Mirrors, Truths, And Tea-Parties

“Alright, everypony! Now that we’re all situated, let’s start with some introductions! Why not…hmm…how about, when I call your name, share something about yourself, like…your favorite color, or a hobby, or a secret so secretive that not even you knew about it! Here; I’ll go first! I’m Amethyst Star, but you can all just call me Sparkler or Miss Star. I like transformation magic!”

At the front of the classroom, behind a large, wooden table, stood a widely grinning unicorn. Everything about her was purple. Her mane and long, bushy tail were two-toned—striped amethyst and plum. Her eyes were shaded a mixture between purple mountain majesty and wisteria, and her fur coat was colored a cheerful heliotrope. The only things about her that weren’t some variant of lavender were her teeth and the emblem on her flanks—an image of three gleaming, Bahaman sea-blue and sky-blue gemstones. In front of her eyes, floating in a field of glowing, hot-pink magic was a white plane of paper.

She began reading names off of the sheet, starting with Apple Bloom, the red-maned, yellow-coated filly at the front.

Apple Bloom smiled. “Hi, y’all! I’m Apple Bloom and I like oranges!”

I took a moment to process what she had just said and then raised a hoof to my muzzle, giggling at the irony of the statement. I’ve heard that the Apples and the Oranges were distantly related, but I’ve also heard that the two families hardly get along these days, so the thought of an Apple liking oranges was pretty hilarious to me.

Sparkler’s eyes moved down the list and she called out another name. “Diamond Tiara!”

I had hardly paid attention to what she had said. I didn’t care about it. Diamond Tiara had been a huge jerk during elementary school, and though she had eventually turned a new leaf, I still hadn’t forgiven her—especially after she had pressured the Cutie-Mark Crusaders into publicly humiliating Snips and me, and many other ponies through the school newspaper. She was a bad egg.

The next name to be called was “Dinky Doo!”

The periwinkle-coated, maize-maned, golden-eyed unicorn named Dinky popped off of her chair, probably from nervous impulse. I hardly knew her, but after three years of observation, I could most certainly say that she had some kind of stage fright. It seemed that she was always jumpy whenever speaking among large groups of people. She stuttered, “I-I-I like my mom!”

Everyone turned his or her head to stare at her blankly, myself included. She slowly sat back down, blushing madly. Her shaking hoof trailed along the top of her desk, painting small, invisible circles onto the hard surface.

“…Don’t we all?”

“N-no. Everypony calls her a retard. Well, guess what? She’s not!” Dinky exclaimed. “She’s not!”

Everypony flinched. They had not been expecting that much volume from such a normally shy, quiet filly. What had gotten into her? I mean, I hardly knew her, sure, but I knew enough about her to be able to say that an outburst like that was certainly weird.

Miss Star raised an eyebrow at her. “…Alright…then.

“…Tornado Bolt?”

A grey Pegasus with green-yellow irises and a fluffy, Byzantium-colored mane and tail rose from her seat at the back of the classroom.

“My name’s Tornado Bolt, and I’m gonna be a storm chaser!” she declared.

Star cringed. “…Isn’t that a little…dangerous?”

Beaming, she nodded. “Oh, you bet it is!”

“You are aware that all weather in Equestria is managed by Pegasi, right? The chance of an unintentional, moving storm is really low.”

The filly smirked. “Who said I’d be chasing Equestrian storms?”

“…I…see.”

A few more names later and…“Snailsquirm?” asked Miss Star.

I stared at her for a moment before saying, “Hi. I’m Snails.” I paused. What would I say? I had hardly thought about it before. Oh well. I might as well get this over with sooner than later. “I like tea parties.”

It felt really good to say that. It was true, too. I’ve always enjoyed conversation over tea. Who could blame me?

The entire classroom burst into laughter soon afterward.

I began to sweat. My face turned red. I pulled my hooves over my head, but they didn’t stop the laughing.

Why am I so stupid?

⁂

The bell rang, signifying the end of first period and the beginning of the second. I was relieved.

Elementary Magic was a nightmare. Ever since I had made that particular statement earlier today, everypony looked at me differently. It was unnerving! I was almost never the center of attention! Even less was I on the receiving end of the positive kind.

I remembered the time Snips and I had been glued together, flank-to-flank, by gum and shuddered. That was embarrassing.

I thought to myself about the irony of my name as I speedily made my way to my next class. Snails were hardly ever speedy. I bet there are some exceptions, but, usually, ‘snail’ is a synonym for ‘slow.’

Though I had bumped into several ponies along the way, I had successfully made it to Room 12 and took a seat at the back of the classroom, in a corner, safe from the towering presence of the black chalkboard up front. I had arrived a couple minutes early, so I had a little time to kill before class began.

I figured that I might as well doodle while I wait and reached into my saddlebag for a leather-bound notebook and a mechanical pencil. Opening the notebook to a fresh page, I mindlessly began to draw.

Time had passed by quickly and, soon, class had begun.

After I had put the notebook away, the first pony that I noticed was the teacher. He was a stallion with a messy, coffee-colored mane and tail, a fawn-colored fur coat, light azure eyes, and a white-collared, malachite-colored bowtie around his neck—and on his flanks was a picture of a wooden hourglass. He stood at the front of the classroom, apparently looking over some notes before he began.

The second pony that I noticed was Dinky Doo sitting at a desk at the front of the room, eagerness plastered on her face. Why?

The third pony that I noticed sat just left of me. It was Tornado Bolt, and she was looking directly at me. When our eyes met, she grinned. “Hey. What’s up?” she asked. I was not prepared for that.

I stared at her for a moment, an eyebrow raised while I did so. Letting my face relax, I quietly sighed. “Nothing much. I may have just ruined whatever social life I could’ve had, though. You know…the whole…tea party thing.”

“That was kinda funny,” she chuckled. She looked around for a moment before leaning in and whispering, “Just between you and me, I like tea parties too. Don’t tell anypony, though.”

I blinked and shook my head. “Oh. Uh…don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.” Huh. She didn’t seem like the type of pony who’d like those kinds of things.

…She also wasn’t making fun of me. Why not?

The tapping of a hoof against chalkboard pulled our attentions back to the teacher in front. “Alright, class; let’s begin. My name is Time Turner. Welcome to Classical Mechanics!” he said. I internally groaned.

Turning back to face me, Tornado Bolt poked my shoulder. “Hey, meet me at lunch later.”

I silently nodded.

She hoof pumped. “Awesome! My name’s Tornado Bolt, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Snails,” I said.

“Alright; just as a refresher, who can tell me what velocity is?” Turner asked.

Dinky’s hoof immediately shot up into the air. Her speed was quite impressive.

Time Turner pointed at her. “Mhm?”

“The velocity is the fluxion of the displacement,” she stated.

What’s a fluxion?

Turner raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“The time derivative,” she clarified. What’s that even supposed to mean? What’s a derivative? Is that even a word?

This was going to be a long day.

The teacher nodded. “…Indeed.”

⁂

Luckily, for me, second period wasn’t all that bad in comparison to the first. Sure, there was Dinky constantly using words I had no idea even existed until today, like fluxion, fluent, integral, derivative, Lagrangian, Hamiltonian, scalar, and vector (whatever those mean), but I managed to get out generally unscathed. It seemed it was somewhat the same story for Tornado Bolt. Weirdly, though, she always giggled whenever Dinky used one of those big words of hers.

I stepped into the lunchroom and stared at the rows and rows of tables and seats. It was packed! How would I be able to find her in this mess?

I felt something solid touch my back and ruffle my mane.  “Hey, Snails!”

I squeaked and quickly spun around. It was Tornado.

“Oh, uh…hey, Tornado Bolt.”

She grinned. “Hey, I’m not that scary! C’mon, I’ve got a spot.” She motioned me to follow her. I nodded.

She led me in the opposite direction, away from the lunchroom.

“Uh…where are we going?” I asked.

“Oh! We usually eat outside.”

“…We?”

She looked back at me and said, “Me and Dinky.”

“Oh. You’re friends with her?”

“Besties!” She smiled.

We soon were outside, walking through an ocean of wet grass blades, towards a large maple tree planted in the middle of the school grounds. Underneath the shade of the big, orange-and-yellow-leaved tree sat Dinky Doo.

As we got closer to her, I noticed that she was sitting on top of a large, red blanket, and that next to her sat an open metal lunchbox and a half-eaten sandwich. She smiled and waved us over. “Tori! Over here!”

Was that a nickname?

“Dinky!” ‘Tori’ exclaimed. She leaped towards her friend and hugged her tightly.

Dinky giggled, a mild blush covering her face. “N-nice to see you too, Tori.”

They tumbled in the grass for a little, laughing all the while, enjoying their jolly lives, leaving me sitting on the red carpeting, alone. They eventually stopped their roughhousing and returned, and when they did, Dinky looked at me curiously.

“Who’s this?” she asked. She paused. “…Wait. You’re that guy that likes tea parties, right?”

Great! The fact that I like tea parties would be forever emblazoned atop my name. I’d no longer be Snails; I’d be that one weird colt in class with the unexpected, feminine hobby.

“Y-Yeah, that’s me,” I said.

“This’s Snails. I met him in second period,” Tornado added.

“Oh. Nice to meet you, then, Snails.”

For a moment, we just stared at each other in silence without any idea of how to start a conversation. Then, Tornado spoke.

“So, I like magic”—I raised an eyebrow at that—“and weather.” Tornado pointed at Dinky. “Dinky here likes physics and reading,” she said, Dinky nodding in agreement. “What do you do for fun, Snails?”

“Aside from tea parties,” Dinky giggled.

I looked at the two for a second before I said, “I read comics and draw.”

“Oh cool!" Tornado said. "Can I see?"

“U-uh…n-no! I…um—” I nervously tapped my front hooves against each other “—I don’t like other ponies seeing my drawings. They’re…embarrassing.”

Tornado tilted her head. “Why’s that?”

“Oh…um…I don’t like them. They’re chicken scratch,” I lied. I liked my drawings, even if they were just chicken scratches.

“Oh. Sorry for asking. I’m sure they’re not all that bad.”

Dinky frowned, but, as soon as I had noticed, her face turned flat, leaving me more confused than ever. Why did she make that face?

“Um…thanks, I guess.”

I decided to change the subject before things got awkward again, and, luckily, Tornado had provided me with plenty of ammunition in that regard.

⁂

Third period was Literature.

Like Elementary Magic, on the first day, everypony just talked about themselves—what they liked, disliked, what they wanted to be when they grew up, what their special talents were, and what their cutie marks meant. Unlike in Elementary Magic, though, I did not mention that I enjoyed tea parties. In fact, I consciously made the effort not to, and I’m glad that I did so, lest I bring on even more attention than before. I was already a social outcast, and I didn’t need public ridicule as a cherry on top.

At the most, my contribution to the conversation had been: “My name is Snailsquirm, but Snails works fine. I’m not quite sure what my cutie mark means. I like snails because I can easily relate to them. I don’t like being paid attention to, so please stop staring at me like that.”

When I had said that I had no idea what my cutie mark meant, all three of the Cutie Mark Crusaders’—Apple Bloom’s, Sweetie Belle’s, and Scootaloo’s—eyes lit up like a professional fireworks display. I didn’t want to get to know why. As I said, I hardly ever get good attention, which is why I often try to avoid drawing any towards me when possible.

Of course, I’m not always like this. For instance, once, Rainbow Dash and Applejack gave me a spot on the Ponyville buckball team, which I gladly accepted with little question. It seemed, for some reason, that I was really good at it, even though I had never played it prior, and so I figured that it wouldn’t hurt to have fun every once and a while.

I think that the reason for why I mainly only draw bad attention to myself is slow-mindedness. See, I’ll often say or do things without thought, being expected to make a split-second decision, and then regret it soon after, often humiliating myself in the process. This, combined with my cutie-mark, eventually lead to the widely accepted meme that I didn’t think at all. I often joke about this, though everypony thinks I’m absolutely serious when I do so. I do think. I just do it slower than most ponies.

Now that I think about it, that might’ve been why I had said what I did in first period. I just ‘didn’t think about it.’

Oh well. What’s done is done.

⁂

Ponyville was often calm in the evenings, so my trip home had been typically uneventful. Rose was out watering her roses before supper; Derpy Hooves and Time Turner were walking into a café, talking about ‘double coverings,’ ‘Clifford algebras,’ and ‘spinors,’ whatever those were; and Applejack was closing up shop after a long day at the market.

Throughout my walk, I thought back to my lunch with the two fillies. Tornado was really welcoming and was very talkative, and seemed to put the interest of the conversation above her own personal interests. She seemed to have the workings of a perfect social butterfly but, for some reason, she didn’t have many friends despite the abundance of extroversion and enthusiasm that she so clearly had—probably because Dinky and she were good friends.

Speaking of Dinky…I felt that she, too, had held a welcoming air but, also, had surrounded herself in an aura of reserved suspicion, as if she knew that I was keeping a secret or something. She was quiet most of the time, generally only speaking when adding onto something that ‘Tori’ had said, and she often took momentary glances at me, turning her gaze away whenever I looked back at her directly, pretending to be looking at something else.

Why?

I shook my head. I was almost home. I’d have time to think about that stuff later.

When approaching the house, I noticed the rows upon rows of green leaves protruding from the ground, lining the garden out front. I grinned. The carrots were almost ready for harvest. Mom was going to have a field day soon.

Passing through the garden, leading to the front door, was a gravel pathway that had been worn away by years of frequent use. Mom was a busy mare, so she hardly had the time to repave the path. I wouldn’t complain, though. Gravel always scratched and dug into my hooves—something that I have never taken comfort in.

The two-story house itself was typical Ponyville property—well…minus the cedar roof. The majority of Ponyville houses had hay roofs.  Mom said that they required too much maintenance for her tastes. I could see why that’d be true. I mean, what happens when it gets wet?

I opened the door and stepped inside, the door closing behind me as I entered.

Mother hollered a cheery “Welcome home!” as my saddle and saddlebag slid off of my back and onto the floor. Mom was always that type of mare—the happy-go-lucky kind who would never even once think badly of you and always would be glad to see you regardless of the situation. “How was your day?” she asked me.

“It was…”—what was it? I mean, on one hoof there was the entirety of first period, but on the other were Tornado Bolt and Dinky Doo—“pretty good, actually. I made some new friends today.” Overall, it really was a good day, especially if you forgot about the whole ‘tea party’ incident.

“Oh? I’m so glad to hear that, Dear!” she said. There was not even an ounce of sarcasm in that statement. Mom was a very essentially minded pony. She hardly ever paid attention to the nitty-gritty details—only the ones that really mattered in the moment. For example, what was important to her in this instance was that I had managed to make a couple of new friends, not the personalities of those friends. See, I’ve always had troubles making companions and socializing, in general, so to hear that I had succeeded in doing so was obviously very good news to her.

I feel like she’d be the kind of pony to say that ‘as long as it doesn’t hurt anypony and you’re happy with it, it really shouldn’t matter.’

I bounced in place, my hooves clip-clopping against the wooden floor. Dinky had said that she’d bring tea with her this time. “Yeah! I’m gonna see them again tomorrow!” I said. I could hardly wait!

“Something to look forward to, then?”

I nodded with fervor.

I looked into the kitchen to see Mom’s long, curly, pumpkin-colored mane and tail, dark-cream-colored fur coat, and pistachio-green eyes—and the triple-carrot cutie mark on her flanks. She was standing in front of a burner, stirring a pot of liquid with a wooden ladle.

I sniffed. I could feel my mouth fill with a little more saliva than usual—not a coincidence. Whatever she was cooking smelled amazing. “What’s for dinner, Ma?” I asked. “It smells really good in here.”

She turned her head to look at me, her lips pulled up into a calm, tiny smile. “Minestrone.”

It had been a long time since Mom had last made minestrone, so I had forgotten what hers had smelled like and how it had tasted, but I remember it being really, really good. “Awesome! When’ll it be ready?”

“In a bit, Dear. Until then, why don’t you go do your homework or whatever else you teenagers do after school?” She winked.

“Alright. Thanks, Mom.”

“Anytime, Dearie.”

I cantered up carpeted stairs and turned left, into my bedroom, closing the white door behind me.

The room, to say the least, was very bland—so bland, in fact, that it probably would seem suspicious to some. The only objects accompanying the grey walls were an oak desk—with an oak chair—covered by only a few loose papers; a window with light-green drapes; a bed with sheets a darker shade of grey than the walls, yet not dark enough to constitute as gray; a brown bedside table with a lamp and alarm clock; and a large, well-cleaned mirror. There were no posters, no paintings, and no blemishes of any kind.

I made my way across the clean, white-carpeted floor and to the desk, sitting down on the chair and reaching into a drawer, with my purple-hued magic, for a piece of paper and a fountain pen.

I have one other hobby that I didn’t mention earlier because, quite frankly, it’s highly personal and it’s not that notable. I like to write, occasionally. I’m not very good at it, but, regardless, I still like to do it. It helps get my feelings and thoughts out in ways that drawing cannot do for me.

I laid the sheet of paper down on the desktop, touched the pen to the page, and began to write.

⁂

Trapped

By Snailsquirm

Whenever I think about ‘it,’ I can’t help but want to vomit. It’d certainly be a lot more pleasant than consistently mulling over it—over the jealousy, the sadness, and the helplessness.

I’m doomed to these feelings for the rest of my life, it seems. They certainly have not faded with time, at the least. If anything, they’ve only gotten stronger and far less tolerable.

How can I say it? What will their reactions be? What will her reaction be? What will happen to me when I do? I’ve never been able to answer these questions because I’m too scared to find the answer. I’ve always been too scared to find the answer. What am I supposed to do?! I’m just some slow-minded, dumb high schooler!

Meanwhile, the uncertainties of those questions are killing me from the inside out.

I sometimes find myself thinking that perhaps I could just end it all, but I always end up shaking my head aggressively to that. That would be the worst kind of betrayal. What would that do to Mom? What would that do to Snips? It would kill them, that’s what. It would bring far much more harm to others than it would bring relief to me. It’s not worth it.

There is no solution. I’m trapped. I’ve always been trapped. I will always be trapped.

⁂

I set the pen down and sighed. Nothing more would be written today. I had nothing else to say. Even if I had more to write, I wouldn’t, because, honestly, I didn’t feel like writing anymore.

I lifted myself out of my chair and settled my hooves on the floor. I then made my way to the bed and collapsed on it, sighing once more, this time with more volume than before. For a long, agonizing five minutes I laid there, staring up at the sky-blue ceiling, asking myself about just what had gone wrong with my life. I had a loving mother, a nice home, a decent education—I should be happy, right?

I groaned and turned over, noticing my reflection in the mirror. I’m not sure why, but I slid off of the bed and teetered over to it, staring at it blankly. Looking back at me was a skinny, long-necked, long-legged, big-eared, amber-coated unicorn colt with impossibly dark-brown eyes and a short, naturally messy, grass green mane and tail. His face was covered in freckles and on his flanks laid an image of a purple-shelled, pink snail.

As I looked back at myself in disbelief, I couldn’t help but feel revolt as I drank in the little details—the pimples; the angular figure and face; the bold shoulders; the boxy hips and hooves; the firm stance; and the bushy, pronounced brows. That wasn’t me. That couldn’t be me. That couldn’t possibly be me!

Soon, my disgust grew into anger. How dare it twist my face like that?! That wasn’t me and it knew it!

“Why?” an almost unnaturally low voice croaked. The mirror didn’t answer. That only made me more furious. “Tell me!”

There was still no answer.

In an instant, I saw red, and before I knew what I was doing, my hoof had crashed against the reflective surface, sending long, thin cracks speeding through the surface and causing the occasional glass shard to fall to the floor or bury itself into my flesh. I screamed. My hoof was now covered in blood.

I collapsed to the now sullied carpet and whimpered. I was wrong. The mirror wasn’t lying. Mirrors can’t lie. Mirrors are inanimate objects.

So…why did I punch it?

A pot was dropped. The thumping of frantic hooves against carpet rushed up the stairs. The door slammed open and in came a worried, squealing Mother. “Snails?! Oh my Celestia, Snails!” she gasped.

…Why am I so stupid?