill out every inch of available space on the furniture. The prices too seem erratic, but I can't concern myself with that now any more than I did when I was young. In the corner there's a box with toys an' I hide there for a moment as I hear hoofsteps passing outside. They stop for just a second or two, discover the shop's closed, an' then move on again.

I exhale. Creepy wind-up robots with frightful eyelashes an' smiles that are anything but cool. It's like the whole place is creaking slightly; all the inventory piled on top of each other as a single entity, shivering at the verge of collapse - maybe just 'cause I'm here to feel it. Opposite of me's a rickety door an' I quickly rush towards it, deftly opening it. No boobytraps so far. Going beyond this first room makes it feel like it ain't truly different from how it was when I was little, but it also feels like it is; feels like it does in a dream where you know what's gonna happen before it does.

I imagine for a second that the light cast on the boxes in the adjacent room comes from downstairs, but it's just the daylight stealing in from the doorway. I stop as though on the precipice of discovery: if stuff's in boxes here, then what's downstairs? It might just be that it's weird in such a shop when there's no more lame paintings hanging on the wall. I stop at the sound of wood creaking from above an' a far more terrible thought occurs to me: what if Mr. Appleby lives in the apartment above the shop an' that's his hoofsteps right now? Quietly I will it to remain quiet, but I don't know whether the silence is a good sign or not. This place is so old that even the walls an' floors remember things.

Sure 'nough, there's a little hatch in the corner leading to the basement. There's nothing but old tools an' plush dolls in the first two boxes I look in, so there's no real reason to delay. My spine tingles or whatever it does so I shiver in knowing something's here. The clocks tick an' tock from the other room an' I wonder why they had been inaudible before. The hatch creaks like crazy an' there's a light switch on a rope that makes the bulb warm slowly with a metallic thhhk. Light fills the storage room like a refrigerator an' my entire being's kicked into overdrive. Sure I've shedded my feathers, wings, an' my spine's crumbling. Time slows so there's just a single second of die.

There's six of 'em, all made of stone. Their feathers are detailed inch by inch, rounded out grooves, an' all of 'em have their wings spread. Most alarming of all are the owls' eyes, each an' every single one of 'em facing me. The circles round the pupils grow an' shrink in size even as I look. Its a scream inside me that's demanding I rush back up the stairs, but I can't even do that - I'm just standing there halfway down, trying to look at all the statues at once an' more than a little afraid of losing sight of even just one of 'em.

The bulb swings the smallest amount, so that the shadows of the birds crawl up an' down the wall behind 'em. Though they're clearly similar, they're perched on their stands in different ways, an' the colorless highlights of their eyes are different in subtle ways. One has narrow slits, an' the one in the back has 'em widened just like the rest of the thing's 'bout to swoop in an' strike. In the back there's a wooden table with a coffee machine, buzzing quietly. Maybe I imagined the eyes moving...

Is there another room next to the basement? This room itself corresponds perfectly with the backroom up the stairs, but that doesn't cover the front room of the shop itself. I make myself go down the stairs, the wood creaking violently so that I fear the steps breaking under my descent, my eyes darting between the statues--what the fuck?! Did something move? Did I hear a soft growl emerge from round the coffee machine? I race up the steps. One. Two. Three. Four. I have to. Five! Close the fucking hatch!

Hatch closed. Forgot the light. 'Fuck the light,' I mutter below my breath, fast-moving - not galloping - to the front door, twisting it an' closing it behind me as cold sweat drenches my chest an' clings 'gainst my shirt. Just so, I slip cross the street an' move down it, trying hard not to pant till I make it to a safe distance. I catch my breath an' trot away, my fears now focused on normal things like not getting caught for breaking into the shop. I can't believe what I saw. Worse, I don't know what was down there an' if I even saw anything. I just knew there was something down there that was crazy.

Maddeningly, only as I approach home I realize there were no fish tanks an' no hydra heads floating round. Zero corpses hanging from walls; nothing Aurora saw. At the same time though, I don't think she was all full of shit either.

Sorry

The clock in the bakery says there's still hours of school an' I get a little pragmatic: The shitstorm might's well be squeezed into the bit of the day that's left so as not to have it stampede megafuck all the way tomorrow. On top of that, if I go in now, there's still a small chance Mom won't discover I skipped school. An' broke into Mr. Appleby's shop - I did that too.

Breaking into a shop an' not stealing anything's so pointless when there's untold horrors hidden within - I could've easily taken something to prove I've been in there, but maybe it's better that I didn't. It's better nothing in there's in my possession at all.

I take the familiar route to school, but of course it's way different. For starters, I notice even the straggling trees have their branches full of bright green leaves now, but also everyone outside's from another time zone. No one's rushing to go to school or work - it's just elderly merrily aimless an' two joggers, panting an' wheezing worse than I was just now. The morning's adventure inspires a practical solution: I could say an old stallion - I could make up a name an' address - asked me to help repair his cart or something, an' present the screwdriver as evidence. That's just for when a teacher asks, though. The rest of the school can get fucked.

Desperately I trot round to the fence, but it's closed too. I never considered the formal entrance would be closed, an' I dread pressing the doorbell. Eventually a shape becomes visible through the wrinkly glass, growing in size till the door opens to reveal a concierge. From his office I hear the radio on commercial break, ponies perplexed, impressed, surprised at how affordable everything is - the concierge is pretty much the opposite, practically dismissing me without a word. Once I take to the empty corridor, I'm guessing he thought I just came in late 'cause of a dentist's appointment or something like that.

Maybe it's feeling stupid 'bout my plan - sneaking into the classroom between classes - but at the same time I also feel like I'm an insider; a spy creeping behind enemy lines. I wish I could just blend in an' stay invisible like this, but there's no chance of that. All I can hope for is that maybe, just maybe, Jazzie's too surprised by my sudden arrival an' Aurora's forgotten I existed in the first place. Ain't that what boyfriends are supposed to do to girls? Make 'em forget 'bout everything else?

Curiosity appeals to me on the first floor, the hallway door open all the way to where the teachers have their break room somewhere, and - more interesting even - Mrs. Kindheart has her little office. I wonder if she remembers our two minute meeting nearly a year ago when she asked me if I was on any medicine. I stumble with a sudden fit of light spots as I abandon the staircase and inch my way into the corridor. Chatter mumbles from the break room. I've got trouble locating Mrs. Kindheart's office, but then I see it's the door that's ajar, just begging for me to peek inside.

Mrs. Kindheart's office is separated by a little broom-closet type waiting room. It's 'zactly one chair an' the door to her actual office which is not open. All previous plans leave my mind: it's obvious what I need to do. Just one week ago Principal Mazie laid the groundwork for me when she retrieved my burned sketchbook an' said that I needed to see Mrs. Kindheart if I'd still have problems down the line. It's so refreshingly simple: I don't even really need to make anything up; just exaggerate key points where needed.

I take the chair an' decide to wait there, forever if need be, till Mrs. Kindheart would come out of her office or creep in from the corridor. I just have to make sure to be caught off guard, so I decide to pass the time bored with a hoof under my chin, pretending to be in or round sleep.

Invisible, I glide cross the train station platform. Inside the tram it's packed with a whole bunch of ponies, some kindly, others not so. A black labrador occupies the floor all the way in the back. All I've got to do is not touch anyone by accident an' no one will notice I'm here. 'Cept the dog, who can smell me as well as I can smell him. I hold the hoofbar so I can't float to the ceiling an' the tram scurries off the train tracks.

It's a hybrid tram with wheels at the front, like a railroad sharpening-vehicle, an' it's veering off past the outdoor station to another familiar looking part of town where a whole bunch of black birds fly round. It's harmless 'nough, but then I start to wonder if maybe no one's panicking 'cause they don't realize they can fly 'gainst the tram's windows. One of 'em sure gets close an' - splrrt! - blood's all over the glass with a mush of fleshy stains. A few of the passengers look up in surprise, muttering pityingly. Only the dog's quiet an' I give him a couple pats. The only problem is the tram's slowing down 'cause more an' more birds fly into the tram, some of 'em breaking a wing an' bouncing off the window, others crashing more violently. One's beak scissors through the glass, so a big stallion with nerd glasses jumps up from his sleep, an' I think, fuck, you need to watch it, 'cause that bird's gonna peck your eye out, glasses or not.

I'm in Mrs. Kindheart's waiting room. Of course. An' she's just come in from the corridor, so I'm looking up an'... it's not Mrs. Kindheart at all. Switch-Go an' me just sort of look at each other in a mutual oh it's you sort of way, an' before I realize what I'm saying, I say, 'Sorry,' like I'm sorry I'm here. Sorry I'm awake.

Even more surprising is that she says, 'Hello, I'm also here for Miss Kindheart.' She sounds a little bit like she's speaking with water in her mouth, but it's still impressive. I'm wondering if this is all she can say.

'"Misses",' I correct, so quick an' sharp that I feel really mean 'bout it. She's got a shy smile 'bout herself, though, an' I quickly ask her, 'Are you liking it here? In school, I mean?'

'Yes, thank you,' she says, an' I imagine her adding a little bow.

She does look a bit like a slinkie, come to think of it; slim in build yet with a bit of a fuzzy face, like a caterpillar that's squeezed close to popping. 'Well, school sucks of course,' I remind her, 'so you can't like that. But are you making friends yet?'

She smiles an' laughs a little giggle. 'I would like very much to make more friends,' she says. 'I need to learn more how make friends and do good in school.'

It's a little bit like conversing with an alien, but I know I'm prob'ly the closest thing to an alien the school has to offer. 'Do you see the school counsellor a lot then? I mean, do you come here a lot? To see Mrs. Kindheart?'

'Yes, every day I come seeing Miss Kindheart,' she answers. 'You too?'

She looks at me expectantly an' I'm relieved when Mrs. Kindheart creeps up behind her. She's a giant next to Switch-Go, mostly 'cause Mrs. Kindheart's got a trim an' tall sort of look. She reminds me of The Giraffe, 'cept The Giraffe doesn't wear glasses an' doesn't have that near-smile on her all the time: The Giraffe only smiles before she does headbutts. With a pleasant surprise in her voice, she says, 'Well, isn't it busy here? Which of you two was here first?'

We uhh for a moment till the new girl says, 'She here first,' pointing at me resolutely.

Mrs. Kindheart looks at me but stays where she is. My eyes dart between the two an' it's like they're both willing me to get out of the chair or at least say something. I shake my head an' say, 'No, no, I can wait. You go in first.'

It only takes five minutes an' then the door to Mrs. Kindheart's inner office opens again an' out squeezes Switch-Go. She nods an' shyly closes the door again, stopping just short of actually shutting it properly. She then looks at me again apologetically an' shuffles out into the corridor. Briefly I wish I was in her position. No one would expect anything from her. She's small, thin, an' only just moved here. Just uttering a few words is an amazing accomplishment. I store this thought in case my conversation with Mrs. Kindheart needs a dramatic turn - I could prob'ly cry, too.

Mrs. Kindheart's room's big in that there's not a whole lot there besides the desk an' three chairs, one of which is stacked to the side. A steel cabinet's in the corner with a potted plant on top. From the shutters comes a good amount of sunlight to go with the tube lights in the ceiling. Mrs. Kindheart's the kind of mare that can be patient an' to the point at the same time. 'Why don't you sit down, Grace, and tell me why you're here.'

I don't quite know how to start, my eyes moving back an' forth between my lap an' her kindly expression. Eventually I say, face down just a bit, 'Principal Mazie told me I should see you if there'd still be trouble with this other girl--'

'You're talking about Aurora, I take it?'

I try not to act surprised. Mrs. Kindheart an' Principal Mazie must talk a lot 'bout these things. I nod slowly an' start saying what I can't: 'She burned my sketchbook an' told everyone that I did it, an'... an'...'

'And that's why you're here now, instead of in class?' Briefly she looks behind her, then stands up an' opens the shutters a bit further. Golden light surrounds her. 'But you weren't sent here, were you?'

'No, Mrs. Kindheart,' I admit, averting my eyes again. It would've been easiest, perhaps, to cry now, but I resolve instead not to.

'I wouldn't worry too much about her if I were you,' she says with a surprising lack of composure, returning to her seat not unlike one of the girls in class would. For a moment I get the impression she's not completely like she appears, an' yet, I know that she is. Then she straightens herself again, inhales, and adds, 'You may have noticed a lot of your classmates are going through changes throughout this year.'

I consider this. 'You mean, like, how Aurora's just got a boyfriend? But, she's been--'

'No, not that.' Her eyes command mine now, an' I feel a bit like Switch-Go's looked at me just a couple of minutes ago. 'I mean, changes in the body. Physical changes.' She pauses deliberately an' then adds, 'Everyone behaves a little differently under those changes. But it's important not to take it personal, do you understand?'

It looks as if she's 'bout to say more, but she doesn't, an' I manage to look off to the plant on the cabinet. I want to say that I don't care that she hates me, but know it'd sound so stupid. At the same time Mrs. Kindheart doesn't understand. I mean, she's nice an' all, but I know there's something missing. Here she's talking 'bout periods, dicks, an' so on, but if that's why they try to humiliate me how come I'm the one chosen for that? Is it 'cause I ain't as pretty as Jazzie or as cool as some of the older kids? There's no point in saying any of those things.

She sighs in a way that suggests she's on my side an' then says, 'A few weeks from now and none of this is important anymore. It shouldn't be. But if it is, you should see me over recess.'

She smiles a deliberate pause. 'I'll tell Principal Mazie that you've been unwell this morning, but you can't miss any more classes, do you understand?'

'Yes, Mrs. Kindheart,' I answer calmly, my voice as steady as I can make it. My entire body's like that too, all restrained as I travel back to class. If I could only have that control all the time...

Passing Principal Mazie's office door I see a mosaic of her on the phone, her shape blurred by the pattern glass. I imagine she's on the phone with Mom, but I know she's not. I'm certain that if Aunt Palais an' Mrs. Breezeport had Mrs. Kindheart for company she wouldn't let 'em talk on an' on 'bout metal working an' my brother, but what use is this? I'm in the deepest dungeon of school while the real nutcase is at home. No one would ever 'spect Mom of being a psycho.

It's horror going back into class, 'specially 'cause Physics just started, so everyone stops an' looks at me. Everyone's always jealous when someone misses class, but it's impossible to say it. Instead it's like I pussied out, an' Ruff mutters, 'Must've taken a beauty day,' loud 'nough for the whole class to be in stitches.

Worst of all is the last class: PE. On the way there we pass the Feltway twins in the hallway an' Jazzie cackles, 'Hey girls, go help Grace get warmed up! It's hoofball practice today!' So they butt shoulders 'gainst me an' I just have to grin an' bear it, 'cause it doesn't hurt that much, though the third one I catch on the chin so I steel myself an' refuse to cry. 'Call back your dogs,' I tell Jazzie, but of course no one hears. Even the boys chuckle, 'cause everyone likes it these days when anything happens to me. Jazzie cheers exaggeratedly, 'Nice one, Grace, but look, you lost the ball!'

Of course it's not hoofball practice at all. Jazzie's whispering though as we put on our shoes, an' I guess I'll find out soon enough what's in store for me. There are two lanes with pommels for us to jump, each with its own mini-trampoline, so there's lots of jumps possible an' we all have to do a whole bunch. I tell myself that whatever happens, I should ignore it, but it's kind of hard when I get shouldered over the trampoline, so I have to shield my head an' feel a sharp sting in my elbow. I turn, an' weird enough, it's Basil - a boy - an' he's shrugging an' says, 'Be careful!'

Mr. Starflex doesn't notice - he's got his attention on the other trampoline, where Quartz does her routine of trotting up to the trampoline in slowmotion, then holds out her forelegs an' then pushes gently 'gainst the pommel before returning to the back of the queue. The next time, of course, the theme is established, an' Basil says, 'You should try harder,' though I'm ready an' it barely hurts. It's just impossible not to look bothered, so I'm grinning as if I am hurt.

Finally Jazzie jumps the queue behind me an' I'm looking over my shoulder so we exchange ugly looks, an' when she pushes me I'm practically facing her an' just sort of awkwardly bump my hind legs onto the trampoline. 'Oh, I'm sorr-ee,' she says, batting an eyelash. I'm still looking at her an' Mr. Starflex caught her do it, so he's looking at her sternly, but she just looks at me an' says, 'What? I said sorry! Don't be such a baby about it.'

No one shoulders me as violently as Basil did, I just get annoying little bumps in the queue an' twice I miss my jump so I'm halfway onto the pommel an' have to slide off. 'Almost did it,' Ruff calls, an' I get those cheers of encouragement that prob'ly confuse Mr. Starflex if they don't fool him entirely. At end of class, when it's time to get home, Jazzie makes a point to take off her gym shoes right in front of me, so they're almost in front of my nose. I flinch as I'm afraid she'll pull it up an' kick me, an' she says, 'That was nice practice, Grace. Guess you're not so clumsy after all.'

I've figured something out over these past few weeks, an' that's just when your enemies have you beaten, they expect you to tuck your tail between your legs an' go home as soon as you can. No galloping or fast-cantering for me today. I give 'em lots of time an', sure 'nough, when I canter the corridor I see Aurora an' Aster chatting near the exit.

I'm sure Aurora sees me approach from the corner of her eyes, but I know she's not gonna do anything. I stand there right in front of her while they're talking 'bout Aster's sister, who's taking up mountain climbing, so Aster's got a long story 'bout this cottage in Cherrygrove she's living in, an' how she's getting a postcard every few days. Aurora's eyes keep darting back to me, but she's decided to completely ignore me. Maybe she knows now that I've been roughed up an' humiliated so entirely, an' thinks better of prodding me. Aster, on the other hoof, has her back more or less turned to me an' just doesn't notice anything's up at all. When she finishes her story an' waits for Aurora to say something, it's clear she's not paid attention at all an' doesn't know what to say. I jump in an' step forward so I'm really close to her, an' she looks really big - her sea green eyes 'specially - an' say, 'You owe me an apology.'

Aurora refuses to step back, an' whispers, 'Don't spit in my face, dweeb.' Aster's not sure what to make of us, I'm sure, 'cause I sense her standing just beside us, waiting for something to happen. That's good, 'cause something is gonna happen.

'Didn't hear me? I said you owe me an apology. I'll tell you why. I went into Mr. Appleby's shop this morning. I went into his shop; I went downstairs. That's what I tried to warn you 'bout, remember? I went into his shop to see 'bout your bullshit story, an' there's nothing like what you said there. Nothing.

Aurora only just manages to step back, so she's 'gainst the wall. Several kids pass us by, but I'm sure some boys from a year up hang round to see what's gonna happen. Aster mutters, 'What the fuck's she on about, Rora?'

Her eyes become smaller, an' my heart's racing worse than it's ever done. I'm a mountaineer, sailor, anything - anything 'cept a karate master. She makes herself laugh, fake an' hollow, but it gets her going so she gets a little calmer an' not so breathy. She looks to her side but decides there's no point in telling Aster anything - if anything, it'd make her look crazy. She chuckles then. 'Is that what it's about, you crazy freak? I don't know what you're on about going all psycho on me. Unless you believe Mr. Appleby's a vampire...'

'You said there's dead bodies an' stillborn hydras in his basement. I was there! Bet you didn't even go there in the first place, but I did! You just made it up!'

She laughs it off like nothing I say matters - she has to, 'cause there's nothing she can say 'bout that. I have her cornered. 'Get the fuck out of my way, freak,' she insists, an' I tell myself don't even think 'bout it an' swing my hoof just over my head. I ain't 'zactly trying to hit her, but it's working - she's bowling over an' has her hooves clasped on her head, yelling, 'Get away from me you sick freak!'

'Apologize, you fucking cunt!' I'm landing elbow after elbow on her hooves, an' I can tell Aster's 'fraid to catch a stray hoof in the face, so no one interferes. It may be like twenty seconds, but it feels like minutes of bowling over her - she's short: tinier than Switch-Go now, an' I'm like a fucking emperor.

There's no need to say anything more, 'cause she's shivering an' muttering something 'bout me being a sick freak. I try to put on a smug face an' fast-canter out as quick as I can - before anyone realizes I'm just faking it; before Aurora can collect herself an' rush after me.

Shadows

There. It sits perched on my chair, round eyes on me. Can't hide under your sheets.

Or... is it the pile of clothes? Of course, in the dark that doesn't prove anything. One of them could still have followed me home.

Change

When it comes to homework it's usually possible to do the bare minimum in the morning, but there's always tests to study for, an' it's impossible to make myself give a fuck 'bout 'em. Least of all today. Biology, Language, History. Today I feel like I'll breeze through it all without even trying.

Fir doesn't seem to realize things have changed. If anything, he's got the look of a sullen, spoiled brat at the table. His porridge crawls down his spoon. It's like he's bored of everything. I know better than to challenge him to a game of backgammon - he seems to have forgotten we've ever played games at all. 'Didn't sleep well?' I ask.

'Sleep is sleep,' he replies quizzically.

Mom's on the couch, an' when she's on the couch we don't exist over in breakfast land. Fir's similar to her more than usual, I decide: Where previously it was that they're both strange creatures, now it's a little bit like they've stolen each other's look of tired neutrality. I try again: 'Well, is it something else then?'

He sighs an' drops his spoon into the porridge so there's a mild grey splash as it sinks in. 'Just leave me alone,' he warns, his eyes rolling towards the ceiling.

I was wrong: He does know things have changed. It's just that he doesn't like it.

Change. In comic strips it's always the villain that changes things, really. They get defeated, killed, arrested... it's always a single act that ends up changing things in Super Monster. Even if it doesn't, it still does indirectly. Whatever unrelated villain the hero defeats, they're inspired enough by the moment to change things elsewhere, or things just... change. They just change automatically, I guess.

The positive change I had already envisioned the night before. Uncle Faireweather had talked 'bout respect on the seas as something you earn not by proving you're superior to those round you, but by proving you're better than they thought you were. You prove 'em wrong.

During breakfast there's not much thinking, but as we trot to school I start to also see negative changes. It's a greyish blue hot morning an' somehow this makes sense with these changes. I'd be sent to Principal Mazie 'cause I've got into trouble... again. I might even hear 'bout breaking into the Biology lab, just to make it out to be as if I'm the worst kid in school. That might not be so bad, but I also imagine being told by Mrs. Kindheart that fighting doesn't solve anything. She'd look sad saying that, almost certainly.

The thing 'bout change is that it's bullshit. It's something ponies make up 'cause it doesn't happen. If it was there, maybe we wouldn't even notice it. I guess. Of course Aurora didn't tell anyone 'bout what I did. An' why wouldn't I get a comment on my mane being "typical"? I fucking hate my mane cut anyway. I want to cut it all off an' break the entire school. It's not my fault Mom wants my hair to look like this. Chairs an' tables crashing through the windows. An' then everyone in it, too, they'd break too. Smeared cross the floors in a big, gooey blood-mess.

I'm in a tired quicksand worse than Fir's porridge. An' fuck it, when Mr. Gaunt alerts me to the Burrower Constant drawn out on the blackboard he's quick to add, 'So glad you could be there today,' and everyone laughs. No one has ever laughed at anything Mr. Gaunt's said.

By the time it's Biology I'm so tired that I let myself look out the window an' watch the clouds stroll by, test or not. There's a little bird with a fiery red crown of feathers just under 'em that looks at me, asking with its slanted tiny head what I'm doing in this big, sterile house. Jazzie snaps me to my table; remarks, 'Stop staring at me you creep, I'm right here.' So I have to remind myself to keep looking at different things, 'cause if you keep looking in one place you'll become a zombie like Tangy. Of course, no one ever picks on Tangy anymore - I must be the number one target in all of the school now, an' it doesn't matter anymore what I do or not.

In fact, after I cut off all my hair, I want to rip off all my skin, so it's just bones, an' there's nothing left for anyone to say or do to me. Fuck those shitty tests I no doubt got shit grades for: Now that is change.

When we canter cross the playground Fir says, 'Not feeling so good?' an' I reply, 'feeling is feeling,' which comes out way smarter than I imagined. 'I'm trying to be nice,' he says quietly, but then it's like he suddenly realizes something an' adds, loud 'nough for everyone round us to hear, 'but it's no use being nice to you when you're gonna be an ungrateful little bitch about it, is it?'

Before I really process what he's said to me he's striding to the gate without looking round even once. 'Go home by yourself,' he calls.

I know I'm red, but, this close to the exit I ain't gonna cry. It's not worth crying 'bout something Fir said anyway. It must be those changes in the body Mrs. Kindheart was talking 'bout, but I refuse to believe it. He's just an asshole. Maybe he's hidden it under that older-brother role he's so fucking proud about, but if all it takes is having a dick, then he ain't worth shit, an' it's unfair that I have to deal with it. Just make sure you're round the corner first before you think 'bout crying.

Lost

I might as well let 'em think I'm dead for a little while, so I trot to the construction yard. I could sneak past the fence, of course, but there's little point. The building doesn't look much more complete than it did last time, so it's like all the construction workers do here when everyone's in school is just sit round an' drink coffee while the cement mixer drones an' buzzes away. A graffiti tag says DR BULL an' it's punctuated by a misshapen triangle dick.

'Gainst the thick oak with the knobbly wart I lean an' think of kicking Fir's face in. Not the weak flurry of hooves I laid on Aurora, of course, but a real kick 'gainst the front of his face, so he's bleeding an' has his teeth broken. I feel a frustrated tension in my legs remembering my assault on Aurora an' wonder if I could've just kicked her with all my strength an' gotten something out of it. Maybe that would even have made its way to Fir, so he'd stop being such an asshole, an' never have tried to piss me off like that. And, I wouldn't be all alone at the construction yard.

It's very easy to be bored, an' when you're bored, you can't even really fantasize anything interesting. The tree's got a weird sort of slant gnawing into my back too, an' when I finally look at it, it's actually a little niche inside the bark. There's two plastic coins in there an' a marble: a flamingo. Flamingoes or flames were worth two regular marbles in Seedling School, an' certainly this one looks like it's seen some action. There's barely any sheen on it an' it has many blunt edges, though I've never seen a yellow flamingo before.

'Is that your treasury?' a gruff voice calls behind me an' it's like I got caught in the lab, though I did nothing wrong. There's a big shadow cast on the tree an' when I look round there's an old stallion wearing a brown suit an' hat, bowling over me.

'So you're the one 'broke into me shop yesterday, is it?'

His face is as antiquely gold as the tin junk in his shop. 'Is this your marble?' I mutter - I don't know what else to say. Mr. Appleby's got a weird voice made all the more weird 'cause I've never heard him speak before. Even when Mom took me to his shop when I was little, I don't think he's ever spoken a word to me. Now there's a pair of questions an', to my own horror, I realize I'm nodding slowly.

He squints an eye an' turns his head sideways; like he's peering into a telescope. 'Good on you for na lying about it. Nothin' more rotten than a liar makes themself out to be anythin' but a liar.'

I look round an' feel the barest relief just making sure there's no police or anything. But will he make me repair his door an' lock me in the basement? He's dangerous 'cause he's been in that shop for so long there's no telling what he's capable of, so I can't run or even deny it. 'How do you... how did you know?' I stammer up at him.

'How, you ask? There's someone's got an eye on you, and it's bloody proper they do or I'd have found it out meself, and believe me I would na be so lenient.' He fixes both his eyes on me now an' the lines on his face seem to quiver with age. 'Next time though,' he promises severely, 'I'll feed you to the birds themself.'

It's not 'cause he's so old, but it's me that makes me feel so young now. Like going into shops such as his an' not saying a thing. Or even not so different from being an accessory to Fir an' Rod, just being there 'cause they tolerate me. An' now he's tolerating me, like I'm not worth the trouble to take out. 'Is that your treasury?' he asks again when he grows tired of my confused stare, pointing at the tree's hidey-hole. 'No,' I admit.

'Then it's someone else's. Let's leave it there in case they return for it.' He coughs an' gives me an angry look again, saying, 'You might not have it that it hurts even to laugh, but you must know what it's like to lose somethin'.' Is he in fact trying to laugh? His mouth just sags open for a short moment, like there's a whole world in there that can't possibly make it out. He shoos me like I'm a cat on his yard. 'Go on then with you. Just run off home now. An' I don't want to see any more trouble from you!'

It's a strange thing how the elderly are like teachers, always letting you get away with doing things so you can do it again later. Always warning an' warning. As I gallop off, he cautions once more: 'Remember: next time it's off for the birds with you!'

Part of me wants to turn an' run back an' climb over the fence, but what if he's following me to make sure I keep my word? I slow down an' look over my shoulder. There's certainly worse things that could happen than what already did. Is it this or Fir being an asshole that brings me back two years ago in the park?

The lake's littered with leaves an' bugs dying round the wet sand, but fuck that, I didn't want to swim anyway. Just the day before I stole the Gearbots Alpha Configurator II. The store had like fifty of 'em, so what was one more? I still remember holding it under the shelf as my eyes traveled up an' down another aisle, wrenching it out of its packaging. 'Course Mom didn't notice - they all look the same to her - but Fir certainly did.

Don't know what kind of adventures the Configurator had in the grass, though its wheels didn't spin well 'nough to drive along the ground. Prob'ly just shooting the other bots I brought as Fir tested the swings. When he got tired of 'em he laid eyes on my battlefield and flatly said, 'Where'd you get that?'

'Which one?' Sure, it was playing innocence, but the sudden way he asked that just caught me by surprise. He made me 'splain I got it from the toy store for a huge discount which became free 'cause I didn't have any money, which meant it was a gift. Why? 'Cause I was such a nice customer. Okay, so I wasn't a regular customer, but I was pretty nice. The shopkeep changed sex an' I told her that her mane was a lovely shade of yellow or blue.

'You just fucking stole it,' he cried. I was a better thief than a liar, that's true. He was bad at being quiet though, an' Mom dropped her book on the blanket an' pulled him away from me. He had to play by the same rules as me then, but I was still angry 'cause I could hear her scold him for teaching me to swear. Everyone at Seedling School talked like that, off an' on, and even if they didn't I'd still do it. Never understood why adults got so worked up over it. Don't remember a time when I didn't swear an' I certainly don't remember stealing it from anywhere. I mean, am I supposed to know when I first said the word "orange"?

Fir was told to behave himself so extensively that I could barely focus on the battle. There was a roach of some sort crawling close an' it got cloaked by darkness - I looked up an' just then a huge airship passed overhead, gleaming gold hull an' all. Couldn't see any of the flying riders, but they must've been there. It's weird an' I don't get where the thought came from, but it was so obvious to me: Dad had sent it 'cause I fucked up.

An' what was it then? I had to work that out slowly, watching the ship pass. I couldn't hear them argue anymore, but was it 'cause they'd stopped an' admired the airship like I did, or was it 'cause it was too loud to hear 'em? It wasn't so clear as a single thing I fucked up or anything. It was just that somewhere I had been weak in some way. There were Mom and Fir an' sure Fir wasn't anything so special, but where was I? What had I done? There were kids my age that ran races an' fought karate tournaments, or even were smart an' played chess. Ponies singing on stage or being on the radio. I was just a dumb girl playing with Gearbots in the park.

If Dad was on that ship an' I was with him I'd control the pressure valve an' protect it from weather an' invaders. Sure, he'd take care of the worst of it as him an' Uncle could work an airship just as well as a sailing vessel, but what if it came down to it, an' the ship had to be kept afloat while a hundred pirates trashed the decks an' tore at everything they came cross? Panels of glass shatter an' lesser crewmares fling onto the deck bloodied an' beat; they'd stop at nothing - other ships breeze through the air with cannons an' pistols aimed an' ready, their battle cries like snarling panthers. It's the gold itself they were after, an' they'd pry it from the ship if they had to, even if it meant the whole thing'd come crashing down.

I'm not sure what I came up with then, but as I'm passing the bakery I picture the customers - even the old mare an' the little kid - to be among the pirates I fought. None could live, an' all it took was a couple of chops to the head. Someone, maybe it was Uncle, would call from somewhere inside the cabin to hold on for a little longer, but I could keep at it forever. No way I'd fall overboard, an' no way some shitty pirates could ruin our ship. I'd knock 'em all out an' throw 'em overboard. Then maybe I'd watch 'em drop through layers of thick clouds an' make like I just threw out the trash. That'd teach 'em.

'Course, if I really did all that, Mr. Appleby would've stayed far away from me.

Heat

One more horrifying point to add to the collection. Why not? Thinking back on that day in the park I'm wearing the green dress. Worse, I'm seen by someone from school, proving that life can always get more shit. If Mom ever makes me wear a fucking dress to school my life will end. Like, really end, I mean.

There's mumblings of Fir speaking into the phone coming from the living room. My punishment's nearly over, but I'd still be in my room even if it was. I'm pretending Fir doesn't exist an' that the living room is his little Asshole Land. I don't have to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry, an' if I don't cry he'd prob'ly try to irritate me by sitting next to me. For all that, there's another intruder in my thoughts, an' it's those owls in Mr. Appleby's basement.

You wasted too much time, that's what they're repeating. An' they would know; if ever they were alive an' made promises to tell themselves an' thought 'bout doing things later, well, they ain't there to do anything now. I heard a radio commercial selling foreign language cassettes say that young kids pick up things effortlessly. Me? I wasted these precious years on useless things. I could've learned how to sing or look good, or got myself a black belt in karate. Instead I played with stupid toys while Mom listened to those boring radio plays - the same ones she listens to today. Of course she didn't make me do any of those things. (If she didn't do the laundry I'd sleep in dirty sheets. So what?) Maybe wasting life is genetic, an' it's that same emptiness that's in those statues too. Solid an' gone; nowhere left to go.

I dig up the checkers board an' find old sticker albums of the Gearbots an' Super Monster. Super Monster's so lame an' not at all like I remember it. The artwork is fucked up an' barely more than sixteen colors total, also Super Monster's hooves are bent in really painful ways, an' his expressions are either grinning with determination or grinning 'cause he said something funny. The Gearbots are okay though, even if the book's got loads of stickers missing.

I gather all the pieces an' set up the board an' play 'my' side seriously an' the 'other' side very defensively, but playing checkers by yourself is stupid 'cause you have to pretend to play the 'other' side well too but you don't want 'em to win.

Sirens come from the living room. I stow the board an' from the doorway I see the blue flashes in the windows. Mom an' Fir are at the window sill, watching 'em cruise through the street. 'Must be like six or seven of them,' Fir tells Mom, 'and check out the smoke over the rooftops! School's burning down!'

It feels like the entire neighbourhood has assembled before the school's fence. Ruff an' Constante have their parents with 'em too, an' even the older boys are very... normal. It's like everyone's someone else, just watching the flames go an' hoping what the parents an' teachers fear; that the entire building's burned to ashes. But it's just the PE hall that's on fire, so someone's dad says, an' sure 'nough that's the wall that's being doused in water an' has its flames rolling an' spinning an' churning to the roof.

A collection of shingles tumble off onto the playground, 'causing a wave of aaah to erupt from the crowd, an' even when they land they're still stuck together. Smoke flashes white an' gray, but the dark blue is clouded black high up, so I know everyone who's not here already's watching the fire from their homes. It's past bedtime, but it's like everyone round me knows no one's leaving till the fire's out. I hope it goes on forever an' that even if the school's still working in the morning, it's considered only fair to everyone here, gathered at night, to not have class the next day.

Sirens of newly arrived firefighters ring through the air. Everyone's face is glowing orange an' red, an' it's like the fire does go on forever - I will it to - but someone behind us calls, 'The fire department says they've got it under control now.' There's too many of 'em, then. If there was just one wagon with a hose, maybe the entire block would be burned down, and there would be no more school at all.

Someone's been quietly going hey next to me, but I only look to my side after like five or six heys. It's Aurora, but I ain't scared. Everyone is different before the fire, an' even then, Mom an' Fir are almost right beside me. She's tugging on my sleeve an' says, 'Going deaf or something?' But she doesn't wait for a response, quickly pushing a book 'gainst me.

I look at it dubiously. 'What's that?' I ask. It's got a black cover an' nothing else on it to give any indication on what it is. Maybe she's written poems inside on how much of a psycho I am.

'It's a sketchbook, of course,' she 'splains, speaking up so the noise of the crowd an' the fire doesn't drown her out. Still, I have to lean in an' put my ear close to her. 'I said it's a sketchbook. It's yours.'

'No, it's not; you burned mine,' I remind her.

'I know, freak,' she whispers, 'but Dad made me buy a new one to give to you.'

It's a strange thought to come to me when I look at the flames an' hear her voice coming in from the right, but I'm suddenly thinking of her 'splaining to her parents how she burned down my sketchbook an' confessing all sorts of other things. Maybe even saying I beat her up. None of this makes any sense. Someone - I don't know who - bumps their shoulder 'gainst my nose, but I don't care. 'Keep it,' I say.

'What?'

'Keep it,' I insist, 'I said you can keep it.'

She's quiet for a while, an' a splash of water almost makes it all the way to the fence, but it's just dry air by the time it's here. The fire seems to be retreating, its flames going down an' then flashing up again, but it must still be burning hot - of course it is. I think then, maybe she's taken her sketchbook an' gone away again, but when I look, she's still there. She whispers in my ear, 'What for? I don't draw stupid things.'

She sounds defeated, in a very weird way. 'Just take it already,' she commands quietly. Without a word I take the book from her an' watch the fire, not caring if she's staying there or not.

Fir's calling, to no one in particular, 'They're just dousing the building now. It's over.' In groups of four or five families at a time, the crowd disassembles. But the fire's not even really over, I think, but it doesn't matter.