Every foal in Mrs. Felthoof’s class looked over the results of their tests carefully. But then the bell rang, and suddenly only one of them was.
The rest started giggling, seeking each other out in the room, their weekend plans fully formed in their heads. The fillies joined up with each other before exiting the room together, while the colts raced each other to the door. Some of them even left their papers behind.
Nopony sought out Sunset Shimmer, although a few of them noticed her. She was still sitting in her desk, still reading her paper, as if she hadn’t heard the bell. As if she didn’t realize that it was the universal signal that nothing mattered anymore. One unfortunate pony made eye contact with her. But he immediately looked away as if he hadn’t, and his soul was saved.
Sunset remained in her seat, the marked-up paper clutched tightly in her magic, and in her hooves. She watched the ponies flood out of the room, and listened as the silence took their place. She could finally think clearly again, and she thought:
Magic theory is my best subject.
Or at least, it was supposed to be.
At the top of the paper between her hooves was a letter and a line, written in red ink. She used to love this letter. It looked to her like a mountain with a frosted peak, reaching high above the world and daring her to climb it. But it looked different now, with that long, pregnant line next to it. It made her stomach twist with hunger.
Old Mrs. Felthoof, the only other pony left in the sunny classroom, had her nose in her work. "Sunset Shimmer," she intoned. "The only filly who could look at an A-minus like it's a prison sentence." Her nasal voice always sounded the same way a fly swatter felt.
Sunset tossed her paper out of her hooves. Without meaning to, she sniffed.
The teacher’s head shot up from her work. "Are you crying?"
Another sniff. A swallow. Another look at the letter and the line, staring up at her from the tiles.
The rickety Mrs. Felthoof sighed a long, impatient sigh. She pushed herself up from her desk and trotted to the back of the room. She brushed Sunset's mane away from her eyes, and she said, "You know, I don't normally say things like this because it can go to a filly's head, but... you were top of your class. By some margin."
Sunset scrunched up her nose. "I don't care about my class."
"I've noticed," said Mrs. Felthoof. "And trust me, your classmates have noticed, too."
Sunset's next reply bubbled up her throat, and then scrambled back down. She tried to make eye contact with the towering teacher, teetering like a wooden structure nearing collapse, but her eyes only made it to the mare's pearl necklace before falling again.
Mrs. Felthoof bent down for her. "You're here before everypony," she recounted. "You sit at the back, and you don't talk to anypony except to answer my questions. You... disappear every lunch—"
"I'm studying," Sunset answered routinely. "At the library."
Mrs. Felthoof sighed. "Look, dear," she said. "There's more to life than trying to be the best."
Sunset finally met her teacher's eyes. "So you're saying I should try to be a washed-up old teacher instead?"
Before Mrs. Felthoof could even stutter, Sunset dropped off her chair, snatched her test from the floor and stormed out of the room. She didn't look back.
"Another A!" the big orange stallion celebrated, sweeping his daughter into the air and twirling her high above the dirt floor.
The red mare with the fraying gray mane and the baggy blue eyes gently rapped her hooves together, in beat with the dance. She smiled awkwardly. "Our little girl is so smart!" she declared.
Sunset giggled intentionally, making sure she didn't overdo it. She waited for the dance to finish, and for her father to set her back gently on the floor.
"Thanks, but—" she shrugged "—it's just an A-minus."
"So what?" her father laughed. "Celestia's school doesn't accept A-minus?"
Sunset looked up at him. "No," she said. "The cut-off is A. There aren't enough spots for them to accept… A-minus students." The last two words tasted awful on their way out.
Her father had no response, looking like he was dealing with a bad taste of his own. For a few moments, nopony could make eye contact with anypony.
But her mother broke the spell, as mothers always can. She got right up close to her filly and tapped her on the nose. "Well, I'm not worried. This is Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns we're talking about! And you are as gifted as they come."
Sunset nodded, but she continued to stare at the A-minus on her test. She was certain it was staring right back at her.
"It's okay," she said. "Next one's on Monday. I'll do better. I promise."
Her mind, now on autopilot, asked a question she wouldn't have asked had she been thinking.
"What's for dinner?"
Her mother's mouth quivered. Her father scuffed the ground.
"It's bread again, dear," her mother answered. "I'm sorry."
Sunset smiled, pretending she didn't see her parents falter. "That's my favourite."
It was a watchtower.
Sunset was sprawled on her family's mattress, feeling the familiar prick of a spring in her back. She held her test high above her head.
It was a watchtower. The little triangle at the top was where the guardpony sat. The minus was a beam of light, searching for her, keeping her in her place, not letting her escape.
In a sudden flurry of whimpers, Sunset crumpled the test and threw it across the room. It barely made a noise, hitting the wall and the floor. She wanted to scream, but her parents would hear her at any volume.
She decided she would wake up even earlier on Monday. She would be the first in her seat—so early that she would even beat Mrs. Felthoof there. And before that old crone arrived, Sunset would find her answer key and commit it to memory.
