//------------------------------// // FRIDAY, JULY 28, 5:21 PM // Story: Analemma, or A Year in the Sunlight // by Dubs Rewatcher //------------------------------// “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” That was one of the very first things Princess Twilight taught me. But whenever I see Filthy Rich’s face, I can’t help but wish I were judge, jury, and executioner. As if owning the biggest department store in Canterlot City wasn’t enough, the dude has a massive double-sided photograph of himself hanging from the ceiling. In it he’s winking and puffing out his chest, surrounded by bold lettering that reads, “Barnyard Bargains: The Best Bargains the Barnyard Can Buy,” whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. And it’s big enough to see from every corner of the store, leering over the customers like a vengeful consumerist god.  I used to shoplift from this place back in the day. Now I just give his photograph a dirty look whenever I walk in. I like to think I’ve still got the spirit, even if my protest is more subtle now. “Found them!” Twilight skips back up to me, her arms filled with bulky brown boxes. They’re each decorated with a bunch of cartoon cows dancing around a very fecal-looking dollop of pudding. She unloads them all into our cart, smothering my innocent bag of apples. “Pudding?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “We spent an hour on the bus for instant pudding?” “This is the only store in town that still sells Choco-Loco brand,” she says, wearing a massive smile. “Everyone else stopped carrying it.” “Still, it’s a long way to go for pudding.” “I love pudding. Everyone loves pudding.” “Eh. I could take it or leave it.” “For the sake of our friendship, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” She cranes her neck to look up at Filthy’s filthy mug. “Do you think he knows he almost got us killed?” “Nah, he’s a venture capitalist. That’s every day for them.” I click my tongue. “Should we be boycotting this place?” “Probably.” She leans on our shopping cart’s handle. “What’s next on the list?” I turn to her. “You know a lot about pens, right?” “I’d like to think that my decade-long subscription to the Writing Utensil of the Month Club hasn’t been a complete waste.” “You wanna help me pick out a new set of lettering pens?” I jerk my thumb towards the other end of the store. “Mine are running dry.” “Ooh, fancy!” She pushes the cart forward and we head to the stationary aisle. “Working on a comic?” Yes. It’s about Sky Blaster and Deep Slate from Queen From a Torn World helping one another through their war trauma. And then making out. Wildly. “Sorta,” I say, looking down. “But fine-tipped pens like that are good for outlining and sketching, too.” “That’s so cool. Can I read it when you’re done?” No. No. Definitely not. “Maybe!” Twi rolls her eyes. “I don’t get why you’re so shy about your art. It’s fantastic! Let me praise you, gosh darn it.” “I’m not being shy. It’s just not that interesting!” I say . “Trust me, you’re not missing out on much. Just imagine your pony drawing, multiplied like a hundred times.” She pouts. “I thought you promised never to speak about that again.” “I only promised not to laugh. Which I’m still not. Even if it’s super adorable.” We step into the stationary aisle. It’s filled with oversized binders, overpriced calculators, and the overpowering scent of whiteboard markers — it’s only July, but the Back to School sales are already in full swing. A lucky break for my wallet, even if being reminded of the upcoming semester freezes me with dread. “What if I asked you to draw something specifically for me?” Twi asks while I browse. “Would you show me it then?” “Probably. Depends on what you ask for, I guess.” She furrows her brows, taps her chin. “What if you drew me?” I try not to drop the package of pens I’ve picked up. “Hah!” I grin. “As a pony?” “No, a human. Just me.” Don’t think about what I’ve already drawn. Her lithe legs, her small breasts. Don’t think about all my friends, sketched naked in permanent ink. I kneel down to look at another package and hide my face in case I go red. “Maybe. It could be fun.” She crosses her arms. “I’m not posing naked, though. Clothes stay on.” No comment. No comment. I smile at her. “I think I’ll leave those drawings to Timber.” Okay, one comment. Now she’s the one with red cheeks. “Very funny,” she says, arms crossed tighter. “But seriously: Can you draw me?” I take a breath. “Sure. Once I’m done with the project I’m working on now, just remind me.” Nausea worms through my gut at the thought of Twilight looking at my art, let alone a portrait of her. I barely even let Pinkie see my work, and she sat next to me in art class. What if I draw her neck too long or something? Give her a weird facial expression? Make her ugly as hell? I can already see her looking at the final product with a clenched smile, swearing that she loves it when she’s really never seen anything worse. She giggles and kneels down next to me. “I’ll hold you to that!” she says, handing me a pack of pens. “This is my favorite brand, by the way.” Those sweet notes of laughter bounce through my bones like electric jolts. She’s right — why am I so ashamed of my art? And why do I always assume the worst? She’s my best friend, not some asshole art critic. I take the pens from her and toss them into the cart, alongside a cute set of kitty cat ink stamps. You can never have enough kitty cat ink stamps. “This is exciting,” she says with a tiny clap. “Selfies are nice, but I always wonder what I look like to other people.” “You’re beautiful,” I say, nudging her. “You know that.” “I haven’t even brushed my hair today,” she says, running a hand through her curls. “I’m a frizzy mess.” “Still cute. Sweaty, but cute.” She shakes her head, but smiles. “I’ll take the compliment.” “You better. Otherwise I’m not making you my special radish-wheatgrass-pasta casserole.” “Wouldn’t want to miss that!” She looks away. “Speaking of beauty — could I ask for your help buying something?” “Jeans?” I tap my bare knee. “Trust me, buy the pre-ripped ones. No one can tell the difference.” “No, no, not that.” She lays her hand over mine. “You’re an artist. So you have a good sense of color theory, yeah?” “Sure? I can’t see any special pony colors, if that’s what you’re about to ask. I’m not a shrimp.” “Really? I never would have guessed.” She pulls me left, away from the stationary, away from the groceries, and towards a section of the store I’ve never dared enter. Rarity’s favorite section. “Twi?” I say as the first whiffs of strawberry perfume flood my nose. “I don’t think I’m the right person to help you pick out makeup.” “Sure you are!” She leads me down an aisle lined with two dozen different brands of nail polish in hundreds of colors. “I just need a second opinion.” I don’t wear makeup. Like, ever. Even during my Queen Bee days, I just saw it as a waste of money — at most I’d throw on some lipstick before each year’s Fall Formal. And let’s be honest: There’s a big difference between Twilight wearing makeup and me wearing it. No reason to put lipstick on a pig. She picks up two bottles of nail polish — one a bright matte red, and the other a twinkling purple, a bit darker than her skin. “I’ve narrowed my choices down to these two. Now: Which color best says ‘I’m a cool, cute girlfriend who knows how to have fun but also deeply cares about our future together?’” “This is for Timber?” “It’s his birthday tomorrow,” she says. “I’m going out to his house in Hoofington for the first time, and I want to make it special.” I raise an eyebrow. “Hoofington? He moved?” She blinks at me, then frowns. “Sunset, did you think he and Gloriosa lived at Camp Everfree? It’s a summer camp. There’s barely any running water.” “Uh. No. Of course not.” “Right.” She holds one bottle in each hand. “So, thoughts? I’m leaning towards the red, personally.” “Nah, it’s too bright. But you can do better than that purple, too.” I look around the aisle and grab a bottle of sparkly pink polish. “How about this? It matches the streak in your hair.” “Ooh, good idea! Told you that you’d be helpful.” She takes it from me, turns it over to check the price tag — and flinches. “Let’s try to find a cheaper brand, though. I’m a fun girlfriend, not a rich one.” While Twi starts searching the shelves for more pink polish, I stand by our cart and bite my nails. Ever since that day at the boardwalk, I haven’t been able to hear about Timber without remembering Twi’s reaction to his kiss: Those wide eyes, those shaking legs and wringing fingers.  I still don’t know what’s going on between them, if anything even is going on. Twi barely mentions him, and when she does, it’s in passing. Which is weird by itself, right? We’re teenage girls — gossiping about romance is, like, our lifeblood. It’s the natural order of things. “How is Timber?” I ask while she compares two vials. “Are you both doing good?” “He’s fine,” she says plainly. “We’re great.” “Did you get him a present yet?” I smirk. “Paying for a Death Dance coach?” She returns to my side, placing a much smaller and less sparkly bottle of nail polish in our cart. “Not quite. I bought him a book on the history of the Everfree Forest.” “Awesome! I bet he’ll love it.” She sighs. “I hope so.” Why is she sighing? What’s wrong? But before I can ask anything, she chuckles. “Picking the right nail polish, the right birthday present, the right thing to say in every conversation… Being a good girlfriend is so much harder than I expected. Sometimes I feel like I’m running in the dark with no flashlight.” I touch her shoulder, and a pang of anxiety vibrates through me. It takes all my restraint not to look through her memories. “Don’t worry about it,” I say with a smile. “You’re a great girlfriend. And besides, he’s your first boyfriend ever, it’s natural to—” Burning anger flashes through her. I let go. “What’s up?” I ask. Her entire body has gone tight. She shakes her head. “Nothing. I just… Nothing. It’s dumb.” “Twi.” I try to speak slowly, softly. “Talk to me.” She doesn’t look at me. She’s staring off into the distance, down the endless aisles. Then, quietly: “When you say ‘first’ boyfriend — I don’t like that. It sounds like you’re just assuming Timber and I will break up someday.” I am. What, are you gonna get married? “Crap, sorry!” I say, waving my hands. “Def not what I meant! Just saying that you haven’t dated anyone before, so it’s normal to be confused.” “Mm.” She takes a long breath, then turns to me with a totally normal smile. “You’re right. Thanks.” I nod, though maybe I shouldn’t. “No problem.” What aren’t you telling me, Twi? What’s wrong? We leave the makeup section together and head towards checkout. While we walk, Twilight leans against me. “You know,” she says, “I bet this color would look great on you, too. When we get back to my house, can I paint your nails?” “My nails are a lost cause,” I say with a scoff. When she frowns, I lift my hand and flash her my fingernails. My uneven, chipped, and savagely chewed fingernails. “Ooh,” she says with a wince. “A nailbiter, huh?” “Yep. And I was a hoofbiter back in Equestria, too.” “I used to do the same thing. But then my parents put this awful bitter stuff on my fingers so it’d taste terrible.” She grins and holds up her palm, covered in callouses. “Now I just wring my hands. When you gotta tic, you gotta tic!” “Another genius Twilight Sparkle innovation.” She curtsies, then says, “What about painting your toes? That could be cute.” “It’s 90° out right now, Twi. And I’m wearing boots. My feet are gonna smell like rotting death.” “Don’t worry,” she says, waving me off. “I have magic. If I can clip Spike’s claws from twenty feet away, painting your toenails will be a cakewalk.” She pauses. “Also I own a military grade gas mask. I’m a fun girlfriend, not a stupid one.”