This time, Rarity sat on the stone alone, watching the fillies on the swings and on the roundabout. Moodily, she chewed one of Applejack’s fritters. That particular show-and-tell had been delicious.
I don’t understand it. They loved the painting. Loved it. So… why am I still here? No one’s asked me to join in yet. And where’s Sparkler gone?
Chewing sullenly, she didn’t respond at first to the shadow falling over her. However, she did jump when a voice said, “Uh… can Ah join you?”
“Wha?” Bits of fritter sprayed over the grass. Burning with humiliation, Rarity nodded her head and choked. Strong hooves beat her back.
“There we go.” Applejack sat down on the step while Rarity’s eyes watered. “Huh. Din’t have you down as a gulper. You got an Apple family appetite.”
Rarity stiffened… and then relaxed. No. Surely, trying to push ponies like Applejack away had been the problem from the start?
“One enjoys fine cuisine,” she said. She didn’t actually know what “cuisine” meant. She just wanted to sound gracious.
“You know, when we firs’ met, Ah thought you was just some Canterlot wannabe. Ah shouldn’t have said what Ah said, an’ Ah’m… uh… As much as you were lyin’ a bit… an’ a li’l snobby…”
“Gee. Thanks for that.” Rarity munched on the fritter.
“But… Ah shouldn’t have said them things Ah said. ‘Tweren’t nice. So… Granny says Ah owe you… an… Well… Ah’m s… Uh…” Giving up, she extended a hoof. “No hard feelin’s?”
Rarity swallowed, trying not to make it look or sound like a gulp: not easy when she hadn’t been taking ladylike bites. “I’m not a snob,” she said shortly.
“Well, all the fancy words an’ art an’ stuff… An’ you sayin’ you’re higher than y’are…”
“That’s not my genre. You can’t tell me what I am and what I am not!”
Applejack shot up and snapped, “Take it easy! Ah ain’t makin’ fun o’ you! Sheesh! You don’t want me around, Ah’ll go –”
Panic snapped Rarity’s heart. “No wait! Please! Don’t go. I didn’t mean that.”
Once more, Applejack sat back down. “Huh. You say a lotta things, don’tcha? It’s jus’ you can be such a bratty thing at times.”
“No I can’t! Me? Bratty? The very idea!” Rarity tried a chuckle, not very convincingly.
All the same, she had found that other book last night. The one she tried to hide behind the wardrobe. Didn’t work, of course. Hiding it somehow made it more obvious to her. So instead, she’d spent most of yesterday poring over the hoof-written or mouth-written genealogies and along the photos taped inside.
Canterlot ponies, after all, took a keen interest in pedigree. Family history. Trees. Who was related to whom.
She groaned.
“What’s wrong?” said Applejack gently.
The tears were coming. Pre-emptively, she sniffed. “Maybe I am just a bratty little snob. Maybe I was born to be one.”
“Born? Shucks, Rarity…”
“Will you let me finish?” she snapped.
Stunned, Applejack lowered her would-be comforting forelimb. “OK?”
“I’ll never be a Canterlot noble, will I? My parents are as far away from being nobles as… as… as a pig in a mudhole! There! I said it! I’m going to grow up wearing those horrid shirts and saying those stupid things! I’m going to be sniggered at for the rest of my life!”
“Why?” said Applejack.
Rarity pouted at the ground. “It’s my genre.”
“Ha! You don’t half say the darnedest things!”
“All right, then, it’s my destiny. My nature. My identity. My… me.”
“Oh, that. That’s just poppy talk. You don’t wanna go believin’ that. Ah mean, look at me. Ah come from a long line of apple farmers, but…” She glanced around conspiratorially.
Rarity leaned forwards, fascinated by the “but”. “What?”
Behind a hoof, Applejack whispered, “Ah’m gonna be leavin’ soon. Ah’m headin’ for the s’phisticated life in Manehattan. No apple farmin’ for me. Ah’m choosin’ mah own me.”
“Choosing your own me? I mean, choosing your own you? I mean… But… How?”
“Well, Aunt an’ Uncle Orange do a lot of charity work. So Ah got to thinkin’: maybe they’re onto somethin’. Maybe the best way of doin’ good for others is to think big. Manehattan ponies help all kinds of causes. Ah reckon if Ah wanna do more than feed ponies treats an’ help family round the farm, that’s the next step up. Helpin’ loads of ponies at once!”
“You mean…” Rarity licked her lips at the word. “Philanthropy?”
“Ah mean helpin’ ponies. Givin’ ‘em stuff. Easier to give ‘em stuff in a rich place like Manehattan, with all them ponies around. Right? Somethin’ to think about, eh?”
“Yes… something…”
When Applejack eventually left, Rarity’s mind was ticking away.
After school, Rarity retreated to her room once more. Her piggy bank – or rather her porcine savings account – shook in her grip. Counting the coins, she lit up with hope and then dimmed with disappointment.
Fifty seven bits? That’s nowhere near enough.
Perhaps the gemstones collection would provide? She lunged for the wardrobe and threw the doors back. Cheerfully, she tipped the tray over the carpet.
“So if philanthropy is about having a lot…” Under her breath she counted out the worth of the collection. “Red is one, green is two, purple is five… Oh, it’s still not enough. I need more. More. More! How can I be generous if I don’t have anything to be generous with?”
She looked up and stopped. To her amazement, Sparkler was at the door.
Frowning.
“Um…” Rarity stared. First the blank look, then avoiding her, then frowning in her own home. Rarity’s upbringing shrugged helplessly at her.
When Sparkler eventually spoke, her voice was an icicle. “I never said I wanted to be painted.”
It took a moment for Rarity to remember; her mental imagery had tangled itself up. “Huh? Oh, you mean the painting? Well, I can explain. You see, your face had a delightfully relatable –”
“You didn’t ask if I wanted to be painted.”
Rarity frowned back. “Ask?”
“Yes. Ask. You used me. I thought you cared about me, but you just used me to get popular.”
“Oh, no no no! Ahahaha! You’ve got it wrong, you silly filly. See, it’s a privilege to be painted by an artist. I was doing you a favour. Lots of ponies pay good money for –”
“I hate being painted!” The ice cracked. “And I hate being used!”
Rarity spluttered. The world was cracking around her, and she had no idea why. “But – aren’t we friends?”
“NO!”
Sparkler spun round, and then spun back.
“And you know what the worst part is? Everyone wants to be like you now! You got it into Applejack’s head that the noble thing to do is go off and be a snob!” Tears ran down her cheeks. “You’re the worst friend ever!”
Utterly lost, Rarity gaped at her. Then a thought struck her. Perhaps generosity was missing. Quickly, she levitated one of the gemstones.
“Would you like one?” she said gently.
Sparkler batted it so hard it soared out of the window. Sullenly, she went out.
Hurrying to the window, Rarity held her breath. Not my first friend! Surely not!? Please don’t let it be so… She could see the gemstone where it had landed in the mud.
To her surprise, she saw Sparkler stop on her way past. She saw her look at the gemstone. She saw her pick it up. Twirl it experimentally.
Sparkler left.
A flicker of hope fought for life in Rarity’s chest. Maybe… one day soon…?
But then she caught sight of the painting in the corner. It showed a filly, plain and frumpy around the mane. It showed her peering into a mirror. It showed the reflection, a filly bejewelled and curling elegantly like a well-crafted Princess. Gemstones surrounded the figure. The filly looked into the mirror longingly, sadly, almost hungrily.
Only after staring at the painting for a few minutes did Rarity realize her mistake. She hung her head in shame. She’d seen too much. Shown too much.
She knew without a doubt that Sparkler was never coming back.