Dear Rainbow Dash,
Okay, yes. YES, I'm currently cutting gym class. And NO, I don't want a lecture from you about it. Not that you're the kind of pony who'd do that, but just to be safe. You can't really trust anypony with this kind of stuff. I mean, even Feather doesn't think that I should be skipping out, but I lied and told him that I'd be studying in the library for our project. (I've really been on a streak with lying to him lately.)
Right now, I'm not studying Private Pansy and Commander Hurricane like I told Feather I'd be doing. I'm hiding in the third bathroom stall down, my hooves out of sight in case anypony comes looking for me. Before coming here, though, I made sure to take a few sheets of notebook paper and a pencil—you know, to keep me from getting bored and all. Besides, I've gone a whole week without writing to you and I just thought I'd give you the heads-up that I'm still alive! (What am I saying? You're not actually receiving these letters. Stupid.)
Anyway, I just wanted to update you a little on what happened. I only missed Tuesday's gym class, and I thought that it would be risking it a bit to take another sick day. Besides, look how last time's sick day ended! So I decided that I'd go to Thursday's gym class.
Never again. NEVER. AGAIN.
What about it made it so bad, you ask?
Oh, just a FEW things.
Like when I entered, Mr. Cloudy did a double take. I'm not kidding! He stared at me, blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. When he saw that I was still there, though, his expression grew considerably more grim. "Scootaloo, isn't it?" he asked flatly. He had a here-we-go-again expression on his face, which I didn't appreciate but could understand.
"Yes, sir," I said, trying to make my voice as grim as his. I half-lowered my lids, trying to create the impression that I was bored with him and his stupid whistle. Feather, who had been silently hovering behind me, ducked his head and scuttled past me. He gave me a shy, hopeful nod, but he had the kind of look in his eyes that told me he wouldn't want to be in my horseshoes.
He squinted one eye shut, sizing me up. "You're the one who can't . . . you're the Ponyville one?"
"Yes, sir," I repeated. From the expression on my face and the tone of my voice, you would have thought I was going for the grand prize of Little Miss Couldn't-Care-Less, though my heart was racing and all I wanted to do was run away.
Mr. Cloudy visibly winced. He glanced around at my classmates, who were looking at us with curiosity. Mr. Cloudy knelt down, lowering his gruff voice a bit. "Are you disabled or something?"
My jaw dropped. "N-No!" I sputtered, losing my cool facade. "I'm not disabled! There's nothing wrong with my wings!" I tucked them in protectively, feeling my cheeks burn. Great—first I'm a loser, then I'm disabled!
Mr. Cloudy didn't look convinced just yet. Clearing his throat and rubbing his neck, he put on a serious expression. "Look, kid, have you thought of flight lessons of some sort? You can find plenty of flight instructors around who specialize in kids who are a bit late in developing . . ."
Oh, Celestia, NO. The last thing I wanted to do right now was get into a conversation with Mr. Cloudy about "development." I turned around and strolled onto the gym floor, pretending that I hadn't heard him. I couldn't resist slowing down a bit and turning my head when Mr. Cloudy didn't seem to react.
I watched as he threw up his hooves, rolling his eyes. "I give up," he muttered, turning away and heading towards the bag of basketballs. Satisfied, I kept my wings safely tucked in and hopped over to Feather, who was nibbling at his hoof nervously.
"How'd it go?" he asked, noting my smile and giving me a grin of his own. "Is he mad at you for missing so many classes?"
"Didn't mention anything about it," I said, glancing around. To my disappointment, Dizzy Breeze was standing a few ponies down, her smirk spread across her face as always. "He just said that—" I stopped talking, realizing a few words too late that I didn't especially want Feather to hear about how I couldn't fly. Surely he knew, but saying it out loud would be just a little bit too much for me at the moment.
"Said what?" asked Feather, looking at me curiously. He glanced at my wings awkwardly, craning his neck to get a glance of my still-tucked-in wings. "Did he say something about—"
"Rodents!" barked Mr. Cloudy, giving us a shrill blast of his whistle. For once, I was glad to hear his voice and whistle. Turning attentively, I positioned myself so that I looked like I was fascinated with him and his stupid comments about flight camp.
"Mr. Cloudy?" asked Dizzy Breeze, blinking her eyes mock-sweetly. "I have a question."
"Yeah?" he said vaguely, not really paying attention. "Make it quick."
I scowled. If I had a question, he would have kept on blowing his whistle and being a featherbrain. I guess when you can fly, though, you get certain advantages in Mr. Cloudy's opinion.
"Do you still need me to tutor Scootaloo?" she asked. At the sound of my name, I jerked to attention. Upon realizing why she had used my name, my cheeks began to burn.
"I don't need a tutor," I snapped. I wished that I hadn't said it a second afterward—what says "immature" better than denying that you need help?—but I didn't let myself lose my composure. I had to stay cool, stay tough.
Mr. Cloudy gave me a sideways glance, as if he couldn't believe that I had just spoken without permission. "She needs help," he stated in a flat voice that made everypony giggle. (Yeah, it's just comedy central here in Cloudsdale Elementary.) "Take her outside, all right? You don't seem like you need much help. I'll call you two if we do anything aside from basic flight drills."
Giving Mr. Cloudy my best glare, I ducked my head and stomped outside, with Dizzy Breeze leading the way grandly. To make matters worse, she was flying as she led me out. I swear, she does these things to make me feel like dirt on purpose . . .
"So," she said, smiling at me brightly. I glared at her, hating the smug look in her eyes. "You need flight lessons? Seriously? I thought you told me that you were just out of practice."
"I am!" I snapped, scowling.
"Then how come you need lessons?"
I weighed the advantages and disadvantages of hitting her as hard as I could. "I don't need lessons," I told her, my teeth gritted. "That's what I've been telling everypony!"
She gave me a sideways glance, a smirk on her lips. "That's good, I guess," she said, snickering slightly. "I wouldn't want some cripple in our class. It might slow the rest of us down, you know?"
I stiffened, buzzing my wings defensively. "Shut up," I said. "I'm not crippled." I hated the word as it rolled off of my tongue, but I couldn't help it. I had to prove to her that I wasn't some sort of loser, that I could handle her insults and throw them right back at her.
"So prove it," said Dizzy Breeze, tossing her pale yellow mane and grinning at me evilly. "Why don't you fly during gym class next time or something? Are you scared that you'll get hurt while flying or something?"
My cheeks grew bright red. I could handle her insults, but the very idea of me being scared of flying was enough to make me want to bite her head off. Just because I don't fly, everypony automatically assumes that I'm scared! Have they seen me with my scooter? Did they see me that one time that I went over the branch with all the birds, or the time that I was in the air for like ten seconds, and you complimented me? Well, no, I guess they probably haven't, because my scooter's in Ponyville, but you know . . .
"I'm not scared," I explained, kicking the clouds and staring at the puff of white moisture. "I've been telling you for the past five minutes, I don't need your help. I can fly just fine on my own, and this . . . this is stupid," I finished lamely. I looked up at her to judge her reaction, mildly terrified and mildly excited.
Dizzy Breeze bit her lip, her face a mottled red. "If that's true," she whispered, leaning in with a threatening smile on her face, "then I want to see you fly. You don't have to do it right now—I understand how important it is for cripples to get their practice before even a short flight. Next gym class, maybe?"
I didn't even correct her when she called me a cripple. (Ew. I hate writing that word.) "Definitely!" I barked, buzzing my wings irritably and glaring at her. "That'll be totally easy!"
She gave me a slow smile, cocking her head. "Well, do you want me to practice with you? My mom says that I'm really good at teaching ponies who aren't—"
"Shut up," I growled through my teeth, narrowing my eyes and buzzing my wings. "I'll give you the best flight show you've ever seen by next Tuesday."
Well, it's Tuesday now, Dash. And want to know something? I'm hiding in a bathroom stall, writing you this letter to pass the time until lunchtime comes.
Wanna know the thing that drives me nuts? The thing that drives me really nuts? There's no way to win in this situation. Dizzy Breeze is gonna get the best of me either way. She's either gonna see that I can't fly, or she's going to think that I chickened out at the last moment because I was too scared to show her my lame flight skills . . . which is actually true. Ugh.
And want to know the WORST thing? Feather's going to figure out that I can't fly. He's just going to start thinking like everypony else and think that I'm some sort of loser. Well, maybe I am. I just don't want him to find out that he doesn't deserve to be friends with me, and he's going to ditch me and everything's going to go wrong and I'm . . .
Argh.
As soon as I'm done writing this letter, I'm going to tuck it away and run to check that Feather hasn't abandoned me yet.
Kill me now.
From, Scootaloo