I sat silent in my Subaru on the long ride home, struggling to clear my mind of the disappointment I'd received. But there was still a bigger disappointment – to tell my friend the sad reality that her hopes were totally dashed. I turned into the driveway, cut the engine, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
Kicking off my shoes, I ran upstairs, where I found Fleetfoot in "her" bedroom reading as usual. I opened the door and sat down, a solemn look over my face.
"Did he...reject it?" she asked worriedly, already picking up on my body language.
"Yeah," was all that came out of my mouth, as I heaved a shallow sigh.
"I don't get what's up with these... humans being so resentful and mean to anything that's not normal for them," Fleetfoot snarled, her voice thick with fury.
"But maybe things are better this way," I replied calmly, trying to reconcile her raised flare. "At least you keep a low profile out of the public eye. I'll be preparing a quick snack for myself. Dinner's in the fridge, when you're hungry you can reheat it, okay?"
Fleetfoot just mumbled and continued reading her book as I slowly backed away from the door. My heart sank as if I'd dropped a couple pebbles into the bottom of it. As much as I had to respect the orders of my flight troop leader, I felt as if I'd let my best friend down by not properly standing up to Shane. But the wise words of my mom rang clear again: "Arguing leads to conflict and trust breaks."
I sat in silence at the small wooden dining table, thinking over how to get Fleetfoot to be happy again and to see the positive side to not being part of the Air Force flight training team. Then again, telling someone that not helping a team leader out would not sound morally correct at all.
I slid my empty plate into the kitchen sink, gave it a quick rinse, then dashed back upstairs to my room. In my iPhone's Notes app, I added "Be proper and positive at work" to the list and bolded the font. Then I changed into my work uniform and ran back down the steps, heading for the front door.
Upon arriving at the post office, I'd finally gotten Fleetfoot's sad and displeased face off my mind... temporarily. I was certain it'd return sooner or later. Straightening out my mail-man cap, I opened the back door and walked down the hallway, straight for John's office.
"Well, well, well," he began with his mock-gruff face. "How pleasant it is to have you back in the shuffling and sending league again."
"Here's your bag," he said, handing me a large flat-sided blue duffel.
"Thanks, Mr. John," I replied respectfully, taking the mail bag from him.
Getting back into the swing of the job's routine wasn't that hard – I took the occasional short shift in case a letter sorter had to leave work early, and I sorted stacks of mail and packages according to certain properties, then drove out to designated residential districts to deliver them.
"Hi, Ashley!" I called out, entering the mail sorting room with my bag slung over my wrist and a wide grin on my face.
"Oh, hi Brian! Glad to have you back!" she replied with an even prettier smile. Ashley was the head mail sorter, and always loved to have several workers around her, negotiating and coordinating to complete whatever tasks John assigned her and her colleagues. She loved working with me, particularly because she'd had a hard labor life prior in her working life. As she and I along with two other mail sorters began sorting all the mail and classifying them by certain criteria – such as ZIP code, city ward, and city – Ashley kept looking at me in an awkward way, and twice I could've sworn she was blushing.
"What the heck girl?" I muttered silently, rifling my fingers through a four-inch high stack of envelopes to make sure they were all properly sorted. "Are you trying to flirt but too shy to ask or what?"
It took all my self-control not to shake my head. I knew Ashley was friendly and all, but it seemed too excessive and unnecessary of her to act in such a way. So when we finished the sorting, I called her out.
"Hey Ashley?"
She turned and gave me an appealing look, like a dog waiting for its dish of food. "Yes?"
I bit back a sigh and smoothly let all the words out. "For the past thirty-five minutes of sorting mail, you've been constantly looking at me more than usual. Was there something important you needed to tell me but felt too shy to say so? Spill it. I won't judge."
Ashley's eyes fell, and I felt like I'd offended her. But she spoke anyway. "Um, it's nothing, really."
I gave a nod – a teeny, tiny nod. She'd gone for the usual runaway option, which, to be honest, was expected. I wouldn't be so soft about it later, though.
"Okay then," I replied, picking up a stack of mail and slipping it into my bag. Some of the other workers handed me a few more, and I organized them in the bag properly. With a friendly good-bye wave to Ashley, I stepped outside, where, to my surprise, John was waiting – in front of a white Ford Transit.
"This is your delivery van," he said, handing me a rather simple-looking key fob. "Be sure to return the key to my office after your delivery shift is finished. The packaging employees will be arriving shortly to stock the van. Have a safe drive, Brian."
"Thanks, Mr. John," I replied with a nod and smile, already unlocking the van's doors.
While I waited for the packages to arrive, I decided to check out the Transit's interior. The seats felt very comfortable, though not as good as the Bride seats in my Subaru. But the central digital display and the overall layout was very good – so good it made Whiz's interior look old and somewhat outdated.
I pushed the key into the ignition and started it up, taking note of all the dashboard details and the shifter location. After so many highway pulls and constant downshifts in my own car, it looked like I'd have a hard time adjusting to using an automatic transmission.
The shipping handlers arrived, pushing heavy-lift trolley carts stacked with packages. I got out and together they and I loaded up the van, making sure that small, light and fragile items were placed on top of bulkier, heavier packages. At last, all was ready, and I drove off... or at least attempted to. It took a second for me to remember there was no clutch pedal.
Mail delivery wasn't hard at all. Once I knew the routes and the neighborhoods to visit for each set of mail and packages, I noted all the house numbers and delivered each set of envelopes, bubble mail wraps, and packages to the designated addresses.
As I neared the last of my deliveries, my phone rang. It was my home phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Brian," came a bleak voice, and I knew it was Fleetfoot. "Just started sorting out the laundry, except I forgot which colors go where."
I was about to facepalm, but stopped myself halfway. I didn't ask her to do laundry, as I'd been worried she wouldn't know how to do it and would end up ruining my precious clothing. Yet here she was, asking for my advice on how to do it. "Make a couple piles – dark colors, light colors, white clothing. Keep the fragile and very flimsy clothing in a separate pile, as those I'll wash by hand, okay?"
"Okay, understood," Fleetfoot replied, trying to sound confident and confirmative.
"Thanks for helping out," I said with a smile. "Love ya. See you later tonight."
Hanging up, I gripped the wheel and sped out of the neighborhood back to the post office.
After my second shift, I hopped back into Whiz's ever-familiar black Bride racing seats, started up the rumbling boxer engine, and drove down the now dark streets back to the one neighborhood I knew the most.
Backing up into the driveway, I trudged outside, heaved up the big heavy metal door, and slowly reversed the car into the garage. With my day's work done, I locked Whiz, locked up the garage, and shuffled inside, my body aching from all the work. It had been a long afternoon and evening.
Fleetfoot had stopped reading and was now gently pushing a laundry basket down the stairs. I couldn't help but smile at her determination as the basket hit a bump and she'd have to quickly stabilize it to avoid it falling.
"Hello," she said with a smile upon noticing my presence.
"Let me help you with that," I replied, taking the laundry basket and heading into the laundry room. Fleetfoot then got the next pile of clothes ready while I readied the washing machine. Adding in the detergent and other washing agents, I noticed a bright yellow stripe sticking out from under the piles of my clothes.
"Even though it's likely washing machine safe, I'll wash this one separately by hand," I told her, holding up the Wonderbolts suit.
While the clothes washed up, I got to work making a quick evening snack for Fleetfoot and I.
We sat outside on the backyard patio, eating sliced peach, drinking cold orange juice and watching the moon and whatever stars we could spot.
"So what's it like in the daily life of a Wonderbolt?" I asked.
"Well," Fleetfoot began, "each one of us gets up at a prescribed time and gets started with the day much like you do. We make our bunk beds neatly, brush our teeth, perform a warm-up exercise routine, chat briefly, and then discuss with Spitfire about our flying plans."
My eyes widened slightly in surprise at the similarities, but I wanted more information. "So, do you just pick a flight route and cook up an aerial plan?"
Fleetfoot shook her head. "Not exactly. When Spitfire receives a message from the Royal Guards in Canterlot—"
"You mean, your capital city where the highest level of monarchy ruling is stationed?" I cut in.
"Yes," Fleetfoot replied, taking a big swig from her pink straw. "Once the message is received about where we as a team are to perform or to engage in defense, Spitfire holds a serious meeting and we formally discuss our flight plans, where we will form a defense strategy, or where we will perform, our speeds and angles, what formations to make at certain aerial focal points..."
"Almost exactly like we do here," I replied, chewing the last of my peaches. "Except we have much more powerful and accurate weaponry to tackle our enemies, of course."
As we continued to chat and share information about flight, military communication systems, the beauty of the moon, and Wonderbolt lifestyle, I thought back onto Shane's firm choice and wondered whether he'd really be that lucky to prove his point of finding a well-oriented and cooperative "human" pilot substitute.