Chapter 3
“Morning, Rapid,” I sad as the heavy-lidded eight years old slumped at the table. I rubbed his back and dropped a kiss on his head. He’d been Rapidfire ever since he was a baby. What can I say? That child has something funky with his digestive system. A word to the wise: stay upwind.
Rapidfire blinked up at me, his gorgeous blue eyes round and trusting. “What’s for breakfast?” he asked, sitting up. His fine red hair stuck up all over the place reminding me of a fledgling’s downy feathers.
“Um. It’s a surprise,” I said since I had no idea.
“I’ll pour juice,” Rapidfire offered, and my heart melted. He was such a sweet, sweet kid, and so was his little sister. He and six-year-old Fluttershy were the only blood-related siblings among us, but we were all family anyway.
Soon Spitfire, tall and tan, slouched into the kitchen. Eyes closed, she fell onto our beat-up couch with perfect aim. The only time she has trouble being blind is when one of us forgets and moves the furniture or something.
“Hey, Spit, rise, and shine, I said.
“Bite me”, she replied sleepily.
“Fine,” I said. “Miss breakfast.”
I was looking in the fridge with naive hope - maybe the food fairies had come- when the back of my neck prickled. I straightened quickly and spun around.
“Will you quit that?” I said.
Soarin always appeared silently like that, out of nowhere, like a dark shadow come to life. He regarded me calmly, dressed and alert. His dark, overlong hair brushed back. He was four months younger than me but already four inches taller. “Quit what?”, he asked calmly. “Breathing?”
I rolled my eyes. “You know what”
With a grunt, Spitfire staggered upright. “I’ll make eggs,” she announced. I guess if I was more of a fembot, it would bother me that a blind guy six months younger than I am, could cook better than me.
But I’m not. So it didn’t.
I surveyed the kitchen. Breakfast was well underway. “Soarin? You set up the table. I’ll go get Fleetfoot and Fluttershy.”
The two girls shared the last small bedroom. I pushed the door open to find eleven-year-old Fleetfoot asleep, tangled up in her covers. She was barely recognizable with her mouth shut, I thought wryly. When she was awake, we call it the Fleet Channel: all Fleetfoot, all the time.
“Hey, sweetie; up and at ‘em,” I said, gently shaking her shoulder, “Breakfast in ten.”
Fleetfoot blinked, her light blue eyes struggling to focus on me. “Wha?” she mumbled.
“Another day,” I said. “Get up and face it”.
Groaning, Fleetfoot levered herself in a crumpled but technically upright position.
Across the room, a thin curtain concealed one corner. Fluttershy always liked small cozy places. Her bed, tucked behind the curtain, was like a nest - full of stuffed animals, books, most of her clothes. I smiled and pulled the curtain back.
“Hey, you’re already dressed,” I said, leaning over to hug her.
“Hi, Rainbow,” Fluttershy said, tugging her pink curls out of her collar “Can you do my buttons?”
“Yep.” I turned her around and started doing her up.
I never told the others, but I just loved, loved, loved, Fluttershy. Maybe because I’ve been taking care if her practically since she was a baby. Maybe because she was incredibly sweet and loving herself.
“Maybe because I’m like your little girl,” said Fluttershy, turning around to look at me. “But, don’t worry, Rainbow. I won’t tell anybody. Besides, I love you best too. She threw her skinny arms around me and planted a somewhat sticky kiss on my cheek. I hugged her back, hard. Oh, yeah - there’s another special thing about Fluttershy.
She can read minds.