//------------------------------// // Chapter Seven: In Which a Late Night Conversation is Held // Story: A Blank Canvas // by Bardsworth Brony //------------------------------// By the third day of applebucking season, Sketch felt as if he had been doing it his entire life. His days consisted of nothing except bucking tree after tree after tree. He wasn't sure how the Apple family could still eat apples consistently; he was pretty sure he could live a full and happy life without ever seeing an apple ever again. He was getting closer to being able to knock all the apples out of a tree in one buck, though. It took him two or three tries on average, but every now and then he'd get in one hearty kick and apples would rain down around him. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to bask in the glory of these occasions, as he needed to gather them all up and get them into a basket, and then move on to the next tree. Applejack was somehow able to get the apples to fall right into the baskets below the tree, but Sketch was pretty sure he was quite a long way away from being able to do that. At some point in the afternoon – Sketch had learned to stop trying to keep track of the time – Applejack appeared, looking just as tired as Sketch felt. "Take a breather, sugar cube," she said. "Yer doin' a great job, but ah don't want ya burnin' out." "Thanks," Sketch said, stretching his legs and then his neck. He shook off his overcoat, reveling in the cool autumn air against his hot skin. He was about to ask Applejack about her day when he caught her staring at him. "Something wrong?" he asked, checking himself over. "Hmm?" she blinked and met his eyes, then blushed. "Oh, uh, no. Ah was, uh… ah was just noticin' that you're building up some nice muscles." Her blush deepened. "I should hope so," Sketch quipped, but blushed as well at the compliment. The two rested in the shade of the last apple tree that Sketch had bucked. It was nice to feel the blood flowing in his legs again, and he stretched them once more. He glanced over at Applejack and she seemed lost in her own thoughts. Not wanting to interrupt, Sketch just leaned back against the tree and let his mind wander. Finally, Applejack spoke up. "Ah have to say, Sketch, you may be years from bein' the best applebucker ah've ever seen, but you sure as sugar are the hardest worker ah've ever seen. And that includes me." Sketch smiled. "Thanks. But I'm just doing my job." "You're givin' it yer hardest, like you said ya' would, and then some. That's not just doin' yer job, that's goin' above and beyond." Sketch blushed again, feeling Applejack's compliments warm him. "And I gotta say, ah was a bit nervous at the beginnin'." "Nervous?" "Well, ah was hirin' an artist to do this job. Can't say I expected then what yer givin' now." Suddenly the warmth drained from Sketch and years of criticisms and insults came bubbling up from the depths of his mind, smothering him and choking his breath. Images of his parents' faces flashed in front of him, their eyes hard and disapproving. A familiar anxiety caused his blood to go cold. He tensed up and when he spoke it was with a flat, emotionless voice. "So because I'm an artist you thought I was useless." "What? No, ah didn't say-" "You don't need to say it, Applejack. Everypony thinks it. I… I had hoped you were different, but I guess that was just wishful thinking on my part." Sketch stood and began putting his coat back on, fighting a lump that wanted to rise in his throat. Applejack stood as well, a worried look plastered on her face. "Sketch, ah didn't mean-" "I should to get back to work." With that Sketch headed to the next batch of trees that needed to be bucked. There was a buzzing in his ears, and his insides twisted and turned. He knew Applejack was watching him walk away, but for once he didn't want to see her eyes. *** Sketch skipped dinner that night, unwilling to come face-to-face with Applejack. He didn't have an appetite at that point anyway. Instead, he moped in his room, trying not to think about what Applejack had said, but failing miserably. He had genuinely thought she was different from every other pony he had met, but it seemed that everypony had the same opinion - artists were useless and didn't serve much more purpose than to be the ones that society could laugh at and ridicule. By the time his appetite had returned it was the middle of the night. Once he was sure everypony was asleep he quietly made his way down to the kitchen. There, in the icebox, was a plate of food wrapped up, and he knew instantly that it had been left for him. Emotionally conflicted, but more so hungry, he took the food and made his way into the dining room, where Apple Bloom was sitting at the table. The times that Sketch had gone off at night to work in his studio, he had seen Apple Bloom either getting a late-night snack or a glass of water. She apparently made a habit of it, and the two of them would chit-chat a bit or just smile at each other and be on their way. Tonight, however, the filly had her forelegs crossed on the table, her head resting on them, and she was looking glum. "Hey, little sis," Sketch said in a soft voice, using the nickname he had given her after their first late-night encounter. "Hey, big bro," she responded without moving. "What's wrong?" he asked, taking a seat at the table. "Nothin'." "Come on." She sighed. "You know ah told ya about me and mah friends, the Cutie Mark Crusaders?" "Yeah." "We were at it again today. Ya know, tryin' to make our cutie marks appear. And like always it didn't work. It's just got me down, is all. Ah feel like ah'm never gonna get my cutie mark." "For what it's worth, I used to feel the same way," Sketch said, taking a bite of cold mushroom stroganoff. "I waited a long time for my cutie mark to appear, too." "Ah don't think ah've ever actually seen yer cutie mark," the filly said, her head perking up. "Yer always wearin' that coat of yers." "Well, I'm not wearing it now." Sketch stood up and turned to the side. "I'm not sure if you can see it since it's so dark in here." "Ah can see it. It's a paintbrush with some green paint on the tip." Sketch sat back down and Apple Bloom sat up straight. "So how'd you get it?" "That's a long story…" "So eat slow." She grinned at him and he couldn't help but laugh. "Fair enough. Well, I've told you all about Whinnypeg, right? I probably don't need to mention that from the very beginning I never fit in. It made it difficult for me to figure out exactly what I would be good at so that my cutie mark would appear, since I didn't have anyone to help me out like you and your friends are doing for each other. "When I was just about your age, maybe a little older, my parents took me to Canterlot. They had been invited to an art gallery installation by the artist Artsy Brushstroke. They didn't go for the art, of course, they just went to hobnob with the other important ponies there, and they brought me thinking that some of that atmosphere would rub off on me. It actually turned out to be the biggest mistake of their lives. "After dragging me around from pony to pony for nearly two hours, I managed to escape and went off on my own. I took some time to finally look at the artwork that was being shown. Are you familiar with Artsy Brushstroke's work?" Apple Bloom shook her head. "He did some very surreal stuff. The work that was being shown that night was a series of paintings depicting ponies in absurd settings and situations. Things like a pony reading a newspaper and holding an umbrella while it rained inside. Or a pony having breakfast, only the table was on the ceiling." "I studied each painting closely, taking in all the details. Finally, as I looked at a painting of a pony grooming himself in front of a bathroom mirror in the jungle, I made a connection and it was like a lightning bolt struck me! I began to laugh out loud, startling a few of the ponies nearby. Then a voice behind me asked what was so funny. "'It's them,' I said, without looking away from the painting. 'It's who?' the voice asked. 'Them,' I said, waving a hoof at the ponies in the room, still distracted by the artwork in front of me. 'It's like a big practical joke on them because they don't get it.' 'But you do,' the pony behind me said again. 'Well, it's good to know that someone gets my work, even if it is the youngest pony in the room.'" Apple Bloom gasped and then covered her mouth and giggled. "It was him, wasn't it?" Sketch smiled and touched the tip of his nose with a hoof. "I turned around slowly and saw the biggest pony I've ever seen, with the exception of your brother. He had blue hair, a long red mane, and a goatee. He also had a big grin on his face. 'So what exactly is the point I'm trying to get across?' he asked me." "By that point I was nervous, but I managed to tell him, 'Each one of the ponies you painted is rich-looking and oblivious, but in a ridiculous setting. You're saying that to them their lives are normal, when people like you and me see their lives as absurd and silly.' His grin got even bigger and he nodded. He asked me if I had an interest in art, and I told him that I drew a lot. He said he wanted to see my work and gave me his address to mail it to. I was speechless, but ecstatic." Sketch took the final few bites of his cold dinner and pushed the plate away, leaning back. Apple Bloom had her forelegs on the table, her head resting on her hooves, ready to hear the rest. "When I got home I gathered the best drawings I had done, wrote up a letter, and sent it all to Artsy. In a few weeks time I got a response. He had returned the drawings to me with a letter stating his opinion on them." "Did he like 'em?" "Nope. He told me they were terrible." It took a moment for Apple Bloom to realize that Sketch wasn't joking. "Terrible? Why, that's an awful thing to say!" Her voice rose a bit too high and Sketch shushed her. "I thought so at first, too. I was crushed. But he continued on, telling me why he thought they were terrible, and that despite how bad they were he could see a lot of potential in me. After reading that, I found myself wanting to grab my pad and pencil, and to start drawing and never stop. Then I felt a tingle on my flank and when I checked it, my cutie mark had shown up. "Later on when I discussed it with Artsy, he told me my cutie mark appeared not because I found something I was good at, as I obviously wasn't yet, but because it was something that I wanted to do even though I wasn't good at it. It was something that I would work hard at in order to become good at. He said that I probably would have come to that conclusion eventually, but that he decided to be honest with me in order to push me towards it faster. Artsy was very big on honesty. One of the most important lessons he gave me was that artists should always be honest because it's their job to depict the truth, and you can't depict the truth if you aren't honest." He stopped cold, a realization washing over him in a suffocating wave. Applejack's words from that afternoon popped into his head. She had been honest with him and he had shut down because he hadn't wanted to hear it. What was worse was that he had accepted the positive things she had said about his working hard, but he had reacted poorly to her honesty about her initial feelings about him. There was no picking and choosing when it came to the truth; it was all or nothing. How could he possibly preach honesty and truth if he couldn't accept it from others? "Sketch? Sketch, you all right?" Apple Bloom was waving her hoof in front of Sketch's face. "Yeah, I'm…" He sighed. "No, I'm not. I'm a rotten friend." "Is this about you 'n Applejack." "Yeah. Did she tell you what happened?" "Uh-uh, but she was really quiet at suppertime and since you weren't there ah figured you two got into a fight'r somethin'." "No no, nothing like that. She just… she said something and I reacted badly. Only now I realize that she was just being honest and I didn't see it for what it was, just what I thought it was at the time. How could I have been so stupid?" "Don't worry, Sketch. She'll forgive ya. She's good like that." "I hope so. I'd hate to have ruined my relationship with her." Sketch became silent for a moment and then saw Apple Bloom grinning at him. "What?" "Nothin'," she said and giggled. Then she made a face. "Oof, watchin' you eat made me hungry." "Well, I'll tell you what – I'm wide awake right now, so if I can find all the ingredients in the kitchen, I'll bake you up some sugar cookies." "You know how to bake?" Sketch nodded. "My mother used to be the head chef in the kitchen of one of the hotels my father owned. I may not have seen eye-to-eye with my mom, but I learned a few things from her." "How come you've never cooked for us?" Apple Bloom asked as they made their way into the kitchen. "Because either your sister or Granny Smith beats me to it every time." He stopped. That gave him an idea… But first things first. "All right, you go grab the flour, sugar, and baking powder, and I'll grab the butter and eggs. And be as quiet as you can!" Apple Bloom gave him a salute and bounded off to the pantry. Sketch just shook his head and smiled. Late night secret cookie baking… his life had certainly gotten interesting. *** "What in tarnation…? Sketch, what are you doin' up this early?" Applejack walked into the kitchen, yawning. It was one of the few times Sketch had seen her without her hat on or her mane tied into a ponytail. The long hair hung loose, mussed from a night's sleep, and framed her face in such a way that Sketch found himself staring. Tearing his gaze away from her and back to the stove, he answered simply, "Cooking breakfast." "How long have you been up?" "All night, actually." "All night?!" He shrugged and responded without turning around, "I'm not sure I would have been able to sleep even if I tried." He finished up and dumped the contents of the frying pan into a serving bowl, then turned around looked Applejack in the eye. "Applejack, I… I'm sorry. I acted like a complete pony's patoot yesterday. I had a knee-jerk reaction to your comment about me being an artist. It brought up some bad memories." "Ah never should've said it, Sketch." "No, I'm glad you did," he said, giving her a small smile. "What you said was true – you had no reason to believe that I would have been any good at applebucking, or any kind of physical job for that matter. And the ironic thing is that I got mad at you for taking a stereotypical view of artists, when I displayed the stereotypical oversensitivity of an artist. Anyway, I just wanted to apologize and I thought maybe making breakfast was a small way of doing that." Applejack walked forward and kissed Sketch on the cheek, surprising him. "Apology accepted. But you didn't need to go through all the trouble, sugar cube. All ya had to do was say the words." He blushed, and the spot where she had kissed him tingled pleasantly. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Well then, what if I said that I wanted to cook for you?" "Then ah'd say ah'm pleased as punch to let you. What're we havin'?" "Asparagus omelets with hollandaise sauce, warm apple compote with raisins, and corn muffins." "Mah goodness, that's quite a meal. How come you never told me you could cook?" "You've been keeping me too busy applebucking. Oh, and there's some sugar cookies on the counter." Applejack raised an eyebrow and Sketch just shrugged. "Long story."