By this city’s standards, Sour Sweet’s house was pretty normal. The norm, admittedly, was for a house containing four bedrooms – one a guest room – all the up-to-date tech needed to flawlessly stream the latest crime drama, and a lounge that could’ve been the set for a 90’s sitcom. But it was… home.
As soon as she stepped in, she stumbled under the lunging cuddly-wuddly of her Daddy-Waddy.
“Hewwo, pwecious!” he burbled, kissing her forehead with a “mwah!” “And how’s my widdle sweetie-kins?”
“Get off me.”
“Daddy-Waddy bought a tweat for ’oo.”
“Pfft, whatever.”
“Wook! It’s your fave-wit!”
Grimacing, Sour Sweet looked. In his offered palm, there was a shiny new case for a shiny new game called VR Town 2: Shiny New Streets. According to the sticker, it was suitable for all ages.
She took it as stiffly as she dared and tried to indicate as stiffly as possible that she would bin it as soon as possible.
“See?” Her father pouted: she noticed he was wearing a pink, frilly apron over his evening suit. “Daddy-Waddy always wuvs his pwincess.”
Sour Sweet gagged. “Like an idiot loves a stuffed teddy, maybe.”
“Aw-haw-haw! You’re sooooooo funny!”
What she really hated was the sting when he pinched her cheek. Her dad must have gone insane years ago, which probably explained why he seemed stuck in his daughter’s infant years.
“Now, why did my naughty widdle pixie come home so wate?” he said, tapping her on the nose. “Daddy-Waddy was waiting in his big bad car to take you to horsey-worsey widing, and you never showed up!”
“That’s… because… you… suck!” hissed Sour Sweet.
It was petty, she knew, but five seconds in his choking company made her want to kick. Once upon a time, she’d have felt bad whenever her dad’s lower lip wobbled. That had been sometime before she’d learned her ABCs.
Then her dad’s brain decided that the infantile fantasy made for better viewing and slotted in another roll of film. He laughed: a gurgling giggle that made Sour Sweet’s teeth tense.
“Ohoho, no special pudding-wudding for you, sweetie-kins! Daddy-Waddy will just have to buy you another boring ol’ choccy cake instead.”
From upstairs came a sharp yell. “Shorten Sweet! Are you ready yet!?”
Even Sour Sweet winced. Glass shards scraping against iron would have sounded better.
Her father tore off his apron and hurled it aside; his very tie was pink. “Weady, my wuv!”
“Ugh,” scoffed the woman coming downstairs. “You’re pathetic.”
“Just as ’oo say, pumpkin!”
“Shut it! Don’t you dare even think of talking like that at the party!”
Sparkly red dress swishing around her stiletto heels, royal purple gloves bearing a cigarette-holder as long as a cane, and auburn hair bunched up into an impressive rich mink around her skull-like face, Sour Sweet’s mother swept into the hall, the only housekeeping she would ever do in her life. She looked as though she’d come from a long line of scythes, and her sweeping gaze had much the same effect on her daughter.
A switch flicked in Sour Sweet’s mind. Her dad was little better than bubblegum stuck in her hair, whereas her mother…
“H…” Sour Sweet’s feeble fingers waggled in a weak wave. “Hi, Mommy! I… love-love-loooove that dress you’re wearing!”
Her mother’s sneer scythed at Sour Sweet’s face. “Decided to join us at last? Good thing you don’t work for my company – yet.” Her mother’s tone suggested anything less than corporate ambition would result in immediate family disownment. “Heaven help you if you get a job, the way you’re heading. Where were you?”
“Awww, Mooom,” said Sour Sweet in a nervous sing-song voice, “I was juuust on my way hooome, I prooomise!”
Her dad pinched her cheek again. “You hear that, Sour Milk?” he babbled. “Our pwecious is sowwy.”
Her mother snorted like a smoking pipe being blown clean. “Trashing some back-alley with that Lemon brat? Well, that’s too bad, because you’re getting no dinner tonight.”
Like you ever do anything anyway, thought Sour Sweet, who was too scared to do more than clench her fists behind her back. Her mother had long ago taken one look at Lemon Zest’s wild hair and assumed she was some TV-infamous delinquent.
Sour Sweet’s gaze took in the tiny handbag her mother was trying to make glitter in the lamplight: it was about big enough for a chihuahua. “Oooh! Are you two going somewhere special!?” she squealed.
Her mother waved her aside. “Spoiled Milk –”
“I think it’s Spoiled Rich, my sweetheart,” corrected her father.
“Spoiled Milk – like she deserves to be called ‘Rich’! She’s nothing but a gold-digging slacker! My sister is hosting a soiree, and several businessmen will be there.” Sour Sweet’s mother spoke as though that was the sole reason she was putting up with this nonsense. “I was going to make a few calls to the office tonight, anyway. If I play my cards right, this could lead to big things for Grindstone Technologies. And as for you…” She jabbed her daughter with a claw-like fingernail. “You are getting nothing unless I see homework completed and your room tidied when I get back.”
“But Mooom, I haven’t got any homework!” pleaded Sour Sweet, wringing her hands together.
“Wrong! Attitude!” Her mother planted a cursory kiss on her cheek as though she didn’t want to get infected, then signalled for her bowing and scraping father to start the car. “Your grades have been slipping, and I’m not having people talk about my daughter unless it’s A-grade material. You hear me? Shape up or ship out.”
“Yes, M–”
The door slammed.
Outside, more doors slammed. An engine started up and then faded away.
Safely alone.
Sour Sweet slumped. Who was she kidding? She was never safe. It was like saying a pond was steady just because no more bricks were being hurled at it; the ripples would take ages to settle before the next brick arrived.
Nerves. She needed to steady her nerves.
So she went to one of the garages. The others held her mother’s various cars – one for business, one for vacations, and so on – but this one had been left to Sour Sweet’s devices.
There were:
Three archery targets.
Seven mounted longbows.
Twelve quivers full of arrows.
Lots of space.
Sour Sweet snatched up the red bow this time; this wasn’t a peaceful blue day, and there was no way she’d touch the pink sparkly one. Her dad had bought that one. It sucked: too tight to draw back the string properly.
Deep in the misty past, Sour Sweet’s ancestors had stampeded across the steppe on the backs of warhorses, shooting down game and chasing other tribal warriors. That age of wild equestrianism was long gone, but it left cultural heirlooms behind as if they were old swords, ones that were kept because they were still really good at slicing shields in half.
She fired. Fired. Fired. Bullseye, bullseye, bullseye.
Then she woke up from her mindless motor memory and noticed the photo.
Bang in the middle of the target where there should have been a red dot, a taped photograph of Twilight Sparkle’s face.
Long ago, Sour Sweet wouldn’t have cared. Twilight was one of those horrible, apologetic wet blankets that reminded her too much of Dad. If Sour Sweet had been a boxer, Twilight’s photo would’ve been taped to a punching bag.
But now?
Sour Sweet raised her bow and arrow, tensed, aimed…
…trembled with the effort of holding…
…stared down the innocent glasses of Twilight. Sighed. Lowered her weapon.
She had no defence against this sudden rush of fury. Why should she do anything!? This was all Cadence’s fault! If she hadn’t said that stupid – If she hadn’t, that – The way she spoke, it –
“GAH!” Sour Sweet nearly threw down her bow; only professional pride stopped her. In one swift movement, she swiped forwards. Twilight’s photo was gone. Simple.
She aimed again.
She lowered again.
What was the point? All the fun was gone now. A black slick of sickness slimed all over her. She felt unclean – impossible to clean off again – feeling nothing else ever again –
She shoved the bow away and loped off to her room, seeking refuge. Slammed the door. Threw herself onto the bed. Played dead for an hour – not that she needed much practice. Didn’t even hear the clock tick.
It was like she had too many Sour Sweets in her head, and they all kept fighting for control.
Suddenly, she wanted to talk. She hadn’t even wanted to move an hour ago, and now she felt if she didn’t talk, she’d break something.
Snatched up her phone.
Dialled… Dialled…
Dial who? She checked the contacts list. Picked the first name she liked.
Waited.
Beep… beep…
Click.
“Yeah?” Sunny Flare. Not one to mess around.
“Hhhiii, Sssuuunnyyy…” Argh! She couldn’t even coo right! Not in this mood! “You doing anything tonight?”
“Theatre. Music Be The Food of Love is on at the Dramatis Personae tonight.”
“I thought you saw that one last week?” That’s right, she thought. Let’s pretend this is all totally normal…
“Nah, that was Lag of a Brother?”
“The one with the ugly guy as the lead?”
“No! You’re thinking of The Green-Eyed Monster. Week before last.”
“How do you keep them all straight?”
A pause: Sunny had probably shrugged out of reflex. “It’s a knack. Wanna come? Could be funny.”
Sour Sweet waited to see how she felt, or if any feelings were forthcoming at all. “Er…”
“Don’t feel like going out tonight?” Sunny’s voice was far nicer than Sour Sweet had expected.
She pinched her nose to steady herself. “Sorry,” she said, and to her own surprise heard how it slumped on her tongue.
“Hey, no biggie. Hang in there, and all that jazz.”
“Er, OK. Bye, Sunny.”
“Bye, Sour Sweet.” Beep.
Sour Sweet wasn’t sure whether it was cool or sad that she thought of Sunny as the closest thing she’d ever get to a sister. She dialled another number.
B– Click! “Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas!?”
She hung up: Lemon Zest was exactly the wrong choice. She began dialling another number before she realized Indigo Zap wouldn’t be much better.
No, none of them could help. In Sunny’s case, Sour Sweet really didn’t want her to think she needed help. She didn’t believe she needed help herself! Not really! And she’d believe it right now, if she knew what was good for her!
Sour Sweet wondered which of the many Sour Sweets in her head had just threatened the others, and whether she realized that was stupid.
She stared at her phone. Pain was threatening to climb up her throat.
There was only one way out…
Very, very reluctantly, and not just because she resorted to it very, very rarely, she dialled the number for Sugarcoat.
One thing everyone forgot was that “Cadence” wasn’t her real name. She’d always preferred something less exotic, more approachable, and had simply insisted on it for so long that everyone now called her that. She only ever signed official documents with her real name.
Technically, she was Principal Mi Amore Cadenza.
There was only one place where she would let that slide, though. In the one place where her name wasn’t remotely exotic at all, and where approachability was never an issue.
The closer Cadence drew to the ivy-strewn cottage on the outskirts of the suburbs, the more she relaxed as the festering worries and rotten nerves were scoured clean from her system. Fresh country air washed her from the inside out, and lights spilled out of every window to greet her. She managed, despite the corners poking out, to force the day’s stress behind a curtain in her mind.
Cadence knocked once, twice, three times.
The second she stopped, an uproar swept through the house. Faint excited conversations took flight, muffled name-calls darted among them, and footsteps gave a drumroll towards the front door, which swung open in alarm at the sight of the large man barrelling through it.
His percussive belly settled down a little while after he did. Then his beaming face heralded the arrival of gracious goodwill.
“Mi Amore!” he boomed. “The great maestro returns!”
“Love you too, Dad,” she replied.
For such a large man, he moved with a balletic grace, as though he were mostly made of curved light and billowing cloth. The many kisses he planted on each of her cheeks could have been brushings from a royal eiderdown.
“Aha,” he boomed, his voice’s natural volume as subtle as an iron bar, “she is not quite full of spicy passion today! It’s exhausting, I see, setting right what once went wrong, my little crusader!”
“Knock it off, Dad,” said Cadence, feeling her kiss-burned cheeks sizzle. “I wouldn’t call myself a crusader.”
“Maestoso,” chided a flutier voice from behind the eclipsing father. “She’s tired. Let her breathe.”
A smack of a rolled-up magazine persuaded Maestoso to shift his bulk aside, revealing a woman who had rolled up her sleeves and clearly was one of the strong few capable of handling such a large mass of husband.
Cadence’s mother planted only one kiss per cheek, but she made up for it with firmness: a cheek kissed by her stayed kissed.
“Well, Mi Amore, you took your time coming back,” she said. “Almost missed dinner. Take the scenic route?”
Cadence was too tired even to come up with a half-truth. “It’s been one of those days, Mom.”
“It’s been a lot of those days lately…”
“Tutti, come come!” Maestoso ushered them in as though introducing the grandest of operas. “Bring Mi Amore into the warmth!”
Gratefully, Cadence for once let someone else take the reins as she was pulled inside by her mother and boomed at by her father. Lots of faces peered through from the dining room; it seemed the family had trebled since she was last here. There were faces she didn’t recognize right away.
Through the greetings and kisses and generally being passed around like a sacred Straddlevarius violin, Cadence already felt the last of the principal crawl away and slink into hiding, leaving just… her. On instinct, she swam among the sea of faces and picked up interesting specimens from the colourful corals. Not all family: friends too, platonic loves brought along to eat at the same table – perhaps something left over from the ancient days of nomads and communal feasting huts – and even better… Cadence’s heart gave a flutter… lovers! Boyfriends and girlfriends, engaged, married, nervous, proud, intimately entwined, chastely polite, and many more besides.
Then she remembered: Hearts and Hands Day! On the massive bowls of lasagne in the centre of the long table, she saw her mother had managed to engrave the symbol of the holiday. Two hands clasped around each other, tight as if lamenting they couldn’t become one flesh.
Some of her relatives already had tomato sauce staining their empty plates. Evidently, she’d missed the early performances and was just in time for the interval.
Bracing herself, she let her fussy mother manhandle her into a chair beside her father, who kept breaking off from excited chatter to plant a kiss on his wife whenever she passed. Most of the nearby children were already going “Yuk!” and turning their noses up at him. The adults didn’t bat an eye. Several of the men, in fact, were trying the same thing with their wives, to some muffled complaints between mouthfuls.
Cadence helped herself to a ladle, no mean feat when multiple hands grabbed for it one after the other. Eventually, she managed to scoop a portion of molten cheese for herself. New bowls and ladles appeared as soon as the old ones emptied, thanks to her mother’s keen eye and swift reflexes.
“Mmm,” rumbled Maestoso. “Cousin Coloratura has moved out of her family’s farm.”
It was taken for granted that everyone around the table wanted instant family news.
“I thought she might,” said Cadence, settling in. “Her heart was always set on singing.”
“Didn’t you give her lessons?”
“Just a little informal training.”
“And a lot of hope. She wants to make it big in the city! She doesn’t settle for half-measures, does she?”
“Good,” said Tutti in passing, who fended off another of her husband’s ballistic lip-bombs. “A little ambition is a good thing. I don’t hold with this ‘crab bucket’ nonsense.”
“I’ll have mine with tartare sauce,” said Maestoso absentmindedly.
“I mean it’s good to seek a better life, better jobs, better prospects. Envy is a crab in a bucket pulling its brothers and sisters down.”
“Seriously, can I have that with tartare sauce?”
This earned Maestoso another light whack via rolled-up magazine. He chortled into his dinner. Further along the table, one of Cadence’s brothers was spooning large chunks of mixed vegetables into his girlfriend’s mouth. She’d predicted that couple herself. Five years ago. It had always been a special talent.
Well, ’tis better to give than to receive –
“Did you hear about Lemony Gems and Spearhead?” she asked innocently.
Maestoso’s shout choked him with ricotta and mozzarella. Cadence thumped his back until he could speak above a quaver again.
“Noooo!” he exclaimed.
“I called it, didn’t I?” Cadence’s smirk was as sharp as a scimitar.
“Oh, how lovely,” said Tutti over plates of garlic bread. “You met them recently?”
Cadence’s smirk went flat. “No, I… heard about it. But I’ve been predicting it ever since they met at the opera last year.”
“There’s an idea! You should follow Coloratura’s advice. Go back to the opera.”
“That… might be a bit tricky right now, Mom.”
“Mmm,” hummed Maestoso shrewdly, “and all is well in Loverland, I take it?”
“What do you mean?” Cadence knew all too well what he meant.
“I remember your Lemony. Full of hot sauce, yes! But so, so strong, no ordinary man could tame her. I don’t know; she might be too spicy for this Spearhead.”
For all his posturing, Cadence sensed the secret game being played right under their noses. Of course, her father loved a good romance as much as anyone – no one who sang with that hip action could be doubted – but he tested her, always pushing back a little, forcing her to brace herself.
“Actually,” said Cadence, “she loves the artistic-athletic type.”
“Aha. So you want to make a new wager, eh?” There was a twinkle in Maestoso’s eye.
“You’re on, Dad!”
“But!” His voice was so bass the plates rattled. “You wouldn’t interfere by helping them both! Would you, Mi Amore? That would be cheating!”
Hardly a challenge. His game face was granite, but Cadence had long since learned to dig deep for the softer stone underneath.
“There’s no rule against me trying to help them both,” she retorted. “It’d only work if the love was there anyway. And if it’s there, then with me or without me, love will out.”
“Still as quick-tongued as ever, I see!”
“And besides…” Cadence shrugged apologetically. “…I haven’t seen them in a while.”
Maestoso tutted, as of a chess grandmaster whose apprentice had fluffed a check. Between them, Tutti slid into the space available for a while; one of the aunts had taken over fussing duties.
“And what about Shining Armor?” whispered Tutti.
Cadence felt herself quivering red under the friction. “I’ve… seen him around.”
“Has he popped the question yet?”
“Mom!” Cadence banged her elbow against the backrest.
“Well, you shouldn’t dawdle, Mi Amore. You can’t let such a fine man go. Oh, I can see your passion! The love between you: it is a fairy-tale love!”
“Moooooooom…” Cadence squirmed.
“And we want some grandkids,” piped up Maestoso.
Cadence dropped her spoon and choked on a slice of garlic bread. It took her mother patting her at a faster and faster tempo before she could breathe again.
“Daaaad!”
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt.” But he quailed under his wife’s stern eye and pretended to be very interested in whatever had just made his son double up with laughter.
Trying not to think about herself and Shining, Cadence tucked a stray curl behind her ear and returned to her lasagne. “We’ll see, Mom.”
“That’s a wager I know I’ll win.” Tutti winked but wisely dropped the subject. More brightly, she added, “How is Twilight these days?”
At least this was a less-fraught subject: Cadence’s mother asked every time. Once, Cadence herself had introduced Shining and his family to her family, and so far it had been the only time Twilight had gathered evidence that Cadence hadn’t just dropped out of the sky like a wishing star. Twilight had tried to hide behind her mother – she’d been at the age when her mother’s skirts were a kind of portable security blanket – but to Cadence’s relief everyone had ended up merging as if they’d always known each other. It certainly helped that Cadence’s mother and Twilight’s mother had known each other from their schooldays. She’d wondered for a while if all mothers knew each other…
Tutti had treated Twilight as though she were one of her own; somehow, the little one’s panicky overuse of “please” and “thank you” had made a nice change of pace from jostling elbows and cheeky husbands. Guiltily, Cadence wondered if Twilight even remembered her.
“I’m pleased to report,” said Cadence, “that Twilight is much happier now she’s among friends.”
“Awwww.” Tutti wiped away a tear.
Maestoso, however, gave a gruff grunt. “And happier now she’s away from old enemies!”
“I wouldn’t say that,” was Cadence’s gut response. Images of Sour Sweet leaped to her defence.
“But she was bullied!”
“Everyone needs guidance, Dad. Even bullies. It just has to be the right guidance.”
Maestoso snorted, accidentally spraying aubergine bits over the table. “Sorry, Tutti… No, Mi Amore, I’m afraid you are wrong! Once a bully, always a bully. You don’t eat bad eggs. You find fresh ones.”
“No, Dad, I don’t agree.”
The tones were soft, but it was as if a wizard had banged his staff once on the hard floor. The echo was almost a click. The magic, a spark. It even seemed as if the table quietened down, just for a moment, except sheer familial momentum was an unstoppable force in this household.
“Ah, my little crusader.” Maestoso, shaking his head.
Cadence felt as though someone had poked her sharply in the eye. Shadows of the principal shot back into the breach.
“It might not be my job,” she said, firm as her mother, “but it’s my duty to help people find their best selves.”
“Ha! I thought you were going easy on all that testing-and-grading nonsense!”
“No, I mean their best selves.” Cadence remembered she was at home, safe among loved ones. She relaxed. Her fist had clenched itself; she flattened her palm, traced a soothing clef in the woodwork invisibly as though about to start composing a masterpiece. “You might say it’s another kind of love, Dad.”
Tutti wrapped an arm tight across Cadence’s shoulders.
Maestoso nodded, whilst around him the voices of love rose to a crescendo. “Ah me. I am not so sure as you, my little crusader. But! I shall say this: if I am wrong, then I will be very happy – and proud – to know that you were right.”