Part I

Higher

'Fuck no, I ain't 'fraid of heights.'

Rod watches me with a marked disinterest, his cigarette hanging from his mouth when he ain't talking or sucking on it. I can tell why Fir likes him - it's precisely 'cause he doesn't realize that the cigarettes an' his jacket make him cool. You don't just get to be cool an' then get rewards 'cause of it: it's the other way round.

The heaps of sand are further down than I thought they'd be, but I'm okay. There are tracks from where bulldozers dug round during the day, but now there's just a big rusty bucket of dirt to mark the terrain. Everything smells like chalk. 'Way rad!' Fir exclaims, waving his hooves round the house of concrete, 'great call to bring us here, Rod. You bring any girls here?'

'Of course not,' he snickers. He smirks an' Fir joins in on the chuckling automatically. Boys have a telepathic bond at times like this. 'They wouldn't dare trespass and get caught; explaining that at home.'

We spend a good couple of minutes above the construction zone, just standing round as Rod's in no rush whatsoever. The foundation of the building's got impressively solid stairs, leading up to nothing an' a bunch of green goo in rubbery pipes. It's a little like when me an' Fir climbed the market roofs after everyone's come an' gone.

Rod's just one year older than Fir, but when he's sitting on the stairs like that he seems far older. Like, an age not even going to school, taking his time smoking the one cigarette. 'Best place to bring girls,' he suggests, 'is the minigolf course. There's booze and just old folks and they'll say you're so thoughtful for not taking them to a bar. It's just a half bit to get in.' He laughs an' I can see Fir's fidgeting thoughtfully. 'If you practice a little it's easy to impress 'em. Then you can say it ain't no big deal and they'll be even more impressed.'

Half a bit is more than either of our allowance, though Fir gets money for clothes or other 'essentials' when he asks. Course he just nods like it ain't much just the same, his hooves in his pockets. That never struck me as fake till now.

The streetlights pop on, creating a tunnel of small orange spheres. We know we have to get home, but Fir pretends otherwise so that I would have to bring it up. 'A little longer, little sis,' Fir says dismissively, an' he an' Rod ditch the girl talk for some school paper that's going on about. The foamy green stuff is harder to the touch than expected an' I explore the upper floor, where the construction workers hid a bunch of packaged tiles for who knows what.

'They just want everyone to fail so that you try harder during the exams next year,' I hear Rod call, 'it don't mean shit.'

For kids in my class it's not something to talk 'bout at all. Best is if you're not really bad or really good, but there are different rules for different classes. Before winter I fumbled the ball at dodgeball a couple of times so I got called a klutz-clod an' stuff like that, but that never happens when Basil or one of the other sporty kids stumbles in the halls.

Five minutes more an' I'm getting weary of just standing round. Getting down's a little more scary than getting up here. 'We have to be home now,' I comment, so Fir laughs softly. I crouch near the scaffolding as he says to Rod, 'I guess I've got to get her home now.'

On the way home we find a large desk planted at the corner between Mr. Appleby's shop an' the Corner Market. It's a great desk with three shelves an' a gnarly sort of top with spirals etched into it, but we no longer have any time to play with; the sun's well on its last hour. Fir can't help himself though an' says, 'Next time you're going home by yourself.'

I'm still curious 'bout Mr. Appleby, an' two weeks ago Aurora told me she had snuck into the back of the store an' found a secret laboratory there. Inside, Mr. Appleby had been experimenting with hydra embryos an' sparkling gemstones, finding a way to reanimate the creature inside an aquarium. I asked Mom 'bout embryos but she just gave me a death stare an' told me not to talk 'bout such things till I was older.

'I bet I can get home faster than you can anyway,' I dare, 'going round through Breakaway's faster.'

'I ain't stopping you,' he says coolly, trotting homewards as I round the corner into Breakaway Street. Sure, it's longer in some ways, but if I gallop I'm sure I can skirt the distance in no-time. Then I just have to rest for a moment so I don't look like I'm too exerted from the effort. I think 'bout his stupid face for a while, but when you gallop hard 'nough it's like you're gliding an' time changes. It pushes you forward without actually moving - that's how it feels anyway.

Halfway into Breakaway Street I stop to pick up a coin, but it's just a bottle cap smashed into the pavement. Panting, I realize that just 'cause I've stopped now I'll never get home before Fir, so I just stand there for a moment. No use getting nauseous now.

'Hey, it's Grace!'

I never jump when I hear my name, but thankfully it's Double Button - though she's redone her mane since we went to Seedling School together. It's all long an' flowing an' beautiful like you see in the magazines. After I catch my breath I ask her how she's doing an' she replies, 'Sis got accepted and's moving to Manehattan. So rad! She's an architect, remember? So she's making houses in Manehattan now.' She's brimming with pride, but I can't tell whether it's 'cause of her sister or 'cause she can say architect.

I tell her that that's cool an' eventually she asks if I still got trouble flying. 'Never had a problem,' I say, 'it's just there's lots of stuff in the way on the ground. More practical to go by hoof.' She does a slow ah an' I ask if she's ever been inside Mr. Appleby's shop.

She looks upstreet with a weird look an' says, 'Nah, but I've been in the back of The Exotic and saw their supply. They've got like a hundred melons in boxes there, yet I've never seen anyone eat a melon round here.'

'There's experiments going on in the back of Mr. Appleby's shop,' I say, stressing experiments so that it says way more than mere experiments. It says monsters, secrets, danger, an' death. Excitedly I add, 'We're gonna find proof an' go to the police an' get a reward soon,' but Button just looks at me weirdly, like she understands me but doesn't know what to say.

She looks at her hooves for a moment an' then looks up again. 'Gotta go help my sis pack,' she says, 'was sure nice to see ya again.'

She trots off to the other side of the street without any hurry at all. Ponies are weird, I think: they always want to talk, but they never know a thing 'bout what they're saying.

Mom can be a real cunt sometimes.

Instead of telling me to wipe my shoes she says it by sigh, an' even the trouble of opening the door twice is dragged out into theatrics. First she pretends to give up an' then she moves her head sideways like it's the biggest trouble in the world to open the door again while she's right there. I did tell her once to give me a key, but she doesn't trust me 'nough. At least if I had a key I wouldn't have someone else open the door, but I suppose she's afraid I'd stay out all night an' sneak in when everyone's sleeping. Fir has never used his key even once, always ringing an' knocking just the same. Maybe he lost it somewhere.

Speaking of: Fir tosses me an ah, you're here sort of look from the living room threshold so he doesn't have to bring up our race. There's no point in saying that I saw an old classmate an' that's why I took ten minutes, 'cause he wouldn't believe it anyway an' probably arrived minutes before me even if I hadn't.

The table is set an' food is some sort of brown sludge, but of course Mom makes me wash my hooves first. When we're all sat down she asks 'bout school, but neither of us cares. Impatiently she suggests Fir say something 'bout his paper but he just mutters that he'll study with Rod, 'splaining that he already completed it once last year an' knows what to expect.

'Rod doesn't know what he's doing,' I say, drawing cold looks from both Fir an' Mom.

'As if you'd know,' Fir laughs, 'if I didn't take you with us you wouldn't even know his name.'

'Dear, you can let your brother speak for himself. He's certainly old enough. And haven't I told you not to wear that at the dinner table?'

Questions aren't always questions. Sometimes they're statements, other times they're punishment. She's referring to the cap Uncle Faireweather gave me but I decide to play dumb for a moment an' then ask, 'Mom, is Uncle visiting again some time soon?'

'Don't change the subject, dear, it's not polite. Take the cap off.'

'But it's Uncle's favorite--'

'Young lady. You take the cap off this instant. Good. Very good. Now, would you like to say something about why your brother got home before you?'

He sends me a glare of smugness an' I want to kick him in the face. Maybe strangle him a little, too. 'He smokes,' I say simply.

She hesitates just a moment, but it's enough. 'That's not your business, now is it?' she says eventually. That's one week after lecturing on me not to smoke. Two weeks after doing a big speech 'bout birds, bees, butterflies an' never masturbating. Smoking, she had 'splained, was something idiots did to look rebellious, and inevitably kills you an' your family from inside.

Fir latches onto Mom's disapproval. 'Besides,' he says, 'the only reason I got home before you did was because you thought you could get here faster by taking a detour. You wagered and you lost.' He turned to Mom with a trained look. 'Sorry, Mom, I couldn't stop her.'

'Says you! The only reason I didn't get here before you was 'cause I met someone from school.'

'Oh?' Amusement flickers in the resident asshole's eyes. 'And did they have a name? Like, was it a cute boy, maybe?'

'Now, don't tease your sister, Fir. Next time don't take your sister--'

'He didn't take me!'

Abruptly she rises to her hooves an' tells me I won't get dessert if I don't behave myself at the dinner table. Tempting, considering there's no pudding, but somehow it's less bad to sit there like a mute fool. Mom an' Fir are quiet too in the house's maximum politeness zone now, though sometimes he throws me a nonchalant glance that's neither cruel nor 'specially nice. He knows my temper is too much for me. He's a fucking asshole, after all: He doesn't need to speak up to irritate me. He knows it, too.

Mom chews her rehearsed chews an' stretches every single fork movement. The picture of perfection. Yesterday I had a dream where I stabbed her in the eye. I have fifteen minutes at the dinner table to think 'bout that. Not even a boring radio play to distract anyone, and sure 'nough, again there's that smug smile: He has all the time in the world to gloat. Maybe he's getting to be more an' more like Rod and'll start spending all his allowance on cigarettes.

Tonight I stroke myself to the Biology textbook where two dogs are mating - it's kind of weird with the internal picture, but it shows the dick pushed in well 'nough under the glow of the flower lamp. Halfway in I take a quick break an' think 'bout Mom's lesson. What she doesn't know is that being in school means you know when a teacher believes what they say an' when they just want you to think something or do something a certain way. This lesson was a hundred percent bullshit. So what if Fir gets to smoke 'cause "he's a stallion now" an' I can't wear Uncle Faireweather's cap at the dinner table? I don't care. At least for a moment I don't even care I have to go to school in the morning.

Don't think 'bout that now.

Out

I want to wake up an' discover it's Freeday every day. No luck today. A brief flash of fear 'cause of the slime that came out overnight. I can picture Mom freaking the fuck out an' then also being teased by Fir 'bout "cute boys" forever an' ever. But life doesn't end yet today, so there's little point in panicking now: I just need to be more careful from now on.

School itself is an exercise in pretending to pay attention to the endless procession of classes. I swear Mrs. Worth gets more an' more blind by the day an' that soon she'll wear glasses with her eyes drawn on. History is something of a mixed bag: I have no idea what the monologue is even about, but I can easily slide my sketchbook underneath the textbook an' draw the two castle tigers swinging their swords. Worst of all is Maths. You either know the particular exercise an' spend a full hour completing the same problem, or, as it is today, you don't an' have to pretend you do - all the while trying at least a little to get things correct another way.

Only recess offers any excitement, but it's mostly navigating between the bitchy older girls an' the guys who insist on obstructing every passageway possible. There's a loud burp and Ruff an' Constante exclaim their re-ah-relaxed! thing in approval; going all the way with their trademarked high-pitched stutter-phrase. When I'm round the corner of the lunch hall though, I hear Aurora getting snippy with a bunch of girls 'bout Mr. Appleby's shop. 'You betcha he's hiding some shit there,' she insists, 'like, maybe he's killed someone so he could get the embryos. Like, a zookeeper who found a pregnant hydra who was injured in the bog. And he had to kill 'em to harvest the embryos.'

She's animated, but the other girls don't seem quite taken, content with nodding lazily. Riverswim's there, by far the oldest round an' the hardest to impress. When I come closer I see that there's also the Feltway twins from 'next-door' an' dead-eyed-as-always Tangy in her Ruby Marvelous shirt. Aurora's still got this tidy audience undecided. 'Could be,' she suggests then, 'he's keeping someone down there in the basement. Most stores got a basement to store what they ain't selling right away. Everyone knows that. I should go and find out and get a reward.'

'What if he's keeping body parts down there?'

They're all looking at me now, finally figuring I've snuck behind 'em. Riverswim's got a thick bruise under her eye, but that's prob'ly 'cause she's from 3C. (It goes well with her lipstick.) Everyone in 3C plays hoofball an' gets in fights all the time, even the girls. Aurora's the only one with a real expression an' it's quizzical an' ready to counter. 'Why would he do that?'

'Cause he's a vampire?'

'Shut up, Grace,' she answers simply. 'You've never even been in there. If you were you'd not be so stupid 'bout it.'

My heart's racing. Did she just put sarcasm in my name? Sure, she's told me to shut up before, but she's never tried to put me in my place like that in front of others like Jazzie would. 'Specially not in front of older girls like Riverswim or the Feltway twins, who's eyes I feel immediately. I try not to think 'bout last week when we speculated 'bout those hydra embryos either.

'Oh yeah?' I start , 'I ran into an old friend just yesterday, an' she says she knows for a fact that he's a vampire. She's seen him bite someone, just watching from the window.'

Aurora's unimpressed an' turns back as though she forgot I was here in the first place. 'Maybe this "old friend" needs to get her eyes checked! Give it up, you're just making shit up.' She pauses an' then lowers her voice: 'None of us are buying your pathetic attempts at attention. Are we girls?' She looks round the company an' obviously no one's impressed. Pretty sure Tangy is genetically programmed to not care 'bout anything.

'We'll see,' I warn, putting my hoof to each an' every one of 'em - even Riverswim, who seems more confused than offended. 'We'll see if that's how it is!' I'm shaking so bad I have to pretend to be real serious.

It's a frightening look into the life of the lesser girl status. From the corner where the fence an' the wall meet I get a nice angle on all the other kids, an' it's dead obvious that the middle-of-the-pack girls resolutely band together to make sure they don't drop down below. Is it dangerous then to have relied on just a single friendship up till now? Sure, I've never been on Aurora's level, but she's always tolerated my presence. Now, even Tangy's hanging with her. Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions. It's easy to jump to conclusions, alone in the corner outside. I wonder if boys experience it like this but I doubt it. From what I've seen, boys don't really think too far ahead 'bout much of anything.

A curious thing happens while I'm outside though. The fence door opens an' in breezes a tiny girl, flanked on one side by Principal Mazie an', on the other side, presumably, her mother. Her mother's wearing sunglasses an' is way more muscular than Rod or the toughest boys from 3C. By contrast, her daughter is shorter than the shortest girl from my class an' she's wearing a bright green shirt that somehow makes her look even smaller. Her bright skin is an interesting camouflage, though, but in that company it's a hopeless affair. Even the rope skipping girls stop their routine to gawk at the arrival. Convicted asshole an' regular stay-after-classer Lindon stops tousling some other boy's mane to make sense of it, 'specting perhaps that she's a witness of some heinous crime, 'cause her mother'd be the perfect security force. The principal waves her hoof now an' then, indicating parts of the playground as they canter towards the school building, though she's talking exclusively to her mother. Most compelling of all is that the new kid is smiling the whole way through. Not laughing or saying anything; just smiling.

When we're back in class I expect the worst, but Aurora doesn't seem to remember my warning or telling me I'm full of shit. When I sit down she simply scoots to the edge of her chair an' whispers 'bout the new arrival in the other class. 'Her name's Switch-Go,' she confides, 'but she's from the Bayleaf Republic so no one can pronounce it correctly. And she can't speak properly either. Fizz and Curly thought she was a guest or something; that she ain't old enough to be out of elementary school, but she's got her textbooks and everything.'

As she pauses an' I check to make sure the teacher's not yet arrived I wonder how she knows all of this. She's only just arrived during recess. Have they run into each other in the hall? 'If she can't understand us, why's she in class here?' I ask her.

She gives me a duh face an' then humors me just the same: 'To learn to do it, of course. Her parents probably got a job here so now she's got to go to school here.'

Maybe it's the comfort in talking with her without animosity again, but I don't want these rumors to end. I want to know 'bout Switch-Go's language. I want to know how old she is - is she a year or two too young, as her looks suggest? I want to know if her parents are crime bosses or something else. Mostly I want to know if Switch-Go's staying for good, but I can't ask her any more: Mr. Pressing stumbles in at last an' I discover it's time for Physics. I hate Physics.

There's a big fight after school an' I'm there to see it happen from the start. Well, I don't know what set it off, but there at the swings Cats from 3C pushes poor Dudsie, so he's hunched an' red in the face. I can see that 'cause I had to go the long way round the playground, as a bunch of guys were blocking the way with their card game. Pretty soon everyone's circled round to look, an' I'm pretty sure everyone's feeling sorry for Dudsie, who's a pretty pathetic boy for someone in third class. He's got a face a bit too round an' a neck a bit too short for his body, an' he sucks at sports AND at school, which never happens.

Cats is grinning like an idiot an' turns round confident that the battle's over, but then a weird thing happens: Dudsie ambles forward - he can only amble - an' then suddenly launches himself at Cats; Cats stumbles back with a confused look on 'em - more indignant than anything - an' sort of leans into the swing by accident. Then he tries to pick himself up an' buckles under his own weight, the swing easing forward so he slumps back an' drops onto the tiles neck-first. There's a big ooh from the crowd an' then there's a big hush, 'cause everyone's wondering what's coming next. Dudsie's got this regretful look 'bout 'em - the same that Fir got when Mom caught him stealing chips years ago - an' he can't run or rush in or say something. He just stands there.

When Cats recovers, Dudsie just has to stand there an' take it, covering up his face feebly as Cats lands hook after hook, screaming obscenities. I'm thinking he started out so well: he should've followed up on it or just ran from that point, an' I know it wasn't that he had too much pride. He was afraid to run away even more than he was afraid to fight 'em. Cats got him in a chin hold sort of thing an' I can see Dudsie's getting all sorts of commands whispered into his ears, 'cause he's got just 'nough space to whisper back at Cats, prob'ly saying that he's a pussy an' that Cats is stronger than he is. By the time the teachers finally rush in to break things up, Dudsie is crying worse than I've ever done. It's the first time I'm glad I ain't a boy.

Dress

There's nothing worse than shopping for clothes when it's not a schoolday. Mom puts on her golden necklace move-by-move as I watch the mailmare finally reach our side of the street. Her manner of breathing in itself is a message. I guess it's to make sure I can't forget an' I can't really act surprised when she says it's time to go. Once before when the cheque was delivered I asked her what we'd spend it on, an' she's never forgotten. She also reminds me I can't wear my cap 'cause it "doesn't fit a young lady trying on a dress". At least I have experience in looking stupid.

In the old center there's a row of pricy shops of which there's one most dreadful of all: Rare Couture. In Rare Couture they have clothes made to "a conjecture of provisional measurements" which, I think, means they just have clothes ready-made that they pretend are made to a customer's measurements. As we canter through the old center, though, I try to take my mind off the dreary prospect of withering in that shop for hours by asking Fir something: 'Why did Cats have to beat him up that bad?'

Briefly he gives me his skeptical look; a raised eyebrow an' comical smile, but then he prob'ly realizes I'm serious an' says, 'If he didn't, he'd have to beat him up even worse later. So he got it out of the way then and there.'

There's the sound of a music box coming from an antique store, so I feel like we're commentators at an old-fashioned boxing match. 'Why? Dudsie was only defending himself. He just sort of got lucky when he pushed 'em.'

Fir is genuinely surprised I don't know this. He says, 'He should've not pushed him back to begin with. If Cats didn't beat him up he would've been weak, see? Then, he'd have to do it twice as hard later so ponies'd know he still ain't a pussy. Maybe more than twice as bad.'

My next question is more serious, but before I can ask it, Mom calls, 'Stop talking to your sister about fighting, Fir.'

'She started it,' Fir sighs.

It's curious to me how boys need to prove themselves like that. Where does this judgment come from, anyway? How is it determined how much punishment is proportional? Like, if a tough kid would've pushed Cats round, would he have beaten him up less? Or even more? He might've died, then. It begs the question how Cats is still in school at all, an' not expelled or in prison.

The window sills above us are old but pretty, like hidden souvenirs left there for anyone who dares to look up the arches. I think 'bout Dudsie getting beat up by Cats, an' telling 'em it's not a fair fight; 'splaining that Cats is a dirty asshole jealous of everyone smarter than him, which prob'ly includes just 'bout everyone. I'd laugh modestly an' let 'em make the first move, dodging his wild dash an' delivering a fierce chop, followed by a galloping jump-kick to the back of his head. My karate's too fast for him an' Dudsie looks on at me like it's me that's the older kid. I can beat up six ponies at once without breaking a sweat.

Fir gets to go to the game store at the corner while Mom an' me browse Rare Couture. That's to say, she's browsing an' I'm, as she'd describe it, "moping'. There's only three rings of dresses, connected by the double stairway, but I know it'll take her at least an hour. When she passes near the dressing room stools I ask her, 'How come I can't get something cool? Like, a game or a comic book or something?'

'Because you're getting a dress,' Mom says simply. 'And tomorrow you get to try it on when Aunt Palais and Mrs. Breezeport visit. Don't sit around like that: There's no reason to be bored with your own behavior.'

I sit up straight an' keep my eyes open so she won't tell me again, but my thoughts are elsewhere. Aunt Palais is prob'ly the least interesting mare I've ever met, yet Mom keeps inviting her over just the same. It's like she doesn't even realize all the relatives do when they're over is sit round an' talk bout family an' the news (an' yeah, maybe to recommend speech therapists... fuck that). Uncle Faireweather's real nice though, but apparently too busy to visit. I can't blame him. If I was him I'd be too busy to visit Mom too, an' I'm betting the only reason he visits at all's 'cause of me an' Fir.

Uncle Faireweather was a close friend of Dad, so I often picture 'em sailing together, though I don't know what Dad's really like, so my pictures don't get very far. I just think of their boat bobbing on the water an' that's enough, usually. Today it's a little different. There's rain an' Uncle Faireweather's saying they need to get the water out, throwing bucket after bucket overboard. Turns out Dad's a great stunt flyer, but Uncle Faireweather's the most experienced sailor round. Of course I can't go sailing with him 'cause it's "not safe".

I'm presented with a white an' pink monstrosity, an' though I had decided to accept the first dress Mom would throw my way, I quickly scheme my way out. From the dressing room I call that it doesn't fit right round the waist. It's shit to wait round longer an' have to deal with Mom's harrumphs, but shit is still better than whatever that dress is. It would make me look like a dollhouse princess or an old lady trying to be sexy, an' beyond that, Mom doesn't realize it's got no proper wing slits. (I'm always the odd one out an' paying the price for it.)

There's a plaque in the shop that says that a "Miss Rarity" pursued her dream of fashion so that everyone can look as striking as they feel, an' now there are boutiques as far as Prance an' Manehattan. All of this must surely be great if you give a shit 'bout clothes.

When we finally go to the counter with this flowy green dress the lady beams at me an' says, 'You'll look gorgeous in that, all right!' It's just sincere 'nough for me to mutter, below my breath, 'If anyone needs that to look gorgeous they must be ugly as all fuck.'

When school looms it's impossible to enjoy yourself. It's not actually true so much, of course, but it is when it's something less regular, like Aunt Palais an' Mrs. Breezeport's arrival. The mixtapes I've got are boring 'cause I know their high energy blarings aren't really 'bout anything. The rappers rap 'cause they rhyme, but I can't really tell what the words are - I could put on The Softcorner, but I don't want to. Song after song passes by. Love, partying, heartbreak, an' something 'bout the police never catching "true G's". All of it while looking out of my window an' not really seeing anything. No birds on the balcony; bricks, trees, a bored gardener ignoring the pink an' white blossoms, and, if I pretend I can look past these buildings, I can see the Great Market an' Mr. Appleby's shop.

Fir has escaped, saying he's studying with Rod. (As if.) I wonder where I'd escape to if I could. It's fun to think 'bout running away, but it's stupid fantasies like that that make living life twice as hard. There's no running away; just the prison of reality. I'd prob'ly canter downtown though an' see if I can sneak into any private properties, like the complex next to the baseball cage with the inner gardens an' bridgey corridors, or maybe somewhere round Marigold Square where there's lots of big gardens.

It's so bad I offer to get groceries. After all, if I show off some good behavior, I can perhaps say I'm sick halfway into the visit an' she might believe me. 'We do have need of a cake,' Mom agrees, giving me a way-too-detailed description of the cake she's looking for. It's the basic cake I was thinking of, but of course she doesn't believe I know it, so she repeats it three times an' writes me a note.

It occurs to me that Mrs. Oceano at the Corner Market is from the Bayleaf Republic too, just like the new kid at school. She's 'bout my height, which pretty much proves that ponies over there are pretty short overall, 'cause she's prob'ly old 'nough to be my grandmother. I get the cake an' she asks me if there's a birthday, but when I mutter no she doesn't press it. She's nice like that. Her shop's got a messy look behind the counter an' in the vegetable lane, but the other corners are always super clean. I'm pretty curious why, but instead I ask her, 'Is Bayleaf a nice place to live?'

She considers this for a moment an' then says, 'It's got some nice places. Just like most of everywhere else. Big bears though, that'll eat you alive.' Then she laughs her hiccup laugh an' I know she's just teasing me. I laugh with her 'cause she's always been nice to me.

While she fits the cake in a box I ask, 'What's your word for "hi"?'

'My word? "Hi!"'

She pauses in quiet amusement, unfolding an' re-folding the box. Then she says, 'We greet each other by kicking each other in the head and stealing each other's lunch money, haha!' Her only alternative to the hiccup laugh is to actually say "haha", an' that's when she's at her most sarcastic. 'Sometimes we even use nunchucks for more conversation.'

'There's a new girl at school from Bayleaf,' I say, 'an' they say she can't understand us.'

'Well now you know the language,' she returns brightly, succumbing to another hiccup laugh. Then she gives me a raspberry lollipop an' wishes me a nice day.

'Thank you,' I gush, easing the box on my shoulders.

Outside there's a bit of a commotion coming from the Great Market, an' maybe I was just too busy thinking 'bout the cake to notice it before. There's a juggler, I think, but I can't glimpse anything 'cept ponies' rears an' little kids slurping their shaved ice, yet the voices together are deafening. Weirdly, through the commotion I hear my name called an' wonder what kind of unknown ally would emerge: maybe it's Double Button again, wondering if she can come over like she did a few years ago. Then I see the Feltway twins an' the Queen of the Class herself wiggling through the crowd an' I ain't even disappointed much. Jazzie's wearing a nearly transparent blouse an' has her mane in curls, which is her number one trick at looking older even than the Feltway twins. 'Oh, Gracey,' she croons, 'did you have a good time in there?'

'What, in the Market?' I answer, confused as they trot halfway towards me. 'What sort of stuff's going on there?'

'Yes, in the store,' one of the Feltway twins agree, 'did you have a good time in there? That's what she asked.'

Slowly I slip my raspberry lollipop in my mouth an' shrug. Jazzie follows the lollipop with her eyes an' comments, 'Compensating for something?'

There's a trick to knowing there's an in-joke made at your expense, an' it's basically that when there's two questions in a row that you can't really answer - aren't supposed to answer - then you're made fun of. But outside of school there's no reason to play into their hooves. 'I was just wondering what's going on there? Is there a juggler or something?'

'Oh, it's not something you'd like,' Jazzie decides, 'being a girl with quite different interests and all.' The Feltway twins giggle at this but none of 'em have mean faces; they just have a wash of entertainment carried over, an' if I want to insult 'em I'd just ask if they're drunk. It's easier to just say bye an' canter home, though.

They call something after me, but I have no idea what they're even saying. I'm sucking that raspberry lollipop an', together with the noise from the Market, it's hard to hear much of anything. You have to finish gifts, but it's weird how the lollipop doesn't taste like raspberry at all. It's kind of gross an' not at all like it was last time.

Superheroes that don't make it to the comic books have meaningless powers. Aunt Palais can ignore the cake while eating it. Mrs. Breezeport sits opposite of her, hooves crossed an' carrying an invisible staff over her knee. Mom sits in between so she can look at me the whole way through. The entire thing is like an extended performance, and that fucking dress just won't sit right.

Mrs. Breezeport's talking 'bout her husband who works in metal treatment. 'So it's far more sophisticated than one would think at first glance,' she stresses, her hoof opening an' closing like a baton, 'and it's not strictly hard work that landed him that promotion. No. "Unbridled foresight and loyalty in cooperative initiative."'

They go on endlessly like that, Aunt Palais nodding slowly as Mom squeezes general assent onto Mrs. Breezeport, who's husband has quickly become the main topic of conversation. He's strong, smart, family oriented, an' a career visionary all in one. Prob'ly he's got a huge dick too.

Eventually, though, Mrs. Breezeport remembers I'm wilting at the table an' she turns to me. Maddeningly she switches her tone of voice an' says, slowly, 'And how about you, Miss Grace? What's your favorite subject at school?'

My gut reaction is to speak even more slowly than her an' stretch "having tea and cake" out forever, but I remember when last year Mrs. Breezeport asked me 'bout my favorite word. I had replied then that it was "oligarchical" but Mom quickly told me not to "play smart" an' that my favorite word couldn't be anything I picked up from the papers an' didn't know the meaning of. So, now, I can't even answer that it's recess.

'Biology, Mrs. Breezeport,' I decide eventually.

Now, maybe she was prepared for all answers possible 'cept mine, 'cause she just continues like it's a game show. 'You must be proud of your brother, who's getting to be a handsome young stallion,' she speculates.

'Yes, Mrs. Breezeport.'

'Are you both doing well in school then, Miss Grace? It's very important to do well in school, even at the times you don't know why. So, you'd do well to listen to your mother and do your best.'

'Yes, Mrs. Breezeport.'

'And have you given any thought to what you would like to be?'

This is a trickier question an' I make sure not to move my eyes from her as I think of a good answer. Something 'impertinent' obviously would not do, but worst of all would be if she would follow up my answer with more elaborate questions. I can't just say that I don't know - or don't care - but it would almost certainly be acceptable if I would say I'd like to be a doctor or a metal worker. Mom stops me though by doing her fake cough. 'Grace, be a dear and get our company some more of those tea biscuits, will you?'

Scurrying into the kitchen, I wonder if she thought I couldn't answer that question in any way satisfactory. If I had said what I intended to, almost certainly they'd be impressed with me, and perhaps, Mrs. Breezeport would even have gone on 'bout her husband again. When I get the biscuits an' readjust my dress - which seems intent on riding up my crotch an' refuses to stay strapped round my shoulders properly - I hear the three of 'em talking away in a curious hush. It's not like they're whispering, but that just makes it all the more suspicious. Leaning just outside the doorway I try to make sense of their secret conversation.

'...to think I had worried about him, Dahlia, but you've taken care of him wonderfully, all right.' Aunt Palais was talking to Mom, there, but whenever I hear her name it's like she's someone else. She continues: 'I regret to say that, though you've been nothing short of admirable, it's his sister that concerns me the most. She reminds me more of him each time I see her.'

'You say that,' Mom answers sternly, 'but remember she's not trying to be like her father anymore. At all. She's just trying to find herself now.'

I try not to move so much that I'm shaking. 'That's good,' Mrs. Breezeport agrees, 'it's no good when you have to make her choose. And it's more difficult than when it's a separation. In a separation, ponies develop in their new roles, and pretty soon, when they're older, they realize they don't have to choose between the two. After my first marriage, Burdock didn't want anything to do with me, but now he visits every month. You can't put a price on that, and what a strong, independent and clever stallion he is now. But you wouldn't have thought it back then. Back when they're that age they--'

They stop talking the second Mom sees me entering the living room, pouring fresh tea an' then starting up bullshit 'bout the coming summer. Mrs. Breezeport remarks I've picked the perfect dress for the season an' there's instantaneous agreement all round.

'I didn't pick it,' I say, immediately regretting it. It's as if being in the kitchen has hit a reset an' I have to tell myself again to stay calm an' collected. For all that, none of 'em notice my inappropriate response, which is somehow worse.

'I was just telling your mother about my children,' Mrs. Breezeport says in her slow motion voice, crossing her hooves twice over so that her lap is like a landing strip for her cup an' saucer. 'You must look forward to going to the beach and playing with your brother in a few months.'

'Yes, Mrs. Breezeport.' I empty the biscuits on the tray an' put the packaging alongside the nearly finished cake.

'Fir spends most of his free time studying,' Mom says proudly, 'and I'm happy to say that Grace is finally following his example.'

Aunt Palais laughs politely an' it suddenly strikes me that she's not just older than Mom, but also older than Mrs. Breezeport. Sure, Mrs. Breezeport's got lines on her face an' has children as old as Mom an' Aunt Palais, but it's Aunt Palais' laugh that betrays the deeper understanding. It's like she knows what's going on below these conversations. That makes her scary-dangerous, of course, 'cause no doubt she knows what I'm doing; might even know what I'm thinking right now.

Mrs. Breezeport finishes her tea with an upward glance. 'That's so good of you, Grace,' she says, 'you'll make your mother proud then, won't you?'

There's a bit of nausea building, an' the smell of the cake doesn't do me any favors. It's weird, but I can't really say anything 'bout it. It's like it's more trouble than it's worth. I nod an' say, 'Of course, Mrs. Breezeport.'

I remember a dream I had last night, or maybe the night before last, where I fly through the house like an untethered balloon. It's not a pleasant thing to remember, but it's prob'ly the nausea that's doing it. Even as I slip out of my dress it's like I'm bobbing along the ceiling of every room - even Mom's bedroom, which is as much off-limits in my dreams as it is here. It's filled with the old music Fir insists she still plays when we're at school, an' if I try hard I can almost remember what it sounds like. I put on my cap an' shamble to the window, leaning on the corner desk. It's a silly habit, 'cause there's never really anything to see there.

On impulse I rummage through the piles of notebooks an' faded exercise books an' find the old photograph of Dad. It's worse quality than I remember an' I can only see his face, really, with a backdrop of blackened bricks. He's smiling at the camera, but not in a happy way; more like he's just stopped whatever he was doing an' is tired. Easier to remember his accomplishments: Fastest out-of flight school to complete the Lichtwacht Test; Second pegasus ever to complete a triple spin-twister in a flapless vertical. Never heard Fir rave 'bout any of these things even as a kid, so I guess like Mom he's just naturally dumb to that kinda stuff. No pegasi. I wonder how much 'bout him Mom didn't tell me, but decide quick enough that it doesn't matter. I bury the picture frame under the books again an' move back to the bed.

Being sick is a lot like dreaming in that you think things but can't really control 'em, an' then they're kind of real. Flying round usually ends like that... I make it to the balcony, where there's no real ceiling an' nothing to hold on to - the drainpipe slips from grasp, anyway - an' I float up into the sky.

Nuisance

At PE Aurora's rushed ahead, for whatever reason, so I'm putting on my gym shoes by myself. She's been sat next to me here since the very first day of school - we just sort of ended up together, in almost every class an' in spots like this. There's a lot of unspoken alliances in middle school, an' they're never really questioned, I guess, 'cause maybe when you do they sort of crumble to pieces.

The weird thing is that there's always a bunch of girls sitting on the pommels an' benches in the back while everyone else is sporting. Aurora's there with Jazzie an' nerdy Quartz, an' sure, Jazzie's there a lot of the time, just chatting away, but Aurora? That's never happened before. An' it's just soccer - that's just running back an' forth after the ball an' little else. (I've always thought it kind of weird that when girls are sick, Mr. Starflex will let 'em sit it out, but when boys are complaining, he calls 'em out for, as he put it, "kidding", an' pays close attention to 'em to make sure they ain't slacking off.)

I keep looking to their corner, expecting 'em to be looking back at me, but each time I look they're just chatting amongst themselves, paying no heed to the soccer game at all. Curiously I'm actually pretty good at it: almost every time I look back, the ball's shot near me with a huge amount of empty space round me. It's nice not being on goal for once; I can trot round however I want. After the class, though, I can't help but ask Aurora what she's been discussing over there all class. I ask it innocently enough as we ditch our gym shoes, an' sure 'nough, her response is equally innocent. Softly, just soft 'nough so no one else hears, she says, 'Oh, it's just about Mr. Appleby's. They asked me to take them, but I ain't sure.'

There are times when I think everyone's just a little bit too crazy, but as I'm hurrying through the hallways I'm reminded of Uncle Faireweather confiding to me during his last visit that when you're sailing, you're bound to have a couple of ponies on board that you normally wouldn't tolerate having near you all the time. Going to school is kind of like that, 'cept that there's an entire fleet of ships, crossing between each other, with sailors boarding an' departing all day. Still, Uncle Faireweather did stress that it's important to find 'nough common ground to coexist, but I doubt his sailors are this fucking impossible.

Maybe it's that I'm so lost in thought that I rush my way to the Biology lab far more than necessary, but there's no one there at the top of the stairs. I peek through the lab door's window an' find it's empty inside. The door's unlocked as well, so in I go. I've never much cared for the lab - it's hardly as exciting as it's made out to be - but I spot the big lizard model on the desk under the bone posters, surrounded by tiny dinosaurs an' the pre-historic equine skeleton. It takes some crouching to look underneath it, but there's nothing there--

'Pardon?' Mrs. Shellski seems genuinely surprised, so I'm automatically embarrassed. 'What are you doing in here?'

'Oh,' I stammer, 'I was just looking at the lizard, an'...'

'You're not supposed to be in here until I open the door,' she says simply. I've never known her to be so no-nonsense, but apparently she's not having a good day, 'cause she's really mad at me. Most of the other kids made their way up the stairs an' they're waiting behind her as she repeats, 'You're not supposed to be in here until I open the door. Now, get to your seats, everyone.'

I take my place at the front of the lab next to Jazzie, still reeling from being confronted so seriously for no reason. Can Jazzie tell I'm feeling like a pirate now, 'cause of my thinking the school a fleet of boats an' strolling into the unlocked door? I somehow expect her to say something even though Biology's the one class she behaves herself an' also the single one she's next to me. I hear her words come in deliberate as bullets, not even caring that she's whispering loud 'nough for Mrs. Shellski to hear: 'I know what you were doing in there, Gracey-lacey, dreaming of that shop lady again. So. Bad.'

Fuck you, I think at her, I ain't even gonna try to figure out what the fuck you mean. I don't say a word though, I just look straight ahead an' pretend she doesn't exist. It never works, but it's all I have.

To make the bell come faster I order my five favorite songs of the day, though I've not listened to the radio much lately an' forgot which songs completed my previous top 5. I'm certain I want Street Symphony by Yours Truly in 4 or 5, but that's all that comes to me. I watch a fly buzz its way along the upper windows while one ear's making sure Mr. Paleo's still harmlessly reciting the colonial times. Most of my thoughts keep returning to Jazzie's maddening attempts at pissing me off; a sure sign that she's succeeding. She prob'ly listens to Ruby Marvelous like every girl does.

I'm pretty sure there's a bunch of boys an' girls laughing at me as I trot through the halls, but I'm equally sure I'm imagining things - hard to tell those things apart now. I ain't imagining the scene outside though. Lots of boys are apparently starting up a soccer game along the fence, both brick sides goals of some sort, but half of the place is obstructed by a whole bunch of girls laughing an' calling things at someone. Aurora an' myself find each other right round the time we see it's Switch-Go, looking up weakly as some of the loftier girls of her class (I make out the backs of the black-maned girl an' Pearl) rummaging through her bag an' tossing out various belongings. I see lipstick tossed out - giggles - then needle an' thread, again greeted by giggles. Scissors: giggles. Among all that, they're calling, 'Slinkie!' like it's her new insult-name. Then, when her tormentors are done an' kids are filing through the gate, Aurora passes her an' whispers snidely to her, 'Slinkie!' an' before I know what I'm doing, I do the exact same thing. 'Slinkie.'

We don't get to go through the gate though, 'cause for some reason Principal Mazie was right behind us an' refuses to see or hear anything 'cept us. In fact, she doesn't even help Switch-Go collect her things - something she does so meekly that it's as if she doesn't know she's just been hit an' mugged by 'bout half her class. Principal Mazie grasps us both by the shoulders an' neither of us can muscle free - she's held us in a lock of guilty, an' I feel myself shaking with the desire to cry.

It's stupid to defend yourself by talking 'bout what other kids do, an' Principal Mazie just knows it's equally stupid to make us say things we don't believe or understand. Quietly we're put in the classroom an' she slips us two pieces of paper for us to fill in. 'When you're done, see me next-door,' she says, using the inner door to go to the other classroom.

It takes us a minute to realize the obvious way to complete the questions is to both do one half an' then copy each other's answers - 'cept one or two to make it less obvious, of course. We do this quietly 'cause the room's empty an' neither of us really wants to accept what happened. Maybe she's more guilty at getting caught, I think, but I ain't 'zactly sure what I feel guilty 'bout. I should've told Principal Mazie that "Slinkie" ain't even an insult; should've told her that all these other kids got to go home unpunished an' that they actually hurt her. Switch-Go, on the other hoof, doesn't even understand our language.

Aurora's taking her time with her half, so I lazily sketch dog an' cat ponies in my sketchbook. Her lack of intensity together with her denim shorts suggest she's in the park doing crosswords. Drawn to the scribbling of my pencil, she whispers to me, 'What's that for?'

'What do you mean what's it for?'

She shrugs then an' I feel like we're each other's accomplices. Bank robbers. Safe crackers. Murderers at large. It's an oddly liberating feeling to experience when undergoing punishment, but it's easy to admit it: Staying after class is not even an inch as bad as school, where everyone's watching for you to stumble an' kids are trying to put themselves over you at every moment. No point here. I even feel like I accomplished something when we give Principal Mazie our papers, an' I make sure not to look smug when she discharges us.

'See you tomorrow,' Aurora says, an' I realize Fir's long gone home. The unfairness of that one-sided report Mom's bound to get takes all the wind out of my steps. The hallways become desolate, an' Aurora trotting left at the gate where I go right is like my lone ally abandoning ship. It'll be nothing but a beatdown at home.

But, I reason when I find the street quieter than usual, I'm still free. No one's caught me yet. Discharged. An' if I'm fucking stupid enough to call a girl names for no reason, I'm pretty sure I can run with that an' see where I end up. The obvious road then is towards the city. I've never, ever cantered there by myself, but it doesn't really matter. If I end up lost I can always go back, an', anyway, it's still light out. Better yet: barely any kids round here. They all play at the park, at the baseball cage, or at home. If I had some candy this would feel even better. When I'm home I can just say I headed straight home after detention.

Postponing is addictive. I manage to get 'nough money from the supermarket floor to get some chips but they don't have the chunky ones that everyone likes. Worse yet, there's a stallion in the grass square looking at me like I'm trespassing for the entire time I'm munching . It's prob'ly been hours since I've left the school grounds, but I've not found anything much worth finding, an' so it's equally pointless to just go back.

There's a cool club with black wallpaper rounding the corners of the doorway. It's an old corner building that's real close to crumbling to dust, an' maybe it's chance an' maybe it's not, but I remember seeing this building before. Pretty sure, in fact, we've passed it when we've gone to some fancy restaurant when I was young. It's still there, though it's a quarter to get in an' I'm already in the doorway. Loud music booms cross an' two guys in spiky armor yell at each other as they're ushered in by the doorpony. He's got a ring through his nose an' is wearing what looks like plastic underwear over his head. He's also 'bout twice my age an' doesn't feel the need to even say anything; he just peers down at me with an I can't believe this look. I wish I had my cap on me. I'm pretty sure it makes me look a whole year older.

'Go home, kid,' he says when he decides that I'm just gonna linger at the doorway forever. I was enjoying myself though. The music makes no sense, but it's comforting like a factory of weird noises you don't really have to listen to. I look at him pleadingly, but he's immune. My eyes divert to this poster declaring in erratic letters NUISANCE NIGHT.

'Chill out,' another voice says, swinging to my rescue. He's at least a year older than Rod; maybe even three years older, an' he's got these crazy, vibrant hair extensions in his mane, each colored differently and flashing as the club's lights change color and direction. 'She's a friend of Ebony,' he adds. Thankfully, the doorpony accepts, an' my mysterious rescuer leads the way further into the club.

There's a long bar leading all the way in towards the dance floor, where only a couple of ponies are - it's still early, apparently. Still, there are a few of the guys I saw earlier, sitting on a stony bench 'gainst the wall, talking an' drinking freely. The stallion says something near my ear I can't make out an' then points opposite the bar, where a short corridor caves into a hidden alcove with two empty tables. I sneak in there, hoping I won't just be abandoned there to be kicked out again. There are metallic plaques covering parts of the floor an' I have a great time imagining my hooves clinking over 'em, the music far too loud to actually hear much of anything. It's a small surprise then when I see those purple an' green hair strands shimmering next to me when we sit down.

It's more quiet here, but he's still shouting to be heard. 'I didn't know what you wanted,' he 'splains, 'so I figured you'd like a beer.' He slides the beer on the table awkwardly, but it's somehow still cool. I have a great time thinking for a moment how easily he'd beat up Fir. Or just 'bout anyone I know. He's got these metallic shoulder pads an' a couple of biker-style patches on his vest. Stitches on his pants.

'Beer's fine,' I say, trying to think of something appropriate to say. He reads me easy enough, though, pre-empting me stumbling round words, an' whispering in my ear, 'It's okay. You don't have to drink it. You can have a sip and I'll finish the rest later. Oh, and if anyone looks at you funny tell 'em to buzz off.'

'Never been here,' I admit after a short while, 'but I like it. Is it always like this?'

He bobs his head to the music an' swerves his ear towards me, then pauses, an' finally decides he heard correctly, saying, 'There ain't always live music. Tonight's a local band. Not quite like this, though -' he waves round himself grandly '- more edgy underground punk; like The Pillagers or Prosecution.'

I nod but he gulps down half his beer, burps, an' then calls, 'That's right, I forgot this is your first time.' He stops an' chuckles, then pretends to slap himself. 'You should come here more, y'know, you'd get along fucking ace with my sister. She could show you all sorts of things. She's the only one who smokes in here. She's got a pass.'

'I don't mind smoking,' I say, an' then boldly take a swig from the beer. It tastes like carbonated vomit going in an' like oil going down. I keep a straight face an' am relieved when I see he's looking at the bar. The alcove is getting a little crowded as more ponies are shouldering in.

'They're setting up. This your first gig? You don't wanna miss it.'

N9ghtmare 99 plays a kind of music I've never heard before. It's like... none of 'em know what they're doing: they're just making stuff up an' somehow they're aligned. The sight of the guitarists an' drummer banging an' wailing, smashing an' yelling is one thing - a portrait of an illegal violence - an' the sound is something else. But then, it's not 'zactly good either. It's just loud an' the only words I can make out are "fucking pissed" an' when they yell "fuck off shit face I'm gonna murder your place; I've gotta mind to steal a rake fast rearrange your face". Then the guitarist pulls a crazy face an' coaxes some squealy static out of his instrument; the speakers match up an' there's hiss with a deafening block of beep-buzz.

It's impossible to expect this music. Or even then to predict what they're doing next. I think they'll fall over dead, but they don't; one of 'em keels over an' then picks himself up to screech at the microphone. I keep expecting the crowd to laugh, or just lose interest, but a two dozen guys just launch themselves 'gainst the stage. Pretty soon I realize I'm the only one just sort of standing there, an', though it's just by myself, I give the air a couple of kicks, pretty much like the N9ghtmare 99 do all the time, an' I figure that, with this much noise, an' this little lighting, it doesn't matter anyway.

The guy finds me between songs. 'Oh, I forgot, I'm called Crayzer here,' he calls, 'and my sister's Ebony.' He's drinking both of his beers an' holds 'em up like he's thanking me. I know it's temporary, but, it's never been this easy to not think 'bout anything else. A rush surges inside an', maybe it's the beer, 'cause I have more energy than ever. Crayzer looks over his shoulder once more as he slow-dashes back to the front, calling, 'Having a fuckin' good time or what?'

Detention

So this must be what a hangover feels like. Every muscle in my body hurts. Even the wafts of hot air from the bakery remind me that everything hurts. I'm pretty sure I'm too sore for school. Perhaps all the ponies at Nuisance Night stay home today. They can't all go to school, can they? The apartments cross the street play host to a few boys sharing a bag of chips, like there's no hurry at all.

In the past when I replay in my head those incidents when Mom's seething at me, I would alter it so that I've got a retort for everything she says, but today it's like I just let it all happen again. From the moment I saw her tired, wide-eyed face opening the door, an' I said, 'Good evening, Mom,' it's a straight repeat all the way through. Playing it cool like that didn't work one bit. It's just like shrugging when she scolds me for swearing over breakfast or interrupting her stupid radio soaps.

I'm pretty sure that if there's a Freaking Out Award to be won Mom's got a whole collection stored in her bedroom somewhere, an' fuck, this was the freak-the-fuck-out that put all freak outs to shame. Fuming, hysterical, an' constantly complaining that the neighbours won't know what to think 'bout all the noise; complaining like it's not her exclusively shouting an' screaming.

I just took it. Summarizing the punishments is easy 'nough. First, I was going straight to bed. I was exhausted anyway. Second, going straight home after school an' staying in my room. Third; grounded for at least a week. It's pretty mild overall, really. She's got me locked inside 'nough as it is. You can't twice enslave a slave.

It didn't feel like a retort at the time, but maybe the reason I can't really change anything that happened was 'cause at one point - an' this was the only time I really said anything - I said that Fir can pretty much do what he wants an' never gets shit for it. It wasn't an excuse or anything, even. 'Don't change the subject, young lady,' she said with sudden restraint, 'and you can stop your crying. You've got nothing to be sad about.' Her nostrils flared an' her eyes were nearly filled with tears.

That's Mom, all right, even when she's angry she can collect herself enough to be important an' just. It must be nice to only worry 'bout your daughter being out at night.

'One sec,' Fir says, plodding to the other side of the street where Rod an' the almost-but-not-quite 3C Cruiser (I think he's in 3A) smoke a cigarette before school. They're leaning 'gainst the Community Center wall, which is prob'ly the domain of dog piss, but the two of 'em don't seem to care. I wait just out of reach of their conversation, an' just by watching 'em I'm pretty sure Fir only skirted over to prove that he belongs there, an' not 'cause he has anything to say.

Class must be starting any moment now so I'm quietly zigzagging my way closer. 'Oh, I'd kick his teeth in,' Cruiser grunts, 'he's nothing but bad news with a face only his mother could love.' They laugh an' Rod suggests, 'But don't talk such stuff around Fir's sister; she'll tell on you.'

He says that for my benefit, laughing to make sure everyone knows it's a joke. The only one not amused is Fir, who says, 'Stay back, Grace, we're talking about something serious.'

I give him a yeah right sort of look an' pretend to be inching back to the other side of the street again. There's an old mare leading a yapping little dog, or the dog's leading her. Still, I can hear Rod speculate, 'She got dumped 'cause she's boring trash, not 'cause she was cheating on him. No one cheats on that guy, believe me. He takes it real serious, 'cause he's got a little brother they say was stillborn. So he don't cheat and no one ain't cheatin' on him.'

Of course no one asks who says such things or where those stories come from. I figure it's just boy talk, but still, when Fir finally joins up with me before the last street corner I ask who they're talking 'bout. 'See ya later,' Rod calls, 'gotta smoke one more before I can take it.'

Fir first tells me, in a serious, non-teasing sort of way not to wait round for him like that. 'If you're doing nothing,' he says, 'you've gotta look like you're doing something. Either you're thinking 'bout something or you're looking for something in your pocket. But not rushing to it: that makes you look stupid and confused. Just do it slowly.'

Then he 'splains that it's Riverswim's boyfriend who broke up with her an' also adds, 'The thing about the stillborn's that it's not just a stillborn. That's actually true.'

I'm pretty sure a stillborn's a baby who's born dead, or has been dead for a long time when they see it, but I make sure not to rush him along so he can 'splain what's so special. It's a serious hush that goes before the story, an' then he makes me promise not to tell anyone else. We slow to a crawl so we don't arrive at school before he's 'splained it. 'Okay,' he says when he accepts my promise, 'what they say is - and that's from Riverswim's family who knew the doctor - that once they saw his brother was stillborn Moss changed. Like, straightaway-changed. No, he didn't become all angry or anything like that. Or sad. He just became real calm, and the doctor himself said that it was like his little brother joined him up there.'

'Up where?' I ask.

'Up in his mind, of course.'

He keeps it at that an' we separate, an' I don't know if it's the story, but when we split he gives me a very suspicious look. Now I know he wants to canter the halls alone so as not to be teased 'bout going with me, but it's like he's been planning to give me that look all morning. I can't believe he's in cahoots with Mom 'bout these kinds of things - after all, he once complained to her that me going to his school at all was like a death sentence for him. So, it's gotta be like he's been thinking 'bout it in another way, an' I think, has he been going through any more changes then, or is it me who's changed this time?

There's a weird feeling in the class room, like everything's changed. I think it's the story Fir just told me an' the intense night before, but then I see Quartz sitting next to me polishing her glasses an' I think, oh, Aurora's home sick or something, but she's right there at the front-left of the class, wearing a new pink button-up shirt. Looking right at me. It's hard to read her look: If anything, it's remarkably pensive.

Just a hoofful seconds later Mr. Voluble trots in for Language, a large stack of textbooks blocking his face. These are then distributed through class, but when he passes me he says, 'You can catch up later. For now, if you will go see Principal Mazie?' (This is something adults do; phrasing their orders as offers, so that not only you have to do something, but you also should feel thankful for it.)

Confused, I leave my seat an' go for the door. I hear Jazzie saying, in a mocking voice, 'Mr. Voluble? Where's Grace going?'

'That's none of your business, Jazzie,' Mr. Voluble says, 'she'll be back before you know it.'

I can hear her exaggerated pouting from the hallway.

Principal Mazie's office reeks of dust in the way that most stale parts of school do, an' I wonder briefly if she's just sitting round here all day. I've been here just once before, when I had completed grade school, an' had found it such a pleasant little room at the time. I loved the filing cabinets particularly. It was like they were storing lots of important things 'bout everything an' everyone, an' each little section was reserved for something special.

She tells me to sit down an' hides her papers under the two stacks on the side of her desk. The chair's too big for me an' I feel stupid, but there's no reason for me to feel guilty 'bout anything. Sure, the Switch-Go incident was embarrassing, but she punished me for that herself. Not unkindly she says, 'I've got something here that I think belongs to you,' an' promptly retrieves a black package from a clanging drawer, placing it on the desk resolutely.

I analyze the object an' see it's all wafery an' crumbling at the corners - it's an ashy remnant of something, an' for a short moment my mind starts racing; thinking 'bout things I've set on fire in the past, though I've never even done something of the sort. Only slowly do I start 'specting something serious; reaching for the charred remnants an' trying to leaf through the pages which promptly crumble at the touch. I'm pretty certain. Someone's burnt my sketchbook.

'Did you put a light to your book?' Principal Mazie asks, prob'ly trying her hardest to get eye contact with me, but I just lean off of the chair so my chin's right 'gainst the book. I think of the drawings that are - were - in there, lost forever. Maybe twenty or thirty pages' worth. Eventually I mutter, 'Who's burned my sketchbook?'

Sure, I know the answer, but it's like I'm waiting to hear it so I'm no longer staring so helplessly. Stillborn brothers, what's the deal? Who wants another brother anyway? I know what it's like to have a brother, an' big brothers are far worse, no doubt 'bout it.

Eventually Principal Mazie says, 'Aurora said that you burned it after class yesterday because you were angry with me and wanted to burn down the school, and that you threatened her not to say anything.'

Like Moss upon seeing the baby in the hospital I'm utterly calm. Simply, I don't know what to feel, an' I think maybe I ain't supposed to feel anything, an' maybe none of this is very important anyway. I even forgot Principal Mazie's question till she repeats it: 'Did you put a light to your book? That is your book, isn't it?'

'It's my sketchbook,' I say, 'but you can have it now. Not much point for it now, I guess.'

She stands up an' I see her shadow bow over me, an' when I look up again there's a plastic beaker with water in it. 'Wait here for five minutes before returning to class,' she says, 'but - look at me, Grace.' I look at her face an' it's stern to the point where it ain't much else. Then she says, 'If this trouble between the two of you won't go away, you must see Mrs. Kindheart's office. Over there, down the hall.'

'I ain't sure,' I say, aware that I'm mumbling very strangely. 'Aurora's my best friend.'

Mrs. Kindheart may be the school counsellor - psychiatrist; psychologist; shrink - but she's also a definitive sentence to the lowest rung of all.

My surreal day continues way past just the new neighbour in class. Quartz herself even seems reluctant to be sitting next to me, and between classes Jazzie's constructing something between an insult an' an explanation for what happened before I got to school today. Normally everyone's talking at once, but even the boys are listening today. First, between Language an' Maths, she tells me, indirectly, 'Quartz, watch out she doesn't burn your underwear too! Bet she'd like that.' Then, before History, she declares, 'No one wants to sit next to you, Grace. Maybe you should stop being such a psycho. I swear, I wouldn't be surprised if you end up in jail if you don't get a clue.' 'What a clueless cunt,' echoes Rasp behind me with genuine disgust. Just a couple of months ago Jazzie was making fun of Rasp's crazy curls going this way an' that, asking her again an' again where she got her mane done. It's all forgotten now.

Not for a moment did I tell myself it's over. At recess Aurora's waiting for me, surrounded by one half of the Feltway twins an' a girl I think's in Fir's class. She's pretending to hide from me there before the lunch hall, saying, 'You've got problems, Grace. Don't take it out on me.' I don't know if she's playing the victim or the bitch. I can't even say anything. 'I hope you're okay,' she calls after me when I manage to wriggle past 'em towards the playground, 'I hope you get checked out!'

That shit's worse 'cause my neck aches an' my shirt's sticking 'gainst my chest. Still, the weirdest thing of all's yet to come. At the bench Ruff an' Constante play cards, all the time reaching for their cards to stop the wind from picking 'em up an' sending 'em flying, talking openly 'bout Aurora's new boyfriend. It's a good thing I'm a girl, so that despite my new status as the school's resident trash bag I'm still invisible to 'em an' can hear 'em talk all 'bout it.

'That's like one day after breaking up with Riverswim - you know, that witch from 3C. He must be like four years older than her!'

'Shows you she's kinda pretty for her age,' Constante agrees, 'maybe all the older boys want to fuck her.'

They chuckle, unaware that they're basically saying that the only reason they themselves don't want to have sex with her's 'cause they're too young. (Too young being, evidently, 'bout her age.) An' who'd want to, anyway? If only they knew she was such a bitch. Ruff an' Constante might be in my class, but I know nothing 'bout their families an' who they've dated. Could it be that no one knows a thing 'bout Aurora, instead focusing entirely on the truly popular girls like Jazzie, an' the rad girls from third an' fourth class?

They start talking 'bout another couple making the rounds in school, but it's too gross to stick round for. Boys must be immune to that kind of talk. Even my temporary corner, all the way at the edge of the fence, is occupied by a soccer game. All I can do is just sort of linger near the swings.

I can't help but wonder if Aurora had a similar sort of experience after detention; if, while I wandered into the dark club, she had gone a different way an' ended up somewhere unexpected as well. Maybe she's found a box full of bits or rad action figures somewhere, or instead watched someone get into an accident; standing right there as they'd fall off a roof. An' whatever she went through, good or bad, it just changed everything.

Part II

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Calm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sorry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shadows

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

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

Change

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

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

'Sleep is sleep,' he replies quizzically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lost

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What?'

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

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

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

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

Part III

View Online

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.'

Birth of a Bullet

by slightlyshade

Part I

Part II

Part III