Birth of a Bullet

Strain

I don't think it's ever been this hot. And 'cause it's summer, Mom's making suspicious mention of the stupid dress all the time. How that's supposed to gear me up for another visit from Aunt Palais an' Mrs. Breezeport I don't know, but even over breakfast she calls from the couch, 'Won't it be great, Grace, you'll be looking your very best this summer,' with a disturbing amount of sincerity behind it. So disturbing, in fact, that Fir doesn't even give me his smug an' dirty look.

It's been a while since his outburst, an' it's like like he pretends to have apologized without actually doing it. He doesn't treat me like we're at war, or even treat me more nicely, but it's also like he's committed to being less sulky over breakfast. Maybe he remembers a hotter summer than this one, but it's school itself that makes summers hotter an' winters cooler, so it doesn't really matter what either of us remembers of seasons past.

Fir's warned me that summer vacation will be over in a heartbeat, worse even than I've known it, but I don't care. Just got to make it there. We can take the train to the beach or canter in the park. I could go to the park or Market by myself, whenever I want, an' if I'm lucky, I might avoid seeing any of the school kids for six whole weeks. An' if I do see 'em, maybe they'll be 'normal'. Like they were when the PE hall burned down.

In fact, most of the classes have a special sort of program. Third an' fourth year classes have lots of tests an' stuff, an' sometimes I see older kids cantering leisurely along the halls between exams. For us it's a lot of classes where the teachers talk 'bout homework for after the summer vacation. Mrs. Shellski wants us to do a work on an organism of our choosing over the course of the summer, an' for History we're supposed to make a presentation on our governing system.

The more intense class is PE, which makes us march to the baseball cage 'cause of the fire. Mr. Starflex 'splains there's a soccer tournament on the Freeday after the last school day an' that anyone who wants to can make it to the team. He also cautions however, that only the best get to play. 'So you do your best or you'll just be watching the action from the bench,' he calls, 'Come on then! Break up into teams and show me what you've got!'

So we break up into teams in the cage an' I go to the natural position of goalkeeper 'cause no one else wants to do it. There are two mats pushed 'gainst the sides of the cage to signify goals and, of course, every time anyone scores in my goal the kids in my team look at me accusingly. 'Come on, everyone!' Mr. Starflex calls at random intervals, and once I get the ball shot at my hooves while the sun's staring right at me an' I kick it blindly over everyone so Constante can head it in. All eyes on him, though, an' I don't think he really headed it so much as had the ball bounce on his head. An' as for my counterpart, Quartz, she just leaned 'gainst the goal an' watched it happen.

'You're not the one missing out, are you?' Mr. Starflex scolds no one in particular, 'cause everyone's just sort of fumbling round the middle of the cage. 'I can see which class'll finish last!'

Since no one's allowed to sit the match out, Jazzie's just lagging round in the middle so she won't really get the ball much. Different rules for girls in this game, but the rule for goalkeeping is plenty obvious: If you don't put in any effort you won't be judged harshly.

Near the end of the class Basil passes the ball to himself through a couple of hooves an' as usual there's a thunderous shot. There's no way I can touch it, so I end up bruising my knees an' hooves in landing on the hard stone. 'Even my little sister would've had that one,' Constante calls, so Mr. Starflex has to add, 'trust your reflexes: Pegasi are natural on goal!' How he would know is beyond me. No laughs though: in soccer there's no real time to laugh. I feel it just the same an' see it in just 'bout every look. Fucking useless. Why do I even try?

The futility of school with vacation just two weeks away is a desert that saps the will to live. Perhaps that's how it's supposed to be. It can't just be me, can it? If it is, could it be this that makes everyone round hate me? Prob'ly not. My knees throb and my shorts are sweaty as fuck, so it's too much trouble to even think 'bout it either way.

Language is a special episode with a book full of jobs, just like in grade school. Then it was just kids being stupid an' yelling that they want to be a firemare or an astronaut, or maybe win the lottery, but this is far more serious. There are brackets with different jobs an' explanations on how to get 'em. Like, the police bracket talked 'bout a training academy an' the scientist bracket has lots of extra schools lined up, each with two or three years of study behind 'em.

Mr. Voluble has us go over each an' every one of 'em, but also asks every single one of us what they'd want to do after school. 'Go home,' Ruff jokes when he's asked first, an' we all laugh loudly. But everyone's serious answer's 'bout college an' of course I say the same.

After the exercise Mr. Voluble has us turn to the final pages of the book where there's a "career matching game", where several jobs are grouped together an' you're supposed to 'splain how they're similar. Each time someone gives the obvious answers - 'cause they ain't hard to figure out at all - Mr. Voluble writes down one or two keywords on the blackboard. There's ten of these groups that I've counted so I know there's a decent chance I'll have to answer one too.

I ain't 'zactly surprised when I hear my name, but at the same time I'm nervous. It's not like in Maths when no one gives a shit when you don't know an answer - sometimes it's better if you don't - but this is a "real" subject, so you have to know or you're a brainless freak. Slowly I scan over the jobs, an' it's so obvious how they're connected. There's a surgeon, a doctor, a nurse, an' a neurologist, so it's not like anyone in class doesn't know. The problem is I can't just say they are in "health care" or anything stupid like that. I have to use the proper word, which just refuses to come to me.

I stammer for at least twenty seconds an' already I hear someone call, 'Simple-minded or what?' so that Mr. Voluble needlessly 'splains to the class what a neurologist does. It gives me time to think, but I still can't think of anything 'cept to say that they're all in health care. You can't say "they're in health care" without sounding like a loser. Someone outside the class draws Mr. Voluble's attention, so he strolls out an' I get to think for a moment that I've been saved. It even occurs to me that he does so deliberately to help me.

I can't help but scrutinize the jobs. It's just as simple as the farm work or the builders, an' I don't even feel stupid 'bout it: It's obvious. 'Pssst,' Jazzie mock-whispers, 'they're all medical professions.' They all laugh but I don't say anything. Even then though, when Mr. Voluble returns to put the question to me once more, I notice something peculiar. It's so strange that I hadn't noticed it before; so strange that my eyes divert to Aurora even when I answer Mr. Voluble. 'That's right,' he echoes as he writes it on the blackboard, 'they're all in the medical sector.'

Aurora's not chuckling like the rest are. She went through the motions, sort of, sure, but that's 'bout it. I wonder how long it's been since she's actually picked on me. It must've been before the fire even.

Mr. Voluble concludes the class by circling the keywords an' going on for a while 'bout the difference between an ambition an' a job existing in the market, but no one really knows what he's getting at.

It's 'cause of half-hearing Mr. Voluble's story 'bout jobs coming an' going but the work always staying, that's got me remembering my friend in Seedling School. Frazzle wanted to be a robot, she kept telling me, so that she could shoot hooks from her arms an' fight crime in the capitol. Thinking 'bout it now, it's obvious she stole the idea from a comic book, but it doesn't matter. That job doesn't exist, an' the work is covered by hundreds of ponies, each doing just a little bit.

It was in those years that I was celebrated as the most creative pony in class - I always got the maximum grade when we had to build with felt or cardboard, an' there wasn't a teacher who didn't like it when I drew a hedgehog or rabbit on the corner of the blackboard.

Maths was weird though: it was so easy then that I didn't think it right to just look at the multiplication tables when we were asked. The only hard one was eight times seven, so of course that was the one I was asked. 8 x 7 = 56. One of the boys called the answer, so, I couldn't look at the table and couldn't just say it anymore. So I said nothing.

Trotting home with Fir I wonder if I'll remember today's humiliation with just as much frustration. Fir's kicking round a rock all lazy like he told me not to and 'splains, 'I knew you wanted to kick it.'

Prob'ly more.

Break

The trick for a successful break-out is to do the real work when no one's 'specting you. For one, tomorrow's not a school day. More important still is that Mom 'spects this kind of criminal activity to be an impulse and on impulse alone, but the first thing I do when I get home is to open the balcony door - just the least bit - so that later on I'll be able to sneak onto the balcony without the door drawing any attention. Sure, mosquitos may sneak in my room, but It's so hot that all the windows are open anyway, an' that'll be my cover.

I wasn't sure when I did that whether I'd actually do it, but I've been annoyed at missing those Nuisance Nights several times an' regretting it afterwards. Plus, now that I've actually opened the balcony door earlier, it's just stupid not to go ahead with it. After dinner I say I'm gonna go to bed early, sneak onto the balcony with barely a sound, an' then look down apprehensively.

It's not really night an' it's not really day, so my escape is awkwardly timed. Down below's where the rainpipe empties, an' then down from there it's just a single storey leap. If anyone from school saw it, they would think twice before calling me clumsy ever again. Just spreading my wings is enough to avoid breaking anything, though the last jump has my teeth ringing in my mouth.

The backyard is where neighbourhood kids play hoofball an' soccer an' cats hide in bushes an' covertly impregnate each other, but it's late 'nough for there to just be some talking beyond the hedge. I'm already a ninja an' trot along the wall just in case Mom looks out of her window. I tell myself that no one heard me.

The music's not as loud as I remember, an' there's barely anyone. No cash to get in but no pony to sell tickets either, so it's like everything that's happened before is just a memory. There's the stamp box, sure, but I don't stand round - just in case the doorpony returns an' kicks me out. There's a couple that's taken the first alcove table; their mouths moving fast as they gesture wildly. Three black-shirted stallions look pale an' crazy under the dance floor's spotlights. I pull myself onto a bar stool an' see that there's another one of 'em that wears a sort of net-shirt that's showing off his muscles, though there's not much to see.

The girl behind the bar calls my way as she's washing an' drying wine glasses, 'Kid! What're you doing here?' It's so she's looking at me strangely with her black mascara an' pierced eyebrows, but there's no hurry. Teachers call you like there's 'zactly five seconds to 'splain yourself, an' she's just turning away from me an' stowing the dried glasses on the shelves. In the back I see a whole bunch of crates of empty bottles an' wonder if she drank 'em all today. She's wearing a spiked collar an' a huge metal earring, so it's certainly possible.

I decide to wait till she's done with the glasses an' slides back to the bar, watching the dance floor. The lights switch on an' off as the tidy group continues to thresh to the music - it's some sort of trance music, I'm sure, 'cept there's this wail sound all the way through an' the beat is like a wooden mallet bashed on a table sharp an' hard, over an' over again. Sure 'nough, there's the barkeep again an' I say, 'I'm a friend of Crayzer an', uhm... Ebony.'

'Ah,' she murmurs, trotting along the length of the bar an' running a wet cloth over it. 'And you're a good friend of this "Uhm Ebony"?'

I can tell she's joking - this is just the kind of place where no one is 'zactly serious - an' I nod. 'Yes I am,' I confirm as confidently as I can. I just wish I remembered to bring my cap.

'You're a good liar,' she decides, 'I'm Ebony.' I contain my surprise an' make myself not say anything stupid; make myself as expressionless as possible. She leans onto the bar so she can speak instead of shout. 'I like your guts. Parents piss your off or something?'

'Not today,' I say, shrugging coolly. I can't believe how easy this is. She's like four or five years older than me - she must be out of school by now.

'Want a cola?' she offers, reaching towards the fridge under the bar.

'Got a beer instead?'

She laughs but retrieves a beer just the same, popping the cap off an' setting it down in front of me. 'You're not getting a glass though,' she says darkly, trotting towards this big stallion in a spiky vest that's got medals an' hooks dangling from it. I'm pretty sure that tough-looking guy can see that I've got a bottle of beer too, an' I didn't even have to pay for it.

It's nice to sit here for a while with no one giving a shit 'bout you being there. As a few more ponies file into the club I hear it 'splained that Nuisance Night's not supposed to start till later, but ponies show up anyway, an' there's music an' drinks just the same. There's a whole bunch of buttons an' patches between 'em, with letters an' bands an' words on 'em, though just as many just wear tight all-black. In a way I feel like I'm inside a secret club; the kind to gather round to worship hydra embryos or something. I sometimes look at Ebony an' sort of pretend she doesn't see me, an' then look back at the beer. Each careful swig is fetid an' bites my throat, but I don't let it show. There's a picture of a mountainscape on the label an' it's called Tough Bucks. It's nearly halfway finished, but the trick is making it look like you're just taking your time.

Ebony's talking to the doorpony who's leaning on the bar, an' I see him nodding like she's just told him what to do. Then she trots back along the bar near me an' says, 'Wanna see the back?' She's so close I can touch the spikes on her collar if I would dare to find out how sharp they really are. I look at my beer as if to say that I'm busy drinking it, an' she adds, 'Don't worry, I won't eat you.'

So I agree an' she waits on me to get to the back of the bar. I can't help but smile 'cause all these regulars see me holding my beer behind the bar. There's a dirty towel on the floor, an' near a camouflaged black door there's a dusty fire extinguisher. I'm pretty sure it's an exit, 'cause Ebony's leading me down a corridor on the left where it's just concrete an' bricks an' there's a little room with a table an' two busted couches; their innards crawling onto the cold floor. There's a stereo set on a bureau desk in the corner, an' 'bout twenty or thirty records stacked willy-nilly. A robust stallion shoulders an' squeezes past us wordlessly an' Ebony gestures towards the couch.

The music's dim an' hollow here, like being inside a glass jar an' hearing everything buzzing outside. I set my beer down on the table so it's just out of reach an' I get a clear look at Ebony, deciding that she's way different when she's not behind the bar. Maybe she is four or five years older than me, but behind the bar she's prob'ly six or seven years older. She breathes purposefully an' I see she's applying make-up from a black box. 'Lots of guys ask me for the stuff before they get on stage,' she 'splains. I bet she even knows the noisy band I saw when I went last time.

The naked lightbulb swings just enough for an uneven light to shake the room. It's taking long 'nough for me to get up again an' take a closer look, casually checking out the records. The box has 'bout sixty different colors like tiny boxes of paint - Mom has only four, an' they ain't as bright an' thick as Ebony's. Even the black is thicker than ink. 'Nuh-uh,' she scoffs, 'that won't work for you. All you need's to fix your mane.'

'Yeah, it's pretty dumb,' I admit, 'but I usually wear a cap.'

'A cap?' She turns to me an' postures so she's folding her hoof 'gainst her hip. 'This is worse than I thought. No, dear, all you need's the right mane-cut so it's not so lame and floppy - you got the right colors otherwise.' She stops then an' turns back to the make-up, rubbing a tiny brush 'gainst her eyebrow. 'On second thought,' she says, 'maybe my brother likes the floppy hair. He has no class.' She laughs, apparently unable to decide one way or the other. 'But what the fuck does he know, right?'

'Well, he told me 'bout you,' I remember. Of course Ebony has better taste - she makes Mom look even stranger a creature than she already was.

'Oh yeah? He once downed a tray of ash, spit, and wine to prove he was crazy.' She chuckles. 'What did he say?'

I skip digesting that anecdote - it's too weird. 'Not much.'

'Wanna know how I got my name?' Her pause is deliberate, her whisper like a passing mist. 'A furniture brochure,' she continues, 'this couch--no, not that couch; it was just a random couch in the brochure that was "also available in ebony". But I'm neither a couch nor a color. But it speaks to me, capiche?'

I nod slowly so it's not obvious I'm overwhelmed just by being in this mare's presence. There's something puzzling 'bout Ebony an' her brother, but I can't figure out what it is. It even occurs to me that it might be something ridiculous, like 'em not being sister an' brother at all, but girl- an' boyfriend. Or maybe Ebony's stabbed someone; killed 'em like Mr. Appleby prob'ly has. Quietly I go back to the couch an' sip the beer - the last bit in the bottle has crumbs in it an' makes me retch, but when I look up in shame, Ebony's busy messing with the stereo set. 'Ready for something big?' she asks.

Of course I'm ready, and anyway, if I wouldn't be ready I wouldn't know it beforehoof. But Ebony composes herself like she's preparing all sorts of speeches an' trials before accepting I'm ready. Now it really feels like a secret club. Solemnly, she asks, 'What's the most fucked up, badass shit you've ever heard?' She's fondling the stereo but refuses to push any button. My head is spinning 'cause I've not heard any of my music in Nuisance Night - that is, nothing even remotely like it. I'd even answer it's this music, if I could just name one song. I'm pretty sure she can tell, 'cause she says, 'Right. It's what you're soon to hear. But before I show you the first sample you've gotta promise me something first.'

'Sure,' I say immediately, expecting it to be filled with swear words or maybe 'bout killing parents. I've heard it in the news that there's a band that got banned on the radio for singing 'bout that, an' I'm pretty sure it's this one.

Deliberately she approaches the couch so I lean back, yet she's pushing her face close to mine just the same. The mascara's seamless an' hypnotizing. 'This'll change everything,' she promises, 'but don't show it to anyone. Especially not if it's someone you like. They won't understand. They won't deserve it. And most certainly they won't keep it to themselves. It's too big for them.'

She pushes her head back so her mane falls down, like talking so intensely made her lose her mind an' she's got to recover it. Just casually she asks if I like any of the music in Nuisance Night an' I say, 'Yeah, it's rad. Your brother liked this one band that played here--'

'N9ghtmare 99?' She waves her hoof dismissively. 'First of all, you oughtn't give a fuck what anyone else thinks. Everyone knows a real gift's a sacrifice - you'll learn that soon enough.' She chuckles and flicks her mane so it sways in a perfect wave. 'Yeah, so, they're all right, but there's some things that are more important.' She trots back to the stereo mix with a skip in her step so I know she's excited that I'm nervous. 'No one gets this,' she says, tossing a plastic headset on the couch. The cord whips it back so I have to scramble to pick it up, but she doesn't care. She turns away, an' I swear she's looking at the ceiling when she says, 'But something tells me that you'll get it.'

It's close to home when I realize I hadn't even thought 'bout getting back in. It's past midnight an' there's no point trying to hoist myself up the rainpipe; no point in going in the way I got out. If anything I might end up taking a good leap halfway in an' crash through the window.

There's a good strategy to go with though, but I know it requires intense patience. I rap the door gently, so Mom can't hear it but Fir might. The first time I do this, I swear there's a soft rustling sound. So I rap again, just as quietly. After a minute of silence I rap more loudly, but when no one's coming to the door I remember my strategy an' stick with the quiet raps. His room's right there, so he's got to hear it eventually.

I wait an' feel out the tape in my pocket that Ebony's given me, its plastic corners smoothed out perfectly round an' easy to the touch. Ebony didn't say she's my friend or anything, which makes it easier to like her. I like her, but I don't have to care that much 'bout her. I promised not to even really look at the tape till I got the chance to listen to it. She didn't mean it when she made me promise, I'm sure, but I decide to do it anyway, even if I might wait at the door till morning.

Also think 'bout Ebony's brother drinking from an ashtray with others' spit an' whatever in it. Fucking gross. Compared to that the beer must be awesome. But I could never have guessed, 'specially after he basically got me into the club all by himself. It's hard to separate the two things.

An hour must've passed - which means it's prob'ly 'bout half an hour - an' I've given up on rapping every minute. It's just every once in a while that I move my hoof tiredly an' knock quietly, by this point all but certain that Fir's fast asleep an' won't hear me no matter what. My strategy gets more risky, reasoning that if I knock really loudly, Mom might still refuse to wake up, or even that if she does, Fir might let me in before she gets on her clothes; before she shuffles through the living room an' reaches the hall. Then I could pretend that Fir an' me got out of bed to answer the door. I'm scared to do it though. Fir's alarm clock goes off 'bout five minutes before Mom's does, so all I have to do to avoid punishment is to wait till morning. Maybe five more hours. I'm sleepier than I've ever been in class, or in bed.

I slump further so my butt's on the cold floor. I reflect on how easy it should be to just bring myself onto the balcony an' my mind's running circles the way it does when I'm tired. All 'cause everything sucks. See, if I'd been living with Dad in some pegasus city this would've been second nature: I'd be stronger, faster, smarter... she would've respected an' understood me then instead of going on an' on 'bout stupid stuff like dresses an' being civil. It's hard to get respected for who you are when you're so unimpressive an' weird - school taught me that an' will continue to drill it into my head for eternity. Maybe if I was more like Ebony, but it's a silly thought 'cause I'm sure she doesn't even give a shit 'bout what others think of her. As sure as how fucking pointless this thought is. There's a police siren way off in the distance. A moth tries to butt through the upper window of the apartment complex. I'm 'bout as hungry as I'm tired. Got to piss, too.

Two hours feel like four an' it must be 75 minutes or so. I'm 'bout to give up an' bang on the door like the crazy neighbours do sometimes when they're drunk an' partying with reggae music. I've got my hoof 'gainst the door an' I'm mustering the strength to but then something weird happens an' I'm terrified an' relieved - someone's climbing the stairs. I'm wide-eyed when I see Fir's head pop into view.

He's wearing his jumper an' he's got a baseball pressed 'gainst him. 'Be quiet as a mouse or I'll tell Mom,' he whispers, 'and don't say anything.' I nod an' follow him inside. He's twisting an' pulling out the key as though he's picking it an' I notice he's red in the face an' prob'ly exhausted.

When I've pissed an' slip into bed I chalk up the bizarreness of being ambushed by Fir to being in the backroom with Ebony. I can't 'splain it but know this must be mostly true, 'cause Fir wouldn't go an' let me in otherwise. 'Specially not 'cause he didn't have his bat on him. An' you can't play baseball in the dark anyway.

Otherworld

Sleep is a vacuum, but there's a throbbing on the left side of my head that doesn't care. Freeday's a frightening arrival, knowing that Fir's alarm clock was never set an' I've stupidly forgotten 'bout it. Breakfast is three very necessary glasses of orange juice. Mom offers to take us to the arcade, but Fir says, 'Nah, not today,' so I pretty much have to say no too, 'cause I'd have to be stuck with her the whole time. Afterwards I regret it, but just like Fir's spending the afternoon in his room, I'm locking myself in too.

With headphones on the room becomes even smaller. The cassette just has THE UNDERLINGS written in black marker, an' the tape is wound like it's never been used. As if it's been waiting 'specially for me. Sun blisters through the window an' I'm spreading on the bed, a hoof to the side of the head to numb the headache. I push play an' there's silence first an' then the sound of another room. Briefly I wonder if it's a joke, but I know I've heard music last night, an' I'm patient 'nough to sit through the entire tape front to back if necessary - if only so I can tell Ebony there's nothing on it later.

Drums come on, an' it sounds choppy but steady. I ain't sure if it's the recording, the playing, or the tape - I don't know if it's supposed to sound like that. She warned me it's too big for a first listen, but I'm not sure that means anything. There's a big deep rumble drowning out most of the other sound, but I can tell there's a guitar too, fast an' constant. Then the singer sings 'gainst it - sort of just tries to pierce through for the most part really - an' it's like his throat is damaged 'cause it's all hollow... but it's beautiful. It's really beautiful.

The song's over almost immediately, but there's another one starting immediately. No intros: just the raw throat scream that turns into this low howl. Did I hear it yesterday? No. It's sung in another way, but the guitar an' drums are almost the same as before. I can tell that the big booming sound is like the guitar an' matching it constantly. I don't know what he's singing, but, it's like the earth is splitting open an' I'm in it. I have to stop the tape an' rewind it, though the deck sometimes fucks up tapes when you stop in the middle.

I ain't sure if I like it, or what it is, but it's beautiful. I guess the word is "haunting" - it's haunting. It's like they're underlings of some invisible force... an' it's like they're doing its bidding with no care or pity for anyone. I listen to the beginning of the tape again an' find I'm right: Listening carefully to the words I'm pretty sure he's singing that he wants to destroy me from the inside. "Destroy you from the inside of your skull so it's full of (something)... maggots bursting through." An' then there's a deep, wailing throat yell oooh-whoaw-oh that makes me forget what happened before.

I don't know what to think.

I can't stop listening to the tape. Once, Mom knocks on the door an' I hurry an' stop the tape, toss away the headphones an' 'splain to her that I'm drawing in my new sketchbook. 'You can't just hide in your room all day,' she claims, but of course I can. It's only to show I have nothing to hide that makes me promise I'll be out later.

The Underlings are fucking amazing. Ebony's taste is fucking amazing. I wish I know who The Underlings are, where they come from, how old they are, and which instrument they play. I want to know what the songs are called an' what the lyrics are. Most of all I want to listen to the tape.

First chance I'm alone I ain't even gonna stroke myself. I'm listening to this fucking tape out of the speaker boxes as loud as I can. But, I have to remember to make sure no one else really hears it, 'cause I'm pretty sure I promised that. And even if I haven't, this is not the kind of music you just give away.

When I emerge from my room an' have lunch I ask Mom if there's still time to go to the record store. There's a report on this murder on the radio, so she takes time before answering. 'The record store?' she echoes, 'what about the tapes you got for your birthday?'

Briefly I think 'bout wasting I don't know how much money on the stupid green dress, but I just say, 'Yeah, they're cool,' an' fall silent. The radio broadcaster binds together several professional opinions on the so-called Dessert Spoon Murder, an' were I alone I'd just start giggling. The Underlings should do a song 'bout that, if they're still alive. Or 'specially if they ain't.

Mom reflects from behind her magazine an' lectures with her eyes closed, 'You can't just get lots of stuff, young lady. When you study hard and you do your best you can buy several records, but you can't just get everything you want the moment you want it.' She turns off the radio the moment the next subject comes on an' continues reading her magazine. I'm pretty sure that if I say something now she'll go on forever: Maybe she'll start talking 'bout jobs, work, an' other things like that.

How different it would be if Uncle Faireweather was here. He's always given me cool stuff even without my asking. If I asked him if the record store was open he'd get us going straight away an' let me pick a tape of my choice. An' if they didn't have anything from The Underlings he'd take me to another record shop, no questions asked. I shift on my couch an' look up, hooves under my head in that relaxing posture that's not actually relaxing. I ask, 'How come Uncle Faireweather's not visiting as much?'

Mom's thinking 'bout this, I can tell, but I don't look at her. The ceiling's a safe place for my eyes. Eventually I hear her consider, 'Uncle Faireweather's a busy stallion, dear, he can't come and visit whenever we want to.'

'But, you could call him,' I argue, 'can't you? You call Aunt Palais an' Mrs. Breezeport all the time.'

She sighs now, so I know I'm getting somewhere. 'I don't call them all the time, young lady, and you know that.'

'But, aren't they busy too?' I persist, 'if they're busy an' you call 'em, you could call Uncle too.'

'Don't play smart.' Her voice's grown suddenly ferocious right at the end an' she smacks the magazine on the table harder than the time she's thrown a cup 'gainst the wall. She's either building more anger so she's twisted completely, or she's letting me think 'bout it. I don't want to.

It's already over, but it doesn't matter. Seconds crawl by. Finally she exhales from her nostrils, like a bull 'bout to charge, but her voice is just low an' simple: 'You're never satisfied, are you?' It's not a question an' it's not fair, but I "can't play smart". I'm close to tears so I get up slowly. 'You've got nothing to be sad about, young lady!' she yells just as suddenly. 'You have no idea what that's like!'

'I know nothing,' I retort with a mutter when I'm in my room. There's a door slamming. I had it wrong: It's not the singer from The Underlings who doesn't care. This is what not caring is. She's a fucking cunt an' I hope she dies - I almost drive my hoof 'gainst the wall, but what's the point?

I finish tearing the few remaining embarrassing drawings off the wall an' put my headphones on, but my head's throbbing worse than it did before. On a whim I think 'bout unburying Dad's photo, but I'm getting nauseous an' it's a waste of effort. He's dead an' might not care either even if he wasn't - I don't know. It would be impossible for him to live with Mom if he was alive, at least. It's strange to think 'bout it 'cause then Dad wouldn't even be Dad.

If my head didn't hurt I'd sigh 'bout that, but there's no use now. Everyone who cares doesn't know me. The Underlings are beautiful, though. Better than the shit Mom got for my birthday. At times like this I wish I wasn't crying an' there wasn't any pain, so I could just listen to 'em. That's all I'm thinking 'bout.

The biggest injustice is that you have to stay angry to stay right, an' that makes the head hurt more. So I have to calm down so I don't throw up. It might be nice to make Mom feel bad when I throw up, but I feel too sick for it, an' there's nothing worse than throwing up an' having a headache.

At least Ebony's given me that tape, and no one can take it away from me. I kind-of daydream 'bout being in the Nuisance Night backroom an' putting my nose between this shepherd dog's hind legs an' then pissing all over the couch together, marking an' re-marking it as our little lair. But, it kind of makes the nausea get worse, an' I can't picture what the dog looks like anyway - or remember what the room looked like - so I just kind of lie there an' think 'bout my head not hurting. At least it's better than thinking 'bout Mom.

The trick's calling, 'Leave me alone!' when there's a knock, an' if possible make it sound like you're sobbing. It comes out pretty accurate, but then I hear it's Fir. 'It's me,' he says apologetically. I hide the tape under my pillow an' tell him to come in.

All he does is sort of stand there, only just in the doorway. He says, 'I came to check on you,' which is just fucking weird. I hear mom chopping vegetables or fruit in the kitchen, an' I'm angry that she hasn't come to apologize. Instead there's Fir just standing there. 'You checked,' I say dryly, 'so you can go now.'

He pulls an ah okay sort of face an' retreats. I regret it the moment the door closes: If he tells Mom I snuck out of the house there's no way she's gonna be nice to me ever again. If she ever was. Fuck. I can barely remember one year ago. Like another fucking world.

Canter

Dinner's cauliflower mash with applesauce an' I wolf it down fast. Not sure if it's pepper she put in or something else, but it's better than I remember it being last couple of times she's cooked it. Mom asks if it's all right, but I told myself coming out that I'd not say a word. I just look up at her for a moment an' go on to finish my plate. Only when I'm done I comment, if to no one in particular, that someone got to be in the news 'cause their eyes got spooned out.

Fir clarifies that the victim got stabbed over an argument with the other side of a dessert spoon, an' he got hit in the eye mostly by accident. As he's finishing up, he tells Mom he's going out to Rod's to play games, so I give him a dirty look he doesn't even notice. Mom just lets him, of course, tamely adding that he should be back "well before" midnight.

Fir's putting on his clothes an' I again make a non-specific announcement to the living room, declaring that I'm going out for a canter an' I'll pass by the Corner Market before it closes. It's a strange impulse, but it seems to work, 'cause Mom again says nothing. It's a bit weird in the corridor, 'cause neither Fir nor myself say a word as we leave together.

'See you,' he says as he skips down the stairs. The lights in the complex turn on right then, like he's announced it.

I call, 'Wait,' so he stops there, half a flight down. He looks up at me a little dumbly, a couple strands of hair hanging over his forehead. 'I'll canter you there.'

'Thought you were going to the Corner Market?' he answers. He's looking at me expectantly for a second but then he reminds me unnecessarily, 'It closes any second now, so you'd better hurry.'

I'm still standing there at the door an' I'm pretty sure Mom can hear us, the echo in the stairway carrying our voices up an' down. Maddeningly, Fir refuses to say anything. 'Fine, go then,' I mutter, going back inside an' almost slamming the door.

It may be better not to go to the Corner Market just the same. Mrs. Oceano might give candy an' I'd have to thank her an' it'd just be weird. Mr. Appleby's shop's also there, an' Mr. Appleby's crazy. He might kill me or lock me in the basement - no telling he hasn't done it before. Mrs. Oceano could be his accomplice, in fact, she's right there, after all. The only thing going 'gainst it is that she's just a harmless nice lady an' not a spying type at all.

For a while I think 'bout this possibility, but nothing conclusive comes to me. Maybe someone else broke into the place before an' that's how it started. When I play The Underlings tape into my headphones I wonder 'bout those statues in his basement, an' what made him get 'em or make 'em. Even how he got 'em down. They must weigh five-hundred pounds each. At least.

I decide to draw Ebony something an' open the new sketchbook. The paper's thick an' knobbly, but I get started just the same. I draw a big knife, but it's stupid, so I move to the next page an' begin on a heart in a hoof. The idea's that they ripped out their heart an' are showing it proudly, though it's just a hoof an' a heart. The heart looks stupid, so I end up erasing it lots of times. Too straight an' simple lines first, then too wriggly an' weird. It's like it's floating over the hoof rather than being held by it. It's a lot of eraser shedding on the warped paper an' I get angry for a little that Aurora didn't even get me a sketchbook like the one I had.

It's the music that transforms what I'm drawing into something interesting. The hoof is not a hoof but a lamp post an' the heart is not a heart but a big fence, but it's like I'm at the bottom so that the post is in the near distance an' the fence towers higher still. It's a chain link fence with lots of holes in it, an' I add a warning sign with lots of small lines put together for metal an' shadows. NO ENTRANCE I write on it, and as an after thought, I add a couple of spider webs round it an' a hill of sand all the way in the back.

Tonight I'm refusing to sleep. I just am, 'cause the longer I'm awake the longer the time will be till it's morning. The only problem is that I'm tired as fuck an' even though I'm listening to the tape I feel weird an' want to stroke myself. But I can't, 'cause Mom'll hear an' I just can't. Getting caught or not getting caught is like a game of shame 'cause it's impossible to tell if Mom knows or not. Life would be over. I would be dead.

I'm sweaty an' warm when I hear a strange sound break through the music. I had forgotten Fir was still out, but there was the sound of the door shutting an' his hoofsteps littering the corridor. I tuck my headphones 'gainst the stereo. The hoofsteps stop an' then start again so I don't know if he's gonna go to the kitchen or his room or what, but I just think be more quiet. It's not hard.

Glass breaking makes me close my eyes, but, Mom's already awake - she's already opening the living room door an' whisper-shouting for Fir. Quietly I slip out of bed an' put my ear to the door, but I can't hear Mom. I just hear Fir 'splaining: 'It's just a cherry pop, Mom, I'll clean it up in the morning.' Mom's response is angry like a sizzling volcano but I still can't make out what she's saying. I just know that she goes on for a full minute.

Fir's not saying anything anymore - I picture him still standing there in the living room. I hear Mom now, her hushed tirade building in volume. '...and it's the third time! It doesn't matter what I say; you won't understand! And if you don't understand it doesn't even matter! You have any idea what you're doing? Maybe I should throw everything on the ground, or out the window! But I won't, you understand? You have any idea what...'

She does a hiss sort of scream an' I try to listen harder - but it's impossible to listen harder - but then it's like she adjusts her voice 'cause there's a loud breath, so I picture her sucking in wind an' blowing it out again. '...she's struggling as it is! And here you are fucking it all up again. You think you've got it bad? You don't know anything! Would you like all my money then? Would it be enough then? Well here it is! Take it then!'

Now I hear Fir stammer, 'cause Mom must be a tornado now. It's bad 'nough so I briefly consider opening the door, or just making a loud noise. Just to draw attention away an' make them stop. I'm sure Fir's whimpering, but Mom goes on: '...you have no idea what you're talking about!' Then she's quiet again an' for a while I hear nothing, so I wonder what's going on. Have they gone to bed or something? I've heard no doors: no, they must still be standing there in the living room.

Eventually I hear whispers, but all I can make out is a general making-up sort of murmur. They must both be apologizing, but they're just as strange as before - maybe stranger still. I wonder if there's medication for this kind of stuff, but I doubt it. Like caterpillars turning into butterflies an' back again. I must be the only normal pony in the entire family.

I'm too tired to stay awake, after all.

Losing

Ruff an' Constante do their victory squeal when they hear they're gonna be strikers in the soccer tournament - even though they must know there's only room for two strikers in the starting team, an' Basil's surely one of 'em. (Fir's mentioned at breakfast that the upper years play "real sports" like baseball an' hoofball when school's through, but I know they're all just as stupid.) It's recess an' I'm having an apple in the hallway 'cause Jazzie an' Aster are also blocking the exit. Now I'm neither waiting for someone to tell 'em to scramble nor asking 'em to move aside. I'm simply eating an apple.

I'm resigned to listening to Ruff an' Constante talk away 'bout soccer an' then being joined by Yarding from next-door's class, who eagerly yaps, 'Won't believe what that Bayleaf girl did. She did the whole mathbook for homework.' He pauses briefly an' then quickly 'splains, 'She thought she had to 'cause it was "just finish what you didn't do already" 'cause there's no homework. So she did the rest of the whole book.' They laugh in bursts an' Constante does the squealy re-ah-relaxed! thing again, though it doesn't make any sense. They don't even have to call her an idiot, that much is understood, but it also means that they're actually impressed. The only thing I don't understand is how anyone would actually complete the entire textbook even if they thought they had to. It's fucking insane.

I had hope they'd be given to move now, but when Yarding shuffles on wordlessly Ruff an' Constante bring up the last bunch of Giraffe issues. I stop chewing 'cause I can't believe it: They talk 'bout my favorite issue and talk 'bout the part where Giraffe climbs up the bell tower an' right then gets jumped by The Batter. 'That fight is... it's the best,' Constante says, 'it's better than the best.' Ruff eggs him on an' yells, 'It's when they're both down and slide down the wall, wings versus neck! Then he knows he can't beat him. No way he can beat him an' get to the top! Sick.'

Reliving that scene I toss the apple core in the trash - thinking first of The Batter smashing Giraffe on the head an' breaking his fucking leg an' then 'bout their crash landing through the roof - I approach 'em just slow 'nough an' say, 'Sick an' then some! That part was rad!'

They stop, looking at me like I'm a ghost, or maybe they thought I was someone else entirely. Maybe they're considering going on like I said nothing, or maybe they're simply wondering how to respond, but then Jazzie croons from behind 'em, 'Poor Gracey-lacey! Ponies don't say "rad" anymore.' They catch on slow, but the chuckles are there. At this point all she cares 'bout is knowing she got to me; no need to impress boys, anyway. I wouldn't even be annoyed, 'cept that it completely killed the moment. I mutter, 'Fucking cunt,' knowing full well that with my back turned to her she won't hear me. It doesn't matter anyway that she doesn't; I just wanted to say it.

Teachers have freakish hearing. It's Mr. Stone that marches towards me with stark determination so I think he's either gonna slap me or hit me for real. I try to tell him when he's clasping my shoulder that Jazzie was calling me lots of things - not calling her out by name of course - but it doesn't matter. 'Come with me,' he commands. Teachers hear when they want to an' only then, an' the biggest crime possible in school is a word on the swearword list.

I'm thinking 'bout the words an' it's like a crossword puzzle so I wonder if regular teachers fill out something like that without knowing it, keeping track of what kind of offensive words each kid's used. He's pretending to push me up the stairs now, with a hoof on my shoulder, like the slave from the History textbook in the uniform. Substitute teachers don't know what they're doing, not just in class but in talking with kids too. He just leaves me up the stairs here in front of the toilets an' says, 'Stay here.'

Most of the kids are downstairs so it was quiet even when we moved up the stairs, but the second Mr. Stone strides in the class room (think it's 2B) it's like I'm in the Biology lab with no one else round. It makes me feel oddly important.

A door's slammed somewhere to my right, from round the teacher's break room, an' I consider if Mr. Stone would freak out if I would wait round Mrs. Kindheart's office. I wouldn't go in, of course, I'd just be standing in the corridor. I could even say that I was just trying not to stand anywhere where I could get in the way. If kids can go to the toilet during class like everyone else always does I'm pretty sure this is possible just the same.

'Oh, it's just you.' I'm too surprised when Aurora comes out of Mrs. Kindheart's office to really do anything but stare at her at close range; too surprised to say anything back. Her dress matches her lavender coat almost too well. She never wore those rich girl dress outfits before she had a boyfriend. Never spoke quite so nonchalant as that either. Like she's weighed the past an' moved on, an' there's no chance of going back. I realize I'm blocking her way, but I can't really move out of the way 'cause she doesn't seem to be moving. 'I'm just waiting for her to come back,' she 'splains.

I nod stupidly, but we both stand equally stupid, each of us on one side of the doorway. Only exception's that she has her mane bound in a single tail, so the purple bangs come out evenly an' the tail drops just above her shoulders. I swear she's done something to her eyes, 'cause they look different somehow, though they're still just as green. 'What are you doing here, anyway?' she demands, an' quickly I 'splain that I have to wait here before getting punished. I don't say what for, of course, or what Jazzie said. She listens like she has nothing better to do anyway, nodding lazily.

It's awkward, but she's humoring me: 'Are you going to be on the soccer team?' I'm angry with her, of course, but when you're alone with someone you kind of have to tolerate 'em an' be nice. I nod an' she says, 'Me too.'

We stand there like we're both thinking of something to say. I would bring up Giraffe or some other comic books, but I have no idea if she even reads anything. 'Must be great having a boyfriend, huh?' I ask. I wish I could destroy myself an' have a reason to run away, 'cause not only does my question not make sense but it also makes me sound pathetic even if it did.

Clatter of cups an' saucers comes from the teacher's break room so I think here's someone gonna push through, but no one does. Similarly, I wait for Aurora to laugh at me or maybe brag a little, but she doesn't. It's like she pretends I didn't say anything at all - just decides it then an' there, it seems; just suddenly decides she didn't hear it in the first place. I'm glad 'cause I'm sure my face is red, but at the same time I'm confused why she didn't call me a freak or something. That way at least I could call her a bitch an' tell her her sketchbook's a weird piece of shit with knobbly paper an' that I knew all along that she was just making shit up 'bout Mr. Appleby's basement.

'Well? Don't you do stuff all the time?' It's like I'm just hearing myself say these things, not actually saying 'em. I'm looking into the corridor like there's anything worth seeing, not believing my urge to be so stupid.

'Yeah, sure we do,' she admits after a while, which is more of an answer than what I expected. 'I just hope Mrs. Kindheart returns before it's time for class,' she adds.

'Yeah.'

'Hey. I'm sorry for calling you sick...'

I look at her an' she's looking down at the chair. Maybe she's the sick one an' she's only just catching on, but the thought stops making sense the moment I think it. The artificial light's got a minute stutter an' it's pointless to even notice it. She wills herself to look my way again an' doesn't look sad, apologetic, angry, or anything. It's just a face, like the one I see in the mirror, 'cept mine is automatically stupid. I just step forward onto the doorway an' decide to be even more stupid. I turn my head just a little an' kiss her right on the lips. It doesn't taste like anything, but it's warm an' her lips are dry like mine. I don't know what I'm doing or why.

Fuck. I wish I could murder myself, shivering. She's got her eyes open just like me, not at all how you're supposed to do that, eyes closed an' all. Or with tongues. Gross!

'Yeah...'

We both mutter that, kind of. It's more of a sort of not-saying where we make a sound vaguely resembling it. Her vowels materialise in a half-hearted sentence. 'What the fuck was...'

No point finishing it 'cause I wouldn't be able to answer anyway. No use saying sorry either, so I canter back to the toilets. Mr. Stone must've gotten lost. Substitute teachers suck at pretty much everything. The sound of the building's an echo inside my head an' my step is so light it's like twenty doctors just drew blood. I wish I could go back, somehow.

I'm waiting for Fir, but just like Mr. Stone, he must be caught in a labyrinth of rooms an' doors. I even consider he's got to stay after class, but it's stupid 'cause he never has to stay after class.

'Fir's not coming,' a mare says evenly, bidden by my thoughts. But she's no teacher. It's Aunt Palais who's slowly strolling past me to the gate. 'I told him I would escort you home today.'

It's scarier cantering with Aunt Palais than it is with a teacher. Teachers can call Mom, but Mom doesn't really give a shit what teachers say. Not unless she agrees with 'em, anyway. It's like she picks up on my thoughts for a moment, an' I wonder if she's somehow been alerted to the Aurora situation. If she has, of course, she doesn't have to tell me I fucked up - I always do anyway. She says, 'I understand you've had a run-in with Mr. Appleby now, have you?'

The noise of school disappears. When we round the corner I say, 'Yes I have, Aunt Palais.' I realize I just sort of muttered my answer so that it wasn't really an answer at all, so I admit, 'He spoke with me near the construction yard,' waving back past the school as we go.

'He's been a friend of mine about as long as I've been alive,' she says, 'and so I was obligated to tell him I've seen you in his shop. I hope you don't blame me.' She halts under a tree so I have to do the same, the wind scattering those little brown blossom-leaves 'gainst my hooves. 'Wait up a second,' she explains, 'let's take the scenic route, shall we?'

There's nothing scenic 'bout Breakaway Street, but I can tell she's not taking me to Mr. Appleby's shop. Maybe I'm still feeling stupid like I did when I was with Aurora, but I don't care much at all 'bout what he's told her. They might's well all be psychopaths with strange statues in their basements, so I don't have much to lose anyway. If anything it just means they ain't afraid of me. I look inside the Corner Market as we pass it, but Mrs. Oceano just happens to look the other way. Two wagons cart past us, loaded with apples an' vegetables. Aunt Palais, I notice, has an odd step in her gait, like she's got a shoe on with a rock in it an' doesn't want to put pressure on it. When she slows down a little an' catches her breath, it's this that I expect her to speak 'bout, but instead she says, 'My mother was a lot like yours, you know.' I'm just glad we're nearly home, 'cause this ain't going anywhere good.

Aunt Palais doesn't really have a lecture, after all. She just stops an' adds, 'And I still can't say if I was being difficult or she was, but what I learned later was that she was just scared of losing me. It's hard to be a mother almost as much as it's hard to be a daughter.'

'You okay, Aunt Palais? You ain't hurt are you?'

She laughs oddly, like there's something stuck in her throat. 'Just a little worn out, Grace, truth be told. I actually had to run to get to school before it was out. Thank you for asking.'

I hadn't realized we had already reached home. 'Thanks for cantering me home, Aunt Palais.'

She nods like a princess thanking her most loyal assistant an' it's like right then something occurs to her 'cause she smiles an' says, 'You talk just like your father.' For a moment I watch her trot back up towards Breakaway Street, a bit of a limp in her step, but still more graceful than most of everyone else.

Nothing

Summer vacation continues to make school be less a gnawing prison sentence an' more a tedious wait. One more week an' it's finally there. We finish breakfast with more daylight than reasonable, but I don't care 'bout sitting in school cooking in sweat. The only thing I'm worried 'bout is the soccer tournament. I could of course just not show up, but now that I've told Aurora I'd be there, she would prob'ly tell 'em I promised I'd be there. That would only come up if no one else wanted to be on goal, of course, but it's a risk.

Fir's trotting right to a gallop the second we're down the stairs. 'Not so fast,' I plead, 'what's the hurry?'

He doesn't stop till he's past the baseball cage, catching his breath with a straight face. 'What's the hurry?' I repeat as I catch up with him. He says, 'Nothing,' an' I know he's hiding something. As he rushes ahead to school I resolve to pay close attention, an' maybe even seek him out during recess.

School is a bit of a laugh, but of course it still sucks. First little distraction's the pair of orange-vested ponies striding through the corridor to the PE hall (Tangy's watching 'em go an' forgets the bell entirely). Then it turns out three kids are sick (or sick of school), including Aurora, so it's almost impossible for any teacher to go 'gainst the urge of slacking off so close to vacation. Mr. Pressing does a little experiment turning 'gold' into salt by dissolving a coloring agent with a conflicting acid. There's a brownish foam an' a fizzing like cola till there's just salt left in the glass. Maths is different 'cause there's no way to make it fun. It's a test with 'funny' questions, like, one where there's two termites trying to get beyond a block of wood, with one going round it an' another one digging straight through, but there's no information on the crawling or digging speed of either of 'em.

When at last it's recess it takes 'bout twenty minutes to find Fir, 'cause he ends up being in the lunch hall, sitting with two nerdy boys playing cards. It's not proper cards, though, 'cause they've all got lots of pictures on 'em of winged beasts an' mushrooms an' stuff. It's weird just watching him sit there, 'cause he ain't having lunch an' he ain't part of the game or talking with either of 'em. Really, he's just sitting there, staring cross the hall, not even noticing me.

Watching him makes me think of swimming class in grade school, where all classes went to the pool together at the same time. Must've been a hundred times I've swam back an' forth an' watched the pool next to me, checking to see if he was going up to the board yet. Weird thing was he always rushed - fast-cantered - to the showers the moment class was done, so he'd be there first. Till now I just assumed he was that eager to be first, 'cause he's always trying to be the best at everything, even stupid things like Backgammon an' Quartets.

I realize something important that even Mrs. Kindheart prob'ly doesn't know, an' I make sure no one bothers me as I work this out. Halfway up the stairs I lean underneath the hoofrail. Boys aren't governed an' changed by dicks an' stuff at all. They think weird 'cause they're stubborn an' proud 'bout unimportant stuff, an' they can't talk 'bout what's bothering 'em. You have to pick 'em like a lock: Ask the wrong question an' they won't say anything. You just end up tightening the lock. I'm gonna ask Fir who's taking his money, an' then, when he ain't answering, I'm gonna hit him with the most important question of 'em all: "Is it Rod?"

Mom wouldn't get that far at all, but I can. It'll be like the paint crumbling off of the salt. That's how it's gonna be.

Mr. Voluble hesitates with starting the last class of the day; asks if everyone's there, an' when the three sick ponies are verified he's still hesitating. It's like he's a substitute teacher, like he was when he gave Biology instead of Mrs. Shellski, but I'm certain it's Language we're in for. There's a few mutters an' whisper-conversations starting. Behind me, Ruff's talking 'bout a wrestling match, an' next to me even Quartz is leafing through her agenda.

Mr. Voluble coughs an' says, 'Everyone, can I have your attention?'

By this point everyone's paying attention, though I'm pretty sure no one knows what's on his mind. I expect he's gonna say something 'bout the soccer tournament or something like the last few days of school being cancelled. 'Good,' he says, looking 'round the class searchingly, 'I'm glad you're with me. Unfortunately I have some bad news that... well, we've thought it best not to trouble you with until the school day's through.' He coughs again an' I only barely notice that the entire classroom's quiet - more quiet than it is when there's no one in it. He ain't even a teacher anymore when he starts once more: 'Now, this might be a shock for some of you, but I have to tell you that Aurora is no longer with us. She's dead.'

There's a confused murmur of questions; concerned questions that only get innocent, vague answers. He says something 'bout the rest of class being over an' that everyone who's waiting for their parents to pick 'em up can wait in the lunch hall till school's out, but I have difficulty getting out of my seat. There's phone numbers an' addresses - even Mrs. Kindheart's name - but no one's bothering me 'bout staring blankly at the treetops outside. An' when at last I disappear, there ain't anyone who even notices me.

I wait outside for Fir to appear, watching the rest of the class cantering to the gate, and, it's weird, but the gate is like a magnet that draws each one of 'em in so they go through it by sheer magnetic force. Just passing through the gate without really doing anything else. I must be the only one that sees.

One of the songs has a lyric 'bout a "kiss of doom". Everyone always watches me, even when they're not there to see. All I can do is not look guilty. Wonder why they'd have a song 'bout it though. I mean... how could they know?

Music or not, birds whistle outside - I've seen the nests, an' that's where I picture 'em singing from. The day's even sunnier than it was when it began. I wish I had my own house. The only real condition is that it'd be mine, an' mine alone.

Mom talks her way into my room an' asks what I'm listening to. I quickly stop the tape an' hang the headset over the side of the desk, 'cause I know. 'Nothing,' I say. I know she knows - prob'ly Mrs. Kindheart called her before I got home or she was on the phone with her just now.

She forgets her fake interest in my music an' sits on the end of my bed so I have to crane my neck awkwardly to see her sunstruck face. She's more serious than she is calling the bank. 'Listen sweetheart,' she says, 'there's something important I need to tell you.'

It's weird hearing her call me that again, but I don't want to point it out. I just wait for her to say what she wants to say, deciding to just look dumbly at her. Like a kid. She smiles an' says, 'Your father loves you. You know that, don't you?'

I nod once an' she continues: 'Your father just wants you to be happy... we both love you. That's the most important. Do you understand?'

I understood that ages ago, but the only way to release her is to say, 'Yes, Mom, I understand.' She scoots up my bed so the mattress whirrs an' I sink a little. It's an awkward hug 'cause she's trying not to destroy the bed an' I'm halfway upright an' half lying down, but when she doesn't let go immediately it feels even weirder: she's trembling like she's terribly cold an' I'm an unwilling source of warmth. How can she be trembling when I have lost my friend?

There's a vacuum when she leaves an' the only thing I do for a couple of minutes is stretch an' lie down. I don't even remember when she first told me, 'bout Dad. Maybe she cared more 'bout it than she let it seem, an' maybe somehow that's why I don't remember a time of not 'just knowing' 'bout it. I don't know.

There's a weird light bouncing through the window, casting a spotlight on the wall. I don't know what I want to feel, but I wish that at least it was something. If it's something really powerful at least I can draw something good out of it, but the most fucked up thing is when I realize it must be worse even for the others in class. Either they're an asshole an' they're still sad, or they don't care at all an' don't even think 'bout it.

Totally forgot to ask Fir my questions, but it doesn't matter anyway.

Wave

There's one record that's black an' white with diagonal red stripes cross it, so it can't be... but it is. I look more closely at the cover an' there is says THE UNDERLINGS. It's the only one they've got, but the back's a garbled mess of words an' pictures, like a mosaic, an' I don't know what it's called. Even if it's the one I got on tape, though, I'd still want to buy it. It's even on sale.

The record store's a big underground bazaar, red plastic boxes stacked on two rows of tables, with several ponies streaming in an' out through the various doorways. Outside, there's enchanted flute music coming from the cavern-like corridors. The cashier's hiding behind a bunch of posters an' t-shirts. There's one from The Underlings that says CATACLYSM EVE an' I want it too.

The ceiling's got one of those fixed lights that changes color the longer you stare at it an' there's a feeling in my stomach that feels just like the flute sounds.

It's warm in my bed, but not too warm. I can still picture the record store, an' when I think 'bout it it's not that I'm thinking 'bout trotting round the doorways of that mall-cave an' so imagining it, but it's actually happening. I close my eyes back into sleep, trusting I'll get to continue the dream.

I rush from one corridor to the next till I'm pretty sure I'm lost. There's a fire extinguisher besides a small counter just at the top of a gallery marked by green posts. Downstairs there's several floors of shopping ponies, but up here, besides the toilets, it's just mystery. There's a black stallion behind the counter, big an' burly, asking me something. Or he's just saying something - it doesn't matter.

From behind me, Ebony's striding along the balcony-like bridge. She's wearing a pink shirt to go with her darkness and doom, but it actually looks really good 'cause it clashes an' is just unexpected. 'It's just the music,' she quizzes, 'remember that you promised. There's a whole lot of tunnels here, because there's a train that goes through here. Want to see?'

She takes my hoof an' starts running, but it's not too fast or anything. It's just too fast to see much 'cept for the corridors of the upper level. Black an' white arches separate shops, but no one minds 'cause Ebony works here. There's even a service staircase that we pass, 'cept we don't go down but through another door where it's all black. Thick icy water drops from the ceiling. There are lights in the distance shot from trains, but through a hole in the concrete up the wall there's just trees. 'It's a jungle garden,' Ebony 'splains, 'wild wolves live here and sometimes one of them crawls up through that hole. But I've got to show you the trains...'

The last few days of school are less real than that dream. It's hard to measure, like with a plant growing over time, but gradually Aurora fades from class. It starts with there being one seat an' desk less the day after. Mr. Voluble even thought it out by spacing out that row so there's not just an empty spot where she sat. Once I wonder if she would've changed her hair by now an' reflexively turn to my right where Quartz is highlighting her exercise book.

Kids wash their hooves in turn at the Biology lab's one basin. Brown water spills down. Dirt accumulates. Prob'ly some sort of fucking poem in there, waiting to overflow, but that's prob'ly just a dumb thought just the same. What do I know? Come next school year no one will remember a thing that happened here. Books and classes change, sometimes we stay in place an' the teachers rotate; the school moves instead of its prisoners. It's a bit of a blur. And inevitably there's laughter again, first day or second day. Maybe third. No timing how long it took, but I notice it when it happens, though I've no idea what was said to bring it about. Or who laughs, even.

Jazzie's told she'd have to spend the last hours of school outside if she disrupts class one more time, something that doesn't bother her but at least shuts her up. Everyone's giddy 'bout vacation an' the soccer tournament (I'm just gonna 'forget' about it an' not show up) but I seek out Mrs. Kindheart. It's recess of the very last day so I know it's now or there's never gonna be a chance again. I'm fine with that, but maybe I'd regret it later. I thought 'bout going to Principal Mazie instead, but she would just tell me not to worry or something like that. Maybe say that everything's taken care of - like Mom, but with a desk between us.

It's very much like the dream in that I ain't really aware that I'm actually in her office talking till I have to 'splain my theory. It's agonizing to gather my thoughts an' actually spit 'em out... it's just wads of paper, and I'm thinking 'bout it too.

Mrs. Kindheart doesn't interrupt me, even though I stumble an' mutter my way through. She just looks kindly, if unsmiling, waiting for me to finish. Finally I say, 'So, if we know where she died, there can be an examination. Soil can be searched... it can be checked...'

She doesn't fuck round like normal teachers would. When I can't think of any more arguments, I look up at her expectantly an' she just says, 'She committed suicide, Grace. She killed herself in her room.'

There's a distressing amount of finality to the verdict. Pictures of courtrooms an' scouring through diaries an' warehouses just sort of vanish from my head, like hoofprints going back with the tide. I ask how an' she talks 'bout a knife, but the details of it just slip past me. Slowly a far darker, more serious thought takes over. I can't say it, 'cause if I tell Mrs. Kindheart it's no longer just in my thoughts an' I should go to jail. But jail is a place where criminals go.

Mrs. Kindheart makes me drink from a plastic cup. Water drops down my gravely throat as the room spins. 'Sit here for a while,' she says, 'we don't have to talk if you don't want to.' I don't care if I sob at this point.

'Aurora,' she says, pausing as I look up, 'she had a lot of problems that weren't her fault. Or yours. It's a terrible thing - we can't change that, even if we wish we could.'

I wonder what she's thinking right now; if she's debating on what to say as much as I am. I'm thinking she expects me to blame myself, which is stupid, 'cause I didn't really do anything. I guess that's what psychiatrists do though. Or maybe it's all 'bout 'the grieving process' now; 'bout dates of silent tributes an' gatherings with flowers an' candles... I don't know. Finally she sighs an' says, 'Whether or not she had a bad relationship with that boy, whatever strain it put on her must have been the final straw. I wish there was something we could've done... but Grace, we can't blame ourselves.'

I just look down thinking how true that is. The stillborn kid an' his experiments, conducted even as he pretends to live. Moss prob'ly killed her, but even if he didn't, he still made her do it. And even if he didn't make her do it, he still killed her somehow.

It's 'zactly 100% true: She can't do shit, couldn't do shit, an' likely never will, no matter how hard she tries, wishes, or dreams. We're just kids in school; a world she's visiting as an alien, crawling round deaf an' blind as a mole in the light of the sun as plants bud an' sprout leaves round her.

Still it's weird leaving her office - like I'm leaving school before I'm really leaving - an' I think 'bout Aurora's parents. They appear out of nowhere, formless as they are, an' I don't know what they're thinking or doing 'cept that I'm terrified to talk to 'em. Can it be they don't understand why any more than I do? Did they make her wear stupid dresses or did they never want a child an' are glad 'bout it now? Could be they're just talking 'bout the weather, or that they're planning revenge, but what could I say or do, anyway? Nothing now, at least. I missed that chance.

I think 'bout that as school winds down for real, for the last time in what feels like forever. There's a strange sadness to it, 'cause I ain't sad 'bout it at all. The moment I rush home with Fir I'm practically climbing trees in the park an' having ice cream on the beach already. I remember the carnival's coming to town. Festivals, flea markets, theme parks an' fuck knows what else. Maybe it's normal, or maybe it's weird, but it's summer. At least for a little while.

New

I got six bits allowance on the promise that I have to think 'bout everything I want to buy. A tape's one bit, or maybe two if it's a double or The Softcorner, but the thought of buying the new Softcorner makes my back itch an' gets me sick in the mouth. The Market's slowing down for the day but it's the shops beyond it I'm interested in. A foul smell comes from the snackbar, but round the bend's a whole streak of shops. Sure, one's a jeweller and another's a clothes shop, but it's the music store I'm interested in.

The store is specialized in jazz music, so old ponies' faces sit on every record an' tape, like the photo-hallway of a retirement complex. I'm thorough just the same, but I never expect The Underlings to show up. The store in town round the game shop, I remember, is all pop albums. I'll have to ask Mom to take me to one with more different styles, or ask Ebony.

Speaking of. The clothes store next to Jazz Center has an exit visible from the window just like the Nuisance Nights backdoor an' just as black. They got a whole bunch of jackets an' belts on display, including one in the window with jagged spikes and a label with the brand Skull Zipper on it. It's three bits, though.

Some of the market stands are packing up their trash an' vegetables, stacking 'em in big containers. It smells like rotten tomatoes an' I watch my hooves to make sure I don't step in anything. A few ponies cling to business a little longer though an' they all have candy: Dragonfire Pops, Top Rolls, an' the sweet and salt liquorice an' marshmallows. They're trying to temp me but I ain't wasting any of my money.

I spot Alli an' Lindon picking at their eyes. I've never seen anyone a year older than me do something like that, 'specially not at the same time. On top of that, they've got only half their faces on 'cause they wear baseball caps - different caps, maybe, but still pretty much the same. It must be really hot underneath, 'cause even mine was too hot to put on.

When I get closer, they're still at it. Only then I see they're trying to pull faces, an' behind a particularly big, lagging old lady in a grey
cape I spot Switch-Go, a plastic bag with groceries wrapped to her side. I think of saying something to get her attention, but then she takes a slow step to the side so I move back. A strange thing happens: the two boys each match the step, like the shitty stage choreography at grade school. Then I realize that they've been trying to copy her eyes by stretching their own, looking utterly stupid in the process.

They spot my disgusted look an' Alli sees an opportunity. 'Check it, Lin,' he says, 'looks like you're getting the eye.'

Lindon already spotted me an' chuckles, dropping his hooves like he's got no care in the world. There's a foul stink from somewhere behind the vegetables that I pair with his breath. 'Oh yeah, Al, I think I recognize this one. She's that tramp getting on with the hag, y'know? From that dirty shop? Hey, girl, looking's not first base, so stop it, 'cause you ain't getting some. We don't date first graders, nuh.'

'I'm in second grade now, actually, fuck-face. Surprised your daddy lets you talk like that.'

Lindon's more than a little stumped, but there's something bigger - imperceivably small but all the bigger for it: Alli stifles a chuckle, so he's holding his hoof to his mouth awkwardly. I plot my escape round 'em, trusting Switch-Go to follow, but Lindon recovers quickly: 'I make my own rules, you little bitch. I'd so beat your ass for that if you weren't a girl.'

I'm already there an' I kick him in the face. I only graze him, but the look on his face is so struck that I doubt myself an' think maybe he got his cheekbone smashed. He's hesitating an' someone racing a scooter divides us. 'This bitch just beat your ass,' I laugh nervously.

'Forget it...' I hear one of 'em tell the other, but that's behind us an' little more than a whisper. Switch-Go's trying to thank me, but I can't hear her much better - there's too much talking round us.

We shuffle through a dense pack for a little, two ponies with canes narrowly dodging us when I ask her what she's carrying. This too is difficult for her to answer, an' 'cause we automatically end up cantering together I quickly think of something else to ask, no matter how meaningless. When we finally get a little more space I ask, 'What are you doing this summer? Are you going anywhere?'

Switch-Go considers this, stops to let a slew of ponies pass, works out the words an' replies, 'I go in neighbour house.'

'You mean your neighbours?'

'Yes. In neighbour house.' Confused, I follow her hoof wave. 'Big house by...'

'Oh, you mean the Community Center!'

We're quiet then, listening to someone yelling 'bout bananas an' oranges. The last sales of the day are punctuated with the encouraging cries of auctioneers an' the peeling an' airing of plastic bags. 'Thank you,' Switch-Go says after a while, and for a moment we look at each other like we've just scored a winning goal or something. 'I have to go now, thank you.'

I say goodbye an' feel slightly weirded out, like I'm someone else watching all this take place from somewhere far, far away. I didn't feel angry 'bout Lindon, 'specially 'cause he didn't get away with shit, but now I do.

When I'm home I promise to help Mom in the kitchen later an' tell her quickly I ain't bought anything yet. Bizarrely, Fir challenges me to a checkers match an' has his board set up on the dining table. We speed along the opening stages of the game, taking less than a second with each move. After a while, Fir leans back an' says, 'Will-o-the-wisp,' like it means something. It's the only thing he says all game though. By the end of it at least he's playing seriously an' I make him work for his win with just a single piece between us.

Checkers is a nice surprise but I got something important to do. The clothes shop reminded me I need to finish the drawing an' then I see the sketchbook's still there on my desk, the light bouncing off it so the cover's aglow. After a short while of just standing there I canter to my desk like in a dream an' sit down like everything means something. I know it doesn't, not really, but there's a shiver up an' down my spine that says it does just the same.

I don't go right to the drawing I had done: I leaf through each an' every page thoroughly. It makes no sense to do this an' I'm pretty sure I've seen every page already an' know they're all empty. I had to do it all the same. When I leaf back to my page--leaf back to the drawing, I'm amazed at how cool it looks. I get the sudden urge to cry, though I don't see any real reason to. It's weird as fuck like that.

This drawing is what I'm showing Ebony next time I see her - I can bring it in my bag if I can make myself look a little older, 'cause it would just suck to be told off by the doorpony an' having to wait for Ebony to be round. So I've got to finish it: make the lines thicker; sharpen my pencil (but not too much); sign it. The last stage gives me a weird thought though, so busy making the picture clearer an' bolder that I hadn't even thought 'bout the signature much. Not only is my signature shit, but, Ebony wouldn't even know it. Neither she nor her brother even asked for my name, an' I hadn't volunteered it either. An opportunity presents itself an' I quickly hatch out YOUR FRIEND, BULLET over the boring part of the fence. I stop an' regret my impulsiveness, unsure how it even looks. Then I erase FRI an' add PRETTY. It's messy, but now it says YOUR END, BULLET PRETTY. It's like a rock star name 'cause it doesn't sound 'zactly cool. Just like my drawing doesn't look it either.

I help Mom bake a huge cake before dinnertime but there's no need to turn the lights on in the kitchen. She makes me wash my hooves an' goes on an' on 'bout Mrs. Breezeport an' Aunt Palais visiting on Moonday, saying how much better a cake is when it's made by us an' insisting store-bought cakes would never be the same.

She's fiddling with the oven when she repeats that there's no need for me to sit with 'em for very long 'cause they'll be able to taste my contribution to the cake well 'nough. It's blatant bullshit, of course, but I quietly wash the cherries an' put 'em in the bowl. When I begin mashing 'em an' picking the stones I say, 'It's okay. I like Aunt Palais.'

There's a strange smile on her face. Small, but it's like she's so happy buttering the tray that I harmlessly ask her if Aunt Palais is in love with Mr. Appleby. A silly question an' she laughs softly, first at me an' then at herself. 'I'm sorry, dear, I can't help it. Now, let me see. He's a distant cousin of hers, actually. Why don't you ask her about it on Moonday?'

I nod, but of course it'd be stupid to ask her when Mom's already answered the question. Wisely, I make no mention of the dress. It's a small hope, but it's 'nough to think maybe she forgot 'bout it. Either way, the cake's gonna be awesome.

Bullets

Seedling School's right there on the other side of the block an' it's weird I haven't been there at all in a whole year. The street itself changed a bit, in fact: fresh grey bricks an' a store where they sell phones; the Whinnyan restaurant changed into another Whinnyan restaurant. No, it's the school itself that's made it different. It's a weird nostalgia 'cause I don't feel any real nostalgia. Only the red climbing rack's still the same as it was. I've watched Fir climb all the way up at least three times, a feat he likened to Giraffe leaping up a mountain. I could prob'ly even reach the top just standing next to it now.

I don't quite recall what's on round the little corner. It's a smaller playground; far smaller than what I've been through the past year. I reach through the bars of the gate, certain that I won't be able to fit through anymore, but, just from touching it it clangs open noisily.

Nothing's disappointing, but I feel pretty cool just being there. I scan the lightless windows, but no one's there, an' prob'ly no one who'd be there'd recognize me: If anyone would see me I'd be someone new entirely. I'm pretty sure I've had a dream recently where I've pissed 'gainst a wall, but, pissing when you're asleep is prob'ly the stupidest thing you can do without being able to blame yourself. I wriggle out of my shorts an' give it a good go. It's easier when you don't mind if it goes wrong, so I ain't nervous at all. The best part's knowing what I did when I sneak out the gate.

The Community Center round the baseball cage is right on the route an' surely, through the one blackened window, I wouldn't just happen to see Switch-Go? Wrong. Of all the random things willed into being this is the most unexpected. Crazy lottery, or maybe Switch-Go's really living there? She's just sitting there on a chair, unaware I'm watching her. It's easy to see why she gets picked on: She's thin, small, an' has the look of someone who's brain-dead.

I swing the door open an' see there's a huge table soccer game standing there all by itself. Switch-Go doesn't notice me even though I'm right there, but when I sit on the chair next to her she looks up with a wordless exclamation. She doesn't seem displeased, at least. 'Waiting for someone?' I guess, wondering how long she's been here. The air's stale like old socks, an' there's only the soccer table an' a bunch of awful colored copy paper for entertainment. The flyers all talk 'bout yoga, cooking lessons, an' other boring things that boring ponies pretend are fun. She says, 'Waiting for Brother.'

I can't help but speak badly to her: 'I have brother too. Is he inside?' I look at the blue swing doors on her right an' she nods. 'I'll wait with you,' I decide.

She looks alarmed so I wonder if she'd really prefer being alone over having my company, but then, after a minute or two she says, 'Is two more hour.'

'You have to wait for two hours?' My disbelief's prob'ly way too loud. I quiet myself down an' decide to make sure. I look at her an' repeat, 'Two hours?'

She shrugs without really moving her shoulders. 'Is no problem. At home I wait all time, every time.'

Switch-Go prob'ly can't exaggerate, so she's prob'ly crazy. 'You mean in Bayleaf?'

She nods and 'splains, 'Is normal for us for family.' She looks up an' stammers between words for a moment, an' though I want to ask what's so special 'bout her family, or what they'd be waiting for, I also don't want to interrupt her when she's trying this hard to speak. 'Family... no word for this, maybe, but wait Lord-Prince is normal for this. Some time rain, we wait outside wall so water go -' she takes her hoof up to her neck, keeping it there with a serious look '- or when nothing for Lord-Prince wait for punishment. Is always wait, so no problem wait for brother of two hour.'

I'm picturing in my head a shore of mud, rain pelleting through low-hanging palm trees, an' a large mansion surrounded by an ugly picket fence half-sunk into the earth. I ain't sure what to say. 'Were you in jail?' I ask, but she doesn't seem to understand, so I hold invisible bars with my hooves an' repeat, 'jail.' She understands but shakes her head: 'Is all jail. Mother away work Lord-Prince wife: No stallion work Lord-Prince wife.'

I look round her current jail once more an' she turns my name into a question, though she can't quite get it right. I cut off her attempts an' declare, 'My name's not important, Switch-Go. Yours is cooler anyway.' I'm still copying her accent, but maybe she thinks I'm from somewhere else too 'cause she only beams, smiling at me as she stutters a thanks.

There's a strange impression now. Before, Bayleaf was just another place, but how can one family be someone's slaves and another be perfectly fine? Mrs. Oceano certainly never mentioned anything. I don't think there's much said 'bout it in History, either, though Mom once said that in most areas they eat just rice or corn all day. When I think of how Switch-Go an' her family got here at all, I remember first seeing her at her mother's side. I figure it must've been her who shouldered this Lord-Prince's guards to the ground an' perhaps killed someone before leading her family to safety.

'Know the Market?' I remind her, 'just near it is a cool shop, with lots of cool clothes. Would you like to go?' She's got doubt in mind, or she's just doubting all the time, so I encourage her: 'You'll be back in an hour. Well in time.' I even consider joking that otherwise her brother could wait for her to be back, but I have no idea how she'd respond.

Her face is less doubtful an' I quote Super Monster: '"When you've got to do something, that's what you do."' It means nothing at all, but it sounds like it does. She's confused but takes my invitation just the same, trotting to the door beside me. 'Okay we go shop,' she agrees.

On the way to the shop - I decide to take her round the Market so she can see the little playground with the seesaws an' spring animals - she tells me her brother's just four years old. 'So he learn also in summer,' she 'splains. It's weird to think that in that boring building ponies are kind of in school, taught by teachers in little classes. Maybe even some of my teachers are there in summer too. I tell her that she an' her brother must be learning a lot an' she nods modestly.

There's a sudden look of horror in Switch-Go's eyes when we reach the store an', try as I might, I can't convince her it's just a clothing store. She's practically shaking with fear, so I hold her by the shoulder. She's fragile to the touch, but she calms just 'nough so I can say, 'No one's gonna hurt you.'

I thought that would do the trick, but when I'm stepping through the open door she says, 'I wait here,' an' I know I can't change her mind. Forced to agree, I step inside by myself. A dingy sort of old rock music shuffles out of the speakers, kinda like what Mom used to listen to long ago. High roof, fans round... the clothes don't smell that much like clothes then, but the window's so much glare that I don't know if Switch-Go can see me move between the racks or not. Up above's Ebony's collar, an' several like it, hanging from hooks dug into the ceiling. Off to the side's a tall stallion with a chain-link necklace, looking at me curiously from behind his hidden counter-cave - he's looking like he wonders if I'm gonna try an' reach for those hooks. Then my eyes fall on a particular jacket with several girdles locking it together, an' there's a small near-golden patch at the collar where it can be buttoned up when the jacket's zipped. It looks very much like the jacket Rod was wearing a while ago, but this one has all the extra tidbits an' looks way more expensive. It's prob'ly 'cause it is: five bits.

'Your ma and pa know you're in here, kid?' the tall stallion calls, but he ain't telling me to get out. There's lots of ponies outside of school that talk like that, an' maybe it's normal in summer to sit round like you don't care if anyone listens to what you're saying so much. Only in school everyone expects you to care that much 'bout whatever it is they're saying.

'I'd like to buy this,' I tell the stallion, digging in my pockets for the money. The jacket's heavy, all right, but I can take it - the sleeves roll up an' cut off an' it can prob'ly be tightened so that if it's too small I can wear something underneath till it's not. He looks skeptical but sweeps the coins into his hoof an' says, 'Enjoy.'

I drape the jacket over my shoulder an' then see Switch-Go looking at me searchingly from the doorway, like she's trying to apologize. 'Is okay to come in?'

'Yeah,' I mutter. It's a weak yeah 'cause the sight of her between the white light of day an' the dusty shop is like an act of defiance I've never seen. Sure, some ponies take off from the air ramps an' do crazy stunts in the clouds, and others even are crazy 'nough to keep owl statues in their basement, but most ponies wouldn't know 'bout those things at all.

Just slowly she's going over the articles in the window display an' I clear my throat. As I'm trying on my new jacket I tell her, 'Nah, you ain't got nothing to be 'fraid of.'