Friendship is a funny thing. Sometimes it feels like the most difficult task in the world, especially when one attempts to find – that is, to force – it. Then there are those times in which the parties, through no more mysterious or unusual a power than that of a shared passion, bond with neither trial nor ceremony. After further such encounters, each becomes aware of how affectionate their interaction has grown; rarely if ever will either acknowledge this directly. It manifests itself as crude jokes and pats on the back and the buttocks. It is smiles and winks and grins and nods. It is the absence of pretence – the absence even of awareness of pretence as an option, as a day-to-day companion to general conversation. Those whom one likes most one treats with least reverence, with least care, with least worry. To those whom one despises one extends manners, that code by which cruel truth is so agreeably concealed.
For Spitfire, that day, friendship would change. It was breakfast. They sat in the canteen, their kits bright and clean, ready for another day of drills and races. Zip Zip was laughing with Soarin, another pony at whom, through the freedom of friendship, Spitfire had gleefully sworn and shouted. Indeed, Soarin’s joke had been filthy; they were lucky that Wind Rider, who governed his charges with paternal strictness, had a fever and was in bed. Free of his morning patrol of the tables, the cadets were laughing, shouting and spilling food. The dinner ladies, kept at bay by the queue, watched resignedly. Any other day Spitfire would have taken advantage of the situation. She was, after all, the loudest, rashest, liveliest cadet in Cloudsdale, tipped for greatness, with all the confidence and mischief of a pony who knew it. Likely she would have leapt onto the tables and thrown food and then, if she were feeling particularly playful, instituted mass truancy. Instead, except for the grins and giggles through which she attempted to suggest normalcy, she was quiet.
The rank of Academy Squad Leader was respected across the aerial professions and guaranteed a starting position in any weather team if not captaincy of a rural branch. It goes without saying that, for Spitfire, this was not enough. She was a racer, an acrobat. That she would break into the Wonderbolts proper seemed, at least to everyone else, only a matter of time; yet Spitfire saw it still as a distant dream, such a one that life permits only after a struggle. Of the two-hundred cadets with whom she flew, twenty would be lucky to sign an extension. Ten would be lucky to see a trial. Only two, one or none would end up in the uniform. Spitfire’s dream did not end there. She saw herself as a generational talent, one pony in a million; so everyone told her, and she had found no reason to doubt them. Talent means little, however, without ambition. Though she relished a caper, Spitfire had vowed never to stop, never to bend, never to reconsider. In her mind, everyone knew how to achieve greatness; simply no one wished to pay the price.
That day she was tested. Announcement of the result of the mid-season election was due; at dinner all would hear which cadet they had chosen as their new Section Leader. Until then Soarin held the position; he hated it. Soarin, with his affable disposition and his reluctance for conflict, was a born second-in-command. Ironically, it was these qualities that had elevated him; the cadets, who voted with their hearts more than their heads, liked and respected him. When Soarin had struggled with the ruthlessness that responsibility demands, Wind Rider had made clear his thoughts on the matter. Thus Soarin had earned his latest nickname: Dither. The choice, though free in theory, was between Zip Zip and Spitfire, the remaining foremost members of Squad Awesome. Both possessed huge popularity, yet, if Soarin’s election was anything to go by, Zip Zip was favourite. She was mild-mannered, endearingly humble and very fair. Though Spitfire commanded the squad, she feared secretly that Zip Zip commanded its hearts. To think about it repulsed her somewhat. After all, she had claimed often that ‘on paper’ means nothing; ranks and records she called fodder for bores. Still, the idea that a subordinate, friend or not, enjoyed more the confidence of her, Spitfire’s, squad stung.
‘Oi.’
Spitfire blinked. Soarin was watching her. ‘What?’ she said.
‘Are you or aren’t you?’
‘What?’ she said again.
‘I see you slept well,’ chuckled Soarin. ‘I’m asking whether you’re up for loops before training.’
Spitfire smiled without force. Of course she was; Soarin was asking only to tease. Then her smile faltered. After a game of loops their day spelled training, lunch, training and then dinner. The interval between breakfast and the morning session was Spitfire’s final opportunity in which to cast her vote, and she had yet to decide. Without realising, Soarin had guessed correctly: she had lain awake for much of the night.
‘Hey, Spits. Hey.’ Soarin had moved on already. He was trying to balance his fork on his snout. It clattered against the floor. Beaming, Zip Zip poked it aside, away from Soarin’s outstretched hoof. ‘Oh, ha ha,’ he said, grinning in spite of himself.
‘You know what,’ said Spitfire suddenly, pushing out with a scrape her chair, ‘I’m not feeling great, guys, to be honest. Might be this flu Wind Rider’s got.’
‘Where are you off to, the sick bay?’ asked Zip Zip, concerned.
‘Nah, just a quick lie-down. I’ll meet you for training.’
‘You sure?’ asked Soarin.
‘Yeah, no worries.’
Zip Zip and Soarin exchanged glances. To them their friend’s behaviour seemed uncharacteristic, yet they thought that this was due perhaps to how seldom she was ill.
‘See you in a bit!’ Spitfire called. She trotted through the double doors and made for the stairs. The ballot box stood on Wind Rider’s desk. Although she could vote for anyone else, she knew that to do so would constitute a glaring sham. If she were forced to pick two ponies best suited for the job, she would have picked Zip Zip and herself. However, in reality, she could pick only one. As is typical of the physically capable, they believe that action solves most problems, for this means the luxury of having to think no longer. She decided she would toss a coin.
That plan was nipped quickly in the bud. She pushed open the head-office door and saw Wind Rider, sitting behind his desk, swathed in jumpers, a steaming mug in his hoof. ‘Yes?’ he snapped in a thick voice.
‘Oh,’ said Spitfire. ‘Sorry, sir. I thought you were in bed.’
Wind Rider sighed as though he would have liked to have been nowhere else. ‘What do you want, Spitfire?’
She gulped. What can I say? she thought. The truth was easiest for her, and Wind Rider was in no mood for a yarn. ‘I’m here to cast my vote.’
Wind Rider raised an eyebrow. ‘Cutting it fine, aren’t you?’ She nodded. His eyes found hers; he started to smile. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘You’re having trouble deciding. Too many friends, too much disappointment, eh? It’s a curse, being popular! You can’t keep them all happy, Spitfire. Pick the best pony for the job.’
Her answer, that which entered her mind first, was: ‘I am the best pony for the job.’ She stayed quiet. Her stomach rumbled. She realised she hadn’t eaten anything.
Wind Rider held out for her a ballot and a pen. She accepted them numbly and walked slowly to the corner in which had been erected a makeshift booth. Even though voting for oneself was permitted, the idea chafed with Spitfire. She was proud, after all, and to admit via her vote that her success depended on what felt akin to cheating – well, as we said, the idea chafed. All the same, her voting for Zip Zip she found equally distasteful, for she had confessed inwardly her true choice only moments before. Rather than clear up the matter, however, this she felt made it even harder. Then she recalled her vows. To succeed, she remembered, a pony has to pay the price. She shuddered upon realising that an enormous portion of her sense of self relied upon the belief that she was, at a moment’s notice, capable of any sacrifice, the very price so few ever wish to pay. Here was her test. To succeed, she required greed. To her surprise, she, who had always thought herself selfish, was struggling against the impulse of generosity: to elevate her friend, whom she loved.
She closed her eyes, opened them and wrote: Spitfire.
Though the weight was gone and training had passed quickly, Spitfire, sitting down for dinner with Soarin, Zip Zip and the rest of her squad, felt as though something was missing. It was as though she had lost a certain feeling, a certain thread of her rich tapestry of emotions, and, despite her searching, could not find it. She ate with little awareness of what she chewed, laughing automatically at their usual chatter. Instead of the glorious freedom between friends, there was a stiffening in Spitfire’s heart, a familiar distance – that between acquaintances, time soiled by pretence. Though she had not realised it fully, a sacred bond had loosened for the first time in its life. Sooner or later she would notice, and she would have to address it. Secrets, especially those held in shame, ruin everything in the end.
Since Wind Rider had not left his office, Soarin’s final task as Academy Section Leader was to announce his replacement. He reached the centre of the canteen amid jeers and jests, grinning and shaking his head, though delighted by the warmth of his peers. Obligatory cries of ‘Speech!’ made him blush, so he deflected by opening Wind Rider’s envelope, within which was written the result. Still grinning, Soarin looked up. ‘Spitfire!’ he declared. The effort it took to maintain her smirk shocked Spitfire as she received her round of jeers and back-slaps. Her eyes moistened as she saw Zip Zip, thrilled for her friend, initiate applause. Her strength failed and the corners of her mouth fell. She wondered vaguely how many more smiles she would have to lose before her dream began.
