The next day goes predictably, with you lounging about in your room, trying not to go out. Your mother entered in late in the evening, angrily complaining about your father’s minute rebellion and accusing you of disobedience for not telling him to take you anyway. Apparently these parties of hers were family events, and she was some kind of hero for trying to keep the Orange family name high in the Social Register. Towards the end of twenty minutes, your anger had built up to the point where you couldn’t keep it in.
“Shut the fuck up!” You rose from your bed, taking a menacing step towards her. Your mother wasn’t exactly tall, and the illusion of towering over her wasn’t that difficult to achieve. Your eyes narrow and your mouth bares teeth in a hateful sneer. There’s more you want to say, but the terror in her eyes seems like it’s enough to get her out, which you consider an acceptable end. All your previous attacks had been passive-aggressive at best, and during the start of her lecture, you’d just looked vacant, so the sudden ploy at intimidation had caught her completely off guard. She mumbled something more about disrespect and fled the room, the middle-aged dilettante having no way to defend herself against open aggression. It wasn’t really a choice this time, which stood out to you. Usually, you had the patience to bear it; it was something you were used to. But this last week, which was just so incredible and amazing, somehow made everything here worse. Life had been real for a week, had been vivid, instead of this plain, forgettable drudgery. How could you tolerate any of this after what you’d just been through? You knew how good it could be now, and you knew that you could be happy; accepting a life like this wasn’t even an option. Part of you feels guilty about the attack, but its small enough to ignore. She’s had it coming a long time now; and if she was gonna keep you here, it wasn’t gonna be as the perfect son she’d envisioned. That much, at least, you had control over.
You think of texting Apple Bloom, or maybe calling her. But the thought of it scares you too much to try. She wasn’t here, and it was killing you. And if you did talk to her, what would come of that? It’d be great, sure, but wouldn’t that only worsen your situation? Why would you remember her if it only served to remind you how shitty everything here was? You were alone again. You were stuck at this house again. With a pit in your stomach and a massive headache, you reach for your phone and turn it off.
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Fumbling with her ticket, she presented it to an angry old man, who hastily waved her on. She’d never been on one of these Greyhound things, although she had used public transportation from time to time. The air was cold and dry, so she pulled her coats tighter around her. They didn’t help much, but getting on the shaky bus seemed to do some good. A few more passengers step on, and the bus takes off. The trip takes most of the day, and multiple times she pities Anon for having to spend almost a full day on this lonely bus, being driven away from his real home. She wasn’t sure how much this trip would help, but she was certain it’d be worth it nonetheless. Things hadn’t been quite the same since he’d left, which was what really prompted the trip. The bus creaked to a stop, and the driver announced her stop. As she got up, a youngster grinned and offered her a hand, but she declined. Stepping off the bus, she hailed a cab, and told him the address. It drove wildly, and a few times she was worried that she’d crash before her quest ended. Finally, the crazy vehicle stopped, and she handed him a wad of cash, then escaped into the darkening streets. Not necessarily safer, but at least she wouldn’t be flung from side to side inside a metal deathtrap. She looked at the mountainous building in front of her, one Goliath among many. Checking the address she’d been given, she confirmed that this was the right one. Walking in, she asked the first secretary she found where she could find Mr. Orange. When asked for ID, and being told it was standard procedure, she confirmed that she was indeed the Ms. Apple that had made the appointment. The secretary had given her a confused look, the southerner not looking like his usual clients, but told him he’d be ready shortly. A few agonizing minutes later, and he was ready for her to come up. She entered the elevator, the pure, sterile metal making her long for the gentle, organic life of her hometown. A small ding preceded the opening of the elevator doors, and she walked out of it and into the office of Anon’s dad.
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The way you’re stuck to your bed is reminiscent of a sick person; nothing could force you out of it except the occasional meal. There’s nothing you want to do, nothing that seems worth it. You know Apple Bloom would probably encourage you to get up and go out, but you just don’t have the strength without her and her family. Besides, you don’t want to think of her right now.
The days pass quickly, as soon as you find something to occupy your time with. You were already something of a hermit before your vacation, but now it was worse than ever. Whoever texted or called you was getting a dead line, and you intended on keeping it that way. You blew through Far Cry 3 and finished a couple different runs through Pokémon Emerald and Leafgreen with only a couple cursory visits to the kitchen. The solitude you’d achieved by thrusting your mother out, though it had been a long-standing goal, just felt lonely. The vacation had ruined the things you’d normally enjoy; now that you knew what actual happiness felt like, merely getting by no longer had any hold on you. Right now, the only thing you were focused on was drowning yourself in these games; anything that couldn’t make you forget about your predicament replaced with a game that could do better. This might have gone on forever if a persistent knocking at your door hadn’t forced you out of your cloudy daze. The loud knocks don’t quit, and start mixing with the doorbell. It’s pretty early in the afternoon, a time when both parents are out, so it shouldn’t be for them. When you get down to the door and open it, one of your more obnoxious friends appears in the space.
“Anon, my man! What’s going on!?” He’s got some people behind him, which you guess are your friends too. You mumble a hello to them, and he extends his hand for a high five. Your hand meets his, then he does some other weird thing, after which you realize is your dumb secret handshake. He gives you a ‘what gives,’ expression, and you toss him a bored apology.
“Uh, sorry man, I’m a little out of it.” Immediately he puts on this huge grin and tells you:
“Well, of course! You just spent a week in Hicksville!” He turns to his friends -your friends- and seemingly talks to them. “I know I’d need some time to recover if I’d been forced to spent all that time with a buncha hillbillies!” They laugh at that, except for this one girl in the back. The girl you’d had kind of a crush on before you’d left. She just stares at you, a concerned look on her face. Not really sure of how to respond to that, your feelings for her having disappeared a while ago, you glance over at the speaker. His hand finds your shoulder and grasps it, hard. “Come on, man, I know just what you need. And before you can say or do anything, you’re pulled out of your house. With a sigh, you turn and lock the door, then go and follow the raucous troupe; you don’t want to go, but you don’t want to stay either. There’s just not enough strength in you to make a decision for either; you’re pulled along, and that’s that.
The first place they take you to is The Bee’s Nest, a club you used to frequent. The music’s loud enough that you can’t really hear anything, and the servers are cute enough. Or, they were. You’re becoming less and less aware of the girls around you, with their heavily painted faces and clothes that barely hang on. Stuck in your mind is a picture of Apple Bloom on your last date. She had on those jean overalls with that plain white shirt underneath, and barely any makeup; nothing you’d see any of these girls wearing, but still so far above anything they had to offer. There was a fake bar in this place, which pandered mostly to high schoolers, and so didn’t have much more than a couple sodas to offer. You slump down on it and order a coke from the bartender. The dude’s tall and big, some football player from your high school. He doesn’t say a word to your order, fetching it in silence; kinda reminds you of Big Mac in that way. Your thoughts turn to the Apples, and then to the smallest member of the clan. A sneer of frustration crosses your face, and you barely keep your fist from pounding the table. Why couldn’t you just stop thinking of her?
You go out to the floor and try to dance, but nothing really comes to you. If anything, you look dumber than you normally do, and retire early. Luckily, the friends accompanying you were terrible too, and so you didn’t end up with any spotlight. As you left, they followed your lead to the bar. A drink or too passes, and a few of them try to make conversation with you. This is just as awkward as your last set of motions, and pretty soon, they don’t really try. The leader of the pack, the one who dragged you out here, signals for every to head out, and the lot of you find yourselves outside the pulsing metal doors.
“Alright, I think my buddy Anon here needs something a little stronger to get over that trip. I mean jeez, who’d a thought he’d be that traumatized?” He puts an emphasis on every syllable of traumatized, and everybody laughs, except you and that girl, who keeps up her worried expression.
“Actually, I think I’m gonna bail a little early tonight.” He face looks downright tragic at your denying his request, which is honestly kind of shocking.
“What? Come on, man, this is your welcome back party! You can’t ditch that?” Jeez, you didn’t expect your presence to matter this much to them. It’s not enough to make you stay, but you do come up with an excuse in the hopes that he won’t be too offended.
“Man, I got sick over the trip, and I’m still not much better. Let’s catch up some other time, when I don’t have like, one foot in the grave.” You try to make it sound as natural as possible, but it still feels robotic in your ears. Luckily, the guy takes it, and renames the party in your favor:
“Alright, everybody! Back to my place for the Get-Well-Anon party!” They whoop and cheer, excited about the probably illicit substances that await them, and start off. Except for that one girl who’d been looking at you. Before you turn and head home, she reaches out and grabs your hand.
“Are you okay?” Her voice is wavering, as if she’s nervous.
“Yeah, just a little…” You don’t finish the sentence. There just doesn’t seem to be a point. She doesn’t look satisfied with your answer:
“Um… ok. Hope you feel better.” You nod, giving her a weak attempt at a smile, and she turns and runs to catch up with the group, but not without looking back over her shoulder. You probably should have been nicer to your friends today, maybe made an attempt to have fun. After all, these were the people you were stuck with. Heaving a deep sigh, you make plans of what you’d do next time. Coming home, still in that depressive haze, you notice a package with your name written all over it in bright red. The letter attached says it’s from Apple Bloom.
Without hesitation, you rush upstairs to open it. Even if your parents weren’t here, your room still felt like the only place you could have this present. Your footfalls are heavy on the exotic carpets, still bearing shoes that couldn’t care less about the dirt they spread. Finding your door, you slam it shut in your excitement, then hope that wasn’t sufficient cause for a lecture. Shaking off the mild dread, you bring the package over to your bed and tear into it. The bright red wrapping paper gives you no difficulties, unlike the thick line of ribbon that encircles the package multiple times. After failing to untie the knot, pull off the string, and bite through it, you head over to your desk and grab some scissors. Freeing the present from the shiny trappings, you’re left with a plain brown box with duct tape over the opening folds. Geez, how much protection did this box need? You use the cutting edge of the scissors to open the box, and open the brown flaps.
Inside the somewhat large cardboard box is something purple, with what looks like white lining. It’s cramped within, the object having been squished in there in order to make it fit. Your first guess is a cushion of some king, maybe a stuffed animal. As you grab ahold of it and pull it out, it becomes apparent that it’s a small, rectangular pillow. The main body is purple and the white fuzzy stuff is indeed its lining. The back is plain, with nothing on it. The front has a huge pink felt square in the center of it, concentric to the whole. In the middle of this is a shape which, after some staring, looks to be a combination of an apple and a heart; in reality, it’s a lumpy looking heart with a stem and two leaves coming out the top. Its color is a deep crimson, like her hair. Four letters -well, three and one sign- are stitched into the center of this with thick white string: ‘AB + A.” Apple Bloom and Anon.
Your grin, wider than you have in these last few days spent in the city. You hug the little pillow, pressing it tightly into your chest. You can almost feel her here, her presence alive in her gift. Small tears manifest at the edge of your eyes, warning of an incoming deluge. Fuck, you missed her. Unable to count the blurry days that have passed, all you can say is that it’s been far too long. Memories of her golden eyes, that rosy, curly hair come alive with the pillow, which somehow smells like her. You squeeze it even tighter, trying to fight back the despair coming down on you. A sniffle emerges against your will, and you breathe in deeply, trying to calm yourself down. Before you’d left, there was a strength you’d drawn on, not necessarily coming from her. You can take this. You can be strong, if only for her. Sitting up straight, you blink back your tears. There’d come a time when you saw her again, and when you did, you didn’t want to be some wreck that couldn’t live without her. You had to be something she could look up to, like she’d done during that vacation.
Just as you’re wiping away the final traces of wetness from your eyes, a knocking comes from your door. Your heart sinks; this is almost certainly about you slamming your door. Hoping to deal with this in a calm way -blowing up at your parents isn’t going to work every time- you take a few deep breaths before answering.
“Come in!” The door creaks open, revealing the face of your dad. His eyes are wide with that inquisitive, slightly mocking expression he often wears. But this time it seems a little softer, as if he were sad about something. It’s a little confusing; never seeing your dad, you never really saw him cry. Whenever something upsetting happened, he would just shut himself up in his office or room.
“Hey, son.” The voice matches the tone of his body language: quiet and slightly morose. Geez, what could happen that would make him act this way around you? Was someone dead?
“Is someone dead?” You ask, mostly sarcastic. His face takes on a bewildered look, before giving an astonished:
“What? No! Why would you…” He stops his query midsentence, dropping back into that weary look from before. “Nevermind. There was something I wanted to talk to you about.” Moving over to the bed, he sits down on the edge of it. He opens his mouth to speak, but then his eyes find the embroidered pillow you’d just received. “Oh, was that the present in the mail? Gosh, that sure looks like something.” Suddenly irritable, you push the pillow off the bed, out of sight.
“What do you want, dad?” Your eyes are probably a little puffy, and you’re not exactly in the mood for having your life pried into. Especially when that part of your life is the best girl you’ve ever known and the prier is your absentee father. His typical absence usually protects him from all the barbs you’ve prepared, and so he’s a little taken aback by the sudden venom. For the second time, he turns his attention back to whatever somber subject he’d been preparing for.
“I, um. I’m not really sure how to say this, so I’ll start from the beginning. Your mother told me that you wanted to stay at Sweet Apple Acres. Is that right?” You nod slowly, narrowing your eyes in your suspicion of something being up. What’s he after? Your dad continues on, taking the vague head bobbing as a yes. “Ok. She also told me that she said no, because we need you in our life, and that there was nothing for you there. Is that true?” A part of you wants to tell him everything, how there was so much good there, and how you finally found a place you could fit in. But you’re still wary of him, so you hold your tongue. Instead, you try and get some more information out of him.
“Why are you asking me this?” He looks at the wall and sighs, scratching the back of his head.
“Uh, the thing is… your mother is not always the most truthful person. And when I picked you up, something seemed different about you. I can’t really say what…” He drops off on this last word, looking down at his knees for a moment, then starting again. “But I don’t know. My point is… No, what I came up here to ask you was: do you want to go back down there?”
“Yes.” Your plan of not showing your hand disappears at the entrance of that question. The words come out of your mouth faster than you can think, and you almost cover your mouth in shock after you’d done it. Instead, you just stare at him worriedly, hoping desperately that this won’t be used against you. All your dad does is look back at his knees and chuckle.
“Heh. Guess you really liked that place, huh.” You nod, unable to say anything more. Is he going to reverse the decision? You’re not brave enough to hope for that, even though you couldn’t want anything more than that. Your father looks at you directly, casting off the apparent sorrow for seriousness. “You great-aunt came to me yesterday. I guess she goes by Granny Smith now.” He shakes his head, trying to push off the old memories of his aunt and focus on the matter at hand. “She said you should be living back with the Apples. Now, I was pretty shocked at that.” He smiles a little bit, a humorous look on his face: “It isn’t every day an elderly lady walks into your office and asks for your kids. But all joking aside, she made a few good points. We talked for a while about you-”
“What’d you say?“ You can’t help but interrupt. He shakes his head.
“Just grown-up stuff. Don’t worry about that. Anyway, she gave me a different story than I’d heard from your mother. And I don’t mean to insult her, but my wife can be a little oblivious to people around her.” He grimaces as he says this, obviously feeling more bitter than he’s showing. But then he cheers up, just barely, and looks at you candidly: “So I wanted to ask you about this. Do you think it’d be better if you lived with your great-aunt her grandchildren?” The understanding in his eyes is too much, and all those emotions at the gate pass through. You start telling him of how great it was being there, how you felt like you’d had caring siblings, and the friends you’d made. You try to keep from saying anything that would suggest you don’t consider him and your mom as family, but the implication does come out. The stories of all the fun outings you’d had, all the good moments, and the affection you’d had, fill the air while your dad nods his head. You finish with the comfortable morning you’d had in the rain, breathless from the desperate outpouring of the events.
“Uh-huh. Yeah, I figured something like that had happened. I think your great-aunt might have reported it a little better than your mother, to be honest.” The promise of going back is still hoped for, but his failure to address it cause it to flicker. For a few horrible moments, you wonder if you poured your heart out for no reason at all. But then he addresses it. “Truth be told, having you come back here wasn’t your mother’s call. That’s something that’s up to me. And while I probably would have done the same as her, you should have called me.” You suppress the urge to tell him he probably wouldn’t pick up his phone. “However, after hearing from your great-aunt, I’m beginning to think that she may be right.” He gets up and walks over to your window, wearing a troubled expression.
“About what?”
“About your home being with them. It wasn’t an easy thing to hear, but it sounded like you really found a place with them. And as for here,” he gestures to the house, “I know it isn’t the best home. I, um.” He stops, trying to find the strength to go on. “I know I haven’t always been there for you. In fact, I’ve missed out on a pretty good chunk of your life.” He looks into your eyes, all the practicing of this conversation failing him now. “What I’m trying to say is, I know I haven’t been a very good father. And I know what your mother can be like. So, since you’ve only got a few months before you’re a fully-fledged adult, I don’t see anything wrong with letting you stay down there. I expect you’d be moving out on your 18th anyway, and I don’t see any point in keeping you here any more than you want to.”
For a moment, you don’t say anything. All you can do is stare up at him in shock. No way is this happening to you. He seems to understand your reaction somewhat, giving a weak nod. At that little affirmation, the dream come true, you dash forward and give you father a voluntary hug for the first time in a long time. Your dad had resigned himself to a life without a son, and so didn’t expect any kind of affection from you. Upon the grateful squeeze, he laughs softly, and tentatively returns the embrace. It ends a moment later, both parties happy for the gifts given them. Then he stands up, brushing off his pants and clearing his throat.
“Alright. Well, I’ll go give them a call and tell them you’re up for it.” The moment he leaves, you reach down and pick up the pillow, squeezing it tight. You’re going back! You’re going back! Unable to contain one iota of excitement, you leap off you bed and engage in the silliest dancing you’d ever done. You pump your arms in a cheerleader-like victory, offering silent ‘Woo!s” to the room. You’re going back! You take the edges of the pillow and start doing a makeshift two-part dance with it, the same kind of swing you’d done with Apple Bloom in the park. You’re going back! Another few leaps of joy bring your energy low enough to realize you’d left your phone off. What if they tried to talk to you? You dive over to the drawer with your phone in it and extract it. Turning it on, you find more than a few messages left from strange numbers. The first of each announces their names as AJ, Apple Bloom, and even Big Mac. You read them all, texting back Big Mac and AJ, then preparing to call Apple Bloom. Before you can hit “call,” a text from your father comes through:
“They’re coming up tomorrow to get you.” Muting another victorious cheer, you go back to Apple Bloom’s number and hit ‘call.’
“Anon?”
“I’m coming back!” She gives a girlish scream in response, prompting you to hold the phone away from your ear for a moment.
“No way!”
“Yeah! My dad just said I could!” You can barely talk through your smile, which stretches from ear to ear. It almost hurts to be this happy.
“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh! When are you coming over?” Her excitement is palpable, and you can tell that her smile is just as wide as yours. You tell her you’re coming over tomorrow, and she immediately begins telling you everything you’re gonna do with her over the summer. The way she lists everything makes it sound like she’s planned this before, and merely reciting it now. You can’t remember what made you shut off your phone, remove yourself from that beautiful voice. The notes work their way deep within you, the silver bells the most perfect music you’d ever heard. Each word brings you a deeper peace, granting you a fullness you’d never felt before now. For now, there was no threat of losing her: you were going to be with her, and nothing was gonna stop you. She tells you all the plans she’s made during the summer, and your schedule begins to grow with activities you can hardly wait for. Swimming in the old swimming hole, meeting Sweetie Belle’s sister, going camping at a nearby forest, maybe even trying something they call Mooncider. Your heart beats so quickly, the moment still seeming like some thin dream to be popped in a moment. The minutes fly by, your heart soaring above the clouds and resting the brilliant sunshine of her words. You can barely concentrate on what she says with how excited you are, the feeling going beyond any kind of high. The sweet tones of your favorite girl start to lull you to sleep, the daydreams of a future spent with the Apples nearly becoming true dreams. Then she has to go, citing an early morning ordered by AJ. You bid her a goodnight, and tell her you love her.
“I love you too.” And then the click signals her departure. Inside, you’re about to explode with joy. Immediately you start over to your dresser, tossing great heaps of clothes on your bed. You sprint downstairs to the laundry room and pick up two big suitcases, then rush upstairs just as fast. In a rush greater than any dose of candy could give you, you fill it up with everything you’d need, then set them by the door. You’ve still got way more energy than you know what to do with. There’s not much you can do, so you just collapse on your bed and play some video games. It’s nothing more than a placeholder, something to bring you from one moment to the next. But for now, that’s completely fine. All you want is for tomorrow to come. Eventually the excitement wears off, the resulting crash leaving you sleeping with a Venusaur shining brightly on your chest, waiting for instruction.
You wake up in a daze, still not fully cognizant, but still noticing some weight lifted off you. When you get out of bed to brush your teeth, you notice the packed suitcases at your door. A new rush and ecstasy blows through you upon the recollection of yesterday’s events. The majority of the day is filled with restlessness, playing video games while glancing at the window every few seconds. The continual lack of Apples in your driveway is distressing, each failure of them to appear creating a sinking feeling in your gut. It’s not anything major, just a small voice telling you that they won’t show, that it’s not gonna happen. You struggle to fight it off, sacrificing the day’s hours to your games with as little thought as possible given to it. Every nerve feels like its lit up with energy, even after hours of waiting. Occasional trips for food are unwillingly taken when the hunger pangs grow stronger than the need to keep your driveway in view. Each time you pop something in the microwave, and rush back upstairs when it’s over. The electricity within you never fades completely, the image of Apple Bloom always starting you back up whenever you’ve grown somewhat complacent. And then, right after coming back from the bathroom, there’s a van in your driveway. Voices from below report of your dad’s presence, along with AJ and Granny Smith. Still no sound of your favorite cousin of all. You speed downstairs, and engulf AJ the moment she enters your sight. She returns the gesture, squeezing you for all you’re worth. Once she lets go, you can see her huge smile, happier than you’d ever seen her. You turn to Big Mac, and offer him a firm handshake. Even though you feel more vibrant and energetic than ever before, you still manage to refrain from hugging the guy; he’s definitely not that kinda guy. Instead, you grin and vigorously shake his hand:
“Welcome to the Big Apple, Big Mac.” He responds to the hearty handshake, chuckling softly at the terrible pun. Before you can do anything more, he pulls your hand and wraps you in the burliest hug ever. It ends after one bone-crushing moment, the big lug laughing at the pained sounds you’d made. Unable to hold off, you ask where the other members are.
“Where’s Granny? And, uh, Apple Bloom?” You try not to forget the former in all your excitement to see the latter.
“Granny’s staying home; travelin’ ain’t too good for her. And Apple Bloom’s out back, waiting for you.” Rocketing out the back door, you see Apple Bloom standing by one of the young oak trees. You looked at Apple Bloom as if for the first time. The teenage girl couldn’t have been more than a couple feet away, one or the both of you closing the distance without notice. It was her eyes that caught yours, the first aspect to capture you. They were large, the wide, inimitable position that accompanies honest hope. The color wasn’t yellow, not quite; the hue was darker, but the shining, naked excitement that made its home in those eyes brought out a gleaming gold to them. Within those sparkling amber pools resides two dilated pupils aimed directly at you. The pale white encircling the hypnotizing circles, by some trick of the eye, seemed to borrow the light hues of the gold within and tan without. The eye itself was carefully and exquisitely lined with the thinnest black trim and curled lashes barely accentuated, the light makeup providing a perfect frame for her perfect eyes. Staring into the two perfect globes, you felt as if you had met some molten image of an Egyptian God, the sandy tones recalling a stylized drawing of Cleopatra. Only these eyes were not bound by the haughty half-glare of the proud ruler, but the open, embracing gaze of a friend. As she continued her responding stare, the open, almost awestruck form of her eyes settled into a more elliptical shape, crinkled at the edges, as a great grin crossed her face.
Your sight lingered on those royal visions before slowly falling to the nose below. The perfection of a nose had never been a subject to cross your mind, your interests lying aside the sphere of art. But here you found what you would call such, the small, adorable nose shocking you with an appreciation for a usually overlooked aspect. The sides and lower edges did not have the deep inclines that framed craggier, harder faces. Instead, her soft, pale skin transitioned seamlessly into the smooth nose, speckled with little brown freckles.
The thin, creased lines framing the ends of her cheek, accentuated by her full smile, pointed towards the sides. These drew your attention to the full cheeks, raised by the abundant ecstasy written on her entrancing countenance. They held a faint rosy tinge, perhaps from a blushing confession of her happiness to see you, perhaps from a touch of rouge in preparation for your reunion, perhaps both. They were almost puffy, two rounded orbs pushing out. But these enhanced the childish innocence and perfection of her face, rather than making any detraction. This was not the emaciated face of a camera-distorted model, warped into something impossible; this was the face of a real girl, a living girl. These were the warm, thick cheeks of a healthy young girl, the kind you could embrace and kiss, and who could do the same for you rather than sitting frozen on a page.
Looking to the sides of her face, you noticed the slightly larger ears poking out of the thick hair that fell alongside her plump cheeks. They were relatively big, not massive, but still more than expected; this bothered you little, the slight imperfection only confirming the reality of the vision before you. She looked down for a moment, brushing the hair on her right side behind her ear. The lobe at the bottom was unattached, and held a small hole, earrings foregone for this event. Pulling yourself away from the suddenly present image of brushing her hair back yourself and placing your lips on that dangling skin, the silken strands themselves fall into notice.
The brilliant crimson of her hair was revealed in full as it bathed in the light of the evening sun. The thick curls, turned into ringlets for this occasion, bounced at any motion of her head. The undulating shadows cast by other threads created differences in the complex patterns, a range of dark pink to deep crimson emerging in the diversity of illumination. The thick spirals settled one on top of another, swirling like the wind of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. It flowed down both sides her head, alighting softly onto mostly bare shoulders. A heavy bundle of twirling reds keeps falling onto her spotless forehead, noticed and brushed away in moments, then falling back no sooner than it takes for her to have faith in its stay.
Moving downward, the crimson mouth arrests your attention like her eyes did. Her mouth was small from side to side, yet could still stretch widely to grant you the massive smile she now had on. The lips themselves were moderately large, still looking puffy during the smile. You could see that she’d colored them a deeper kind of pink, not the passionate crimson from your date. Still, the shiny curves beckoned you, the smooth “m” of the top setting your heart aflutter. Visions of your thumb sliding across that perfect red line, your own lips falling towards them cloud your mind; had you been alone, you would have recreated that moment here and now. Instead, you take a step back, intending to say something, but instead falling under the spell of the rest of the sweet country girl.
She wears a small red dress, the color matching that of her irises. Thin straps, about half an inch wide, hug the tops of her shoulders, hiding beneath that glowing red hair. It’s lined thinly with white, and goes down to mid-thigh, flaring out just a bit after the waistline. Below this you can see tight white shorts hugging her legs to just above the knees, the shapely forms beneath evident. Over the waistline, she wears a little white belt with a golden buckle. The dress itself isn’t form-fitting, but is close enough to see the curves of her little tummy and the push of her fair breasts against it. Tall white socks reach close to her knee, ending in ruby red shoes to rival Dorothy’s.
She stands just beside a tree, whose shadow blocks the full deluge of the setting sun. The sunshine is cut by the curved trunk of the mighty tree. As such the light fell on half her body, the other half lit only by reflections of the former rays. The two parts, shining and glowing, were partitioned diagonally, starting at her right ear and ending just above her left knee, with the higher part being the shaded area. It was just so that you could see the skin of her left shoulder and arm aglow, the golden hue matching her eyes in color and gleam.
She was beautiful.
This was the girl that was so full of life, she could be mistaken for some deific incarnation of life itself. Her every smile sang like the birds of the morning, the glint of her eyes shining with the brightness and hope of a young child. With every motion she seemed to radiate with energy, the forward momentum of a carefree nature or a determined young man. She was electric, like a bolt of lightning. Only she stayed. She was here, and she was present. Though she was so much, so beautiful and so full of life, she was just as human as you or anyone else was. And that only made her more so! She was not some abstract theory, some ideal dreamed by a poet or a superman created in the furrowed brow of a philosopher., She was a real girl, a living, breathing beauty that you could touch and hold and kiss and love!
This was the girl healed you, mended you. And though you weren’t perfect, it was as if a bandage had been placed over your heavy wounds. The first steps to healing, so desperately needed after years of being untended, laid ragged on the side of the road. But though so long had passed, and so many had passed you by, one had finally come to you. And that gentle girl, the healer who had noticed you, had been perfect. The streams of anger and hurt still ran in you, but the turbulence had largely fallen; the roar had become a groan, occasionally a whisper. And as you look inside yourself, you know that it was going to be alright. You’re on the mend. But no way would you allow this to be one-sided. True, she just didn’t have issues so raw and vile, but there were problems for her that were just as important. You are going to do whatever you can to protect that smile; you never really thought of yourself as that important or interesting, but you had the willpower going for you, and that’s something to trust in. She picked you; you are going to live up to that, and earn your appointment. Looking into those eyes, those that set your heart on fire, you foresee a challenge in your future to never let her down. And you won’t.
The silent gazing continues, the smiles slowly fading; not for any loss of happiness, but for a new, more intimate kind. Your eyes meet, almost somber looks taking into the importance of this moment and each other. How long had you known this girl who had touched you so thoroughly? Barely a week ago, you’d been hanging by a thread, a patchwork Frankenstein waiting for the one thread to break, followed by an instantaneous unraveling. And then the Apples had come into your life, piecing you back together. AJ and Granny Smith had helped you, you’d even developed a solid, though distant, relationship with the silent Big Mac. But Apple Bloom was the one who’d pursued you, who taken and healed you to such a degree. You wished vainly that your quiet gaze could show her how much she meant to you, how much you cared, and how thankful you were. You doubted it; but you were going to be this girl’s steed, knight, cousin, friend, and whatever else she needed to make her life complete. It wasn’t just that you owed her, but that you wanted to; this girl deserved the best, and you were going to be the one that makes sure she gets it.
As you stand looking at her, for almost a minute, you remember the others inside. Your gaze falters, turning from your gorgeous cousin to the door. Perhaps you should re-enter, start packing or saying goodbye. But as your eyes return from the door to your cousin, it’s evident her eyes haven’t left you since she’d first begun looking at you. No, you won’t. This is the person you want to, need to be with right now. And this is the girl you’re going to be with right now.
Her arms raise, a jerky movement showing the restraint she’d placed upon it, into an empty pre-embrace. She smiles crookedly as she offers a hug, not being familiar with this kind of moment, and deciding a hug is the best way to resolve the sad look in her cousin’s eyes. She was right. Without hesitation you closed the distance, your legs lowering so your arms might go below hers. In place, you hug her tightly, then extend your bent legs, lifting the girl into the air. She lets out a cute “eep!” and buries her head into your neck. Not finished yet, you lift your left leg up and rotate it 90 degrees, then begin spinning her counterclockwise, pivoting on your feet. Her legs float up as you increase your speed, enough to make the excited girl laugh at the unforeseen display of affection. You join her, throwing your head back and laughing.
As you slow, and set her down, she leans into you, still grinning and giggling. But hey, you’re grinning like an idiot too. Looking down at the girl holding onto you, the good news finally catches up with you, engulfing you in the purest joy you’d felt in years. For it wasn’t just the joy of connection with your family, your real family, it was freedom. The whole trip, there’d been this fog hanging over you, never too far from the back of your mind; it constantly reminded you: “you’re still going back. You still belong to the Oranges.” But now that cloud was broken, a future expanding out before you. You were going back to the Apples. You belonged to the Apples. Even if your last name remained, it didn’t matter. Looking into the gorgeous eyes of Apple Bloom, you knew what you were when it came down to it.
You were an Apple, to the core.