//------------------------------// // There's No Accounting For Taste // Story: Say Goodnight, Pinkie // by scoots2 //------------------------------// Rarity had had her least favorite nightmare: the one in which she was a maiden aunt to Sweetie Belle’s three beautiful foals. In the dream, everypony called her a crazy cat lady behind her back, and her evenings were mostly spent reading romance novels and eating hayberry fudge swirl ice cream directly from the carton. Fortunately, before she got to the really terrible parts, including her designs being described as “reliably conservative,” Opal strolled up her torso and flipped her tail over Rarity’s muzzle, forcing her to wake up and give her pre-breakfast. And everypony said cats weren’t loyal. “Oh, Opal-Wopal,” she cooed. “Who loves her mommy? Yes, you do!” She slid back into bed and slipped on her eyemask, but she was still too upset to fall asleep. She knew perfectly well what had triggered her nightmare. Trenderhoof had been seen taking the very earliest morning train yesterday, accompanied by two guards. She’d had no idea that he was in Ponyville at all; why was that? She was well over her silly infatuation by now, but the sting to her pride still lingered. Why hadn’t she been fabulous enough to attract his attention in the first place? Why were the good ones always taken or far too old for her or simply uninterested? Why did she keep attracting stallions like Hayseed Turniptruck? Why? She wanted to know what Trenderhoof had been doing in Ponyville, and especially about the guards, but every time she approached a group talking about it, they instantly stopped, and then quickly began talking about something else. This could only mean one thing: that everyone in Ponyville knew about her stupid crush and were still gossiping about it behind her back. Sometimes Rarity despised small towns. Finally, there had been the line item in the Evening Standardbred that Trenderhoof’s regular column was on hiatus while he took a leave of absence to research his new book. It reminded her that somewhere, there was a glamorous life of travel, celebrity, and romance, and that she was not living it; that she was nothing but a seamstress who lived in what was practically a village; and that she was passé before she’d truly had her time. Ridiculous, she told herself. All I need is a bit more beauty sleep, and tomorrow is another day—today, really, but it amounts to the same thing—and who on earth is ringing my doorbell at this insanely early hour? Since her early morning visitor didn’t wait to be let in, but immediately entered the shop and bounced across it with a distinctive springing gait, she had her answer. An ear shatteringly high soprano voice rang out, “Good morning, Rarity! Are you awake yet? I was gonna wait and come back later, but then I thought, “hey, it IS later,” and I really really really need your help right now, so I thought I’d come and see if you were awake, so are you? I can come upstairs and check if you’re not.” “No, no,” Rarity said quickly, “that won’t be necessary, Pinkie Pie.” “Ooo! You knew it was me!” “Yes, Pinkie, your voice is . . . distinctive. I’ll be down directly.” She levitated a hand mirror over to her face and surveyed the wreckage. Her eyes were puffy, she had crease marks on one cheek, and she could tell already that it was going to be an extremely bad mane day. She dropped the mirror and glanced down at her hooves. They needed filing, and there were a few small chips in the lacquer. Mercifully, she had no plans to go out in public today, and while she’d didn’t care for anypony to see her at less than her best, perhaps some minor neatening up would be all that was necessary. Pinkie Pie was one of her very best friends, after all. “What’s that thing?” said what sounded like a complete stranger. In a tenor voice. Oh, Pinkie Pie, Rarity thought. Bringing over an unknown pony at this hour, and a stallion at that, when I simply am not prepared to receive visitors! How could you? Meanwhile, the intellectual conversation downstairs went on: “Oh, it’s a clothes horse.” “Why a clothes horse? Why not a clothes pony?” “Dunno. Hey, I bet if we lined ‘em up, we could pretend they were talking to each other! Wouldn’t that be cool?” She positively flew through her morning beauty regimen and performed the most cursory of toilettes. Just as she reached the landing, she heard Pinkie Pie hiss in a stage whisper, “Psst! Don’t say anything about Trenderhoof!” “Ugh. Why would I want to?” She descended the stairs with what she hoped was gracious charm and not a sleep-deprived stagger. “Good morning,” she said. “My, it certainly is bright and early.” Pinkie sprang forward and hugged her. “Hiya, Rarity!” she cried. “What took you so long? You remember Cheese Sandwich, don’t you? Cheesie, this is Rarity.” “Um,” said the party stallion, shifting from leg to leg. “Hi?” Rarity hadn’t seen much of Cheese Sandwich since the birthaversary party, and she’d never really had a conversation with him at all. In this non-party setting, he was much shyer than she’d remembered, and probably younger, too: still part gangling, awkward colt, and very ill at ease in a mare’s couture boutique. Then Pinkie Pie trotted back next to him, and he absolutely lit up. Pinkie Pie flicked her tail against his leg and smiled up at him, and they were surrounded by such a glow that Rarity instantly knew what was going on, possibly better than they did. For a moment, she considered trotting back upstairs, pulling on her eyemask, and going back to sleep in case this was just a new and more sadistic part of her nightmare. Inside her, a tiny Rarity wailed that it was not fair that her youngest and most eccentric friend, who barely knew what romance was, had found it, while she, the elegant Rarity, had been frustrated again and again. It was her turn first. It simply was not fair. She told that Rarity to shut up. She would be sincerely glad for her friend, who had woken her up at a dreadful hour, demanding favors and bringing her . . . her, um, with her, when she, Rarity, hadn’t even had time to put her face on. “Delighted, Mr. Sandwich,” she said. “Just Cheese is ok,” he replied, still seesawing from hoof to hoof. “Would anypony care for some tea? I’m afraid I simply must have my morning tea,” she said, trotting towards the kitchen. “Aw. We did wake you up, didn’t we?” lamented Pinkie, following her. “I’m sorry. We brought some things from Sugarcube Corner for you—some of those fancy breads you like.” She set a basket down on Rarity’s kitchen table, and pulled back a cloth, revealing brioche, fresh from the oven. Rarity hadn’t even known that the Cakes were branching out this way, and perhaps brioche might constitute an adequate apology. “Would you both care to join me?” “Oh, we already had breakfast an hour ago,” chirped Pinkie, sitting down at the table, “but we can always eat another one. Anyhoo, the reason we came is ‘cause we’re planning a super duper ginormous party and we need your help with the decorations.” “I think,” said Rarity, blowing on her tea, “you are confusing our areas of expertise.” “Oh, no,” said Pinkie, shaking her head in a wild blur of pink mane. “You do all those super-elegant things like the Summer Sun Festival and you’re so much classier than I am and that’s what we need.” Rarity arched an eyebrow, silently conceding Pinkie’s point. “So that’s why we need you to make a super-elegant rug!” Rarity didn’t quite do a spit take, but it was a near thing. “Runners,” put in Cheese helpfully. Now that they were on the subject of parties, and were eating, he seemed much more at home. “Usually we call ‘em runners. They’re a bit upscale for what I do, but they’re those long skinny things you roll down a hallway.” He made a wide gesture to indicate length, knocked over a pot of marmalade, and caught it just before it shattered on the floor. “Sorry,” he said, turning red. “I have really bad luck in kitchens.” “May I suggest,” said Rarity, breathing slowly through her nostrils in an attempt to calm down, “that you might wish to try the carpet salesman and not a designer of fine couture?” “Oh, but it has to be super, super-elegant,” said Pinkie. “Not like a regular rug. Like jewels and everything. And it should unroll itself; you can do that, right? Or at least make it so Twilight can do it?” “I could, of course,” Rarity said, pondering the idea. A nice brocade runner, possibly with jeweled trim? That might be very elegant indeed. “How long did you want this runner to be?” she said aloud. “Oh, about half a mile.” “Ahahah . . . perhaps I did not hear you correctly. You said half a mile, did you not?” “Yepsidoodle!” said Pinkie, putting four cubes of sugar in her tea. “Half a mile! ‘Cause it’s got to go all the way through the castle.” “The castle.” Pinkie Pie wants an elegant runner for the castle? “And what sort of event is this?” “It’s the castle-warming,” her pink friend said, as Cheese nodded in agreement, his mouth filled with brioche. “Twilight’s officially opening the castle for the first time, and everypony in Ponyville is invited. Oh, and I guess anypony else who wants to come.” “A royal event.” Rarity felt her eye begin to twitch. “You want me to make a half-mile long runner, with fabric I probably don’t have yet and jewels I almost certainly don’t have yet, for the official opening of Twilight’s castle?” “Uh huh! And I just know it’s gonna be so fantastically gorgeous!” The brioche basket was now completely empty, leaving utter wreckage on her tidy kitchen table. Rarity began cleaning up, setting a crumb-catcher to work, filling the sink, and sending her fine china plates into the dish tub. “And precisely when is this event to take place?” “This afternoon!” said Pinkie, with an enormous smile. Rarity had too much self-control to drop everything she was levitating, but she did stop everything in place. “This afternoon,” she said in an even tone. “You fully expect that I can create this miracle, with no assistance, by this afternoon.” “Uh huh. Is that a problem?” “Will you excuse us, Mr. Sandwich?” Rarity swept from the kitchen, and Pinkie followed her. “Pinkie,” snapped Rarity, stopping at her worktable, “that is impossible. You know I cannot work that fast, and even if I could, I would inevitably sacrifice quality, which as you know I simply refuse to do! Why must the party be this afternoon? Why not next week?” Pinkie simply stared back, eyes wide. “Because the party is this afternoon.” “Ah. This is the nub of the matter. Why? Why is the party this afternoon?” “Because it just is,” said Pinkie. “Cheesie and me both know it is.” “And so,” said Rarity, sorting through her notebook and idly pulling out some swatches—green goes nicely with purple, she thought. I think unrelieved purple brocade might be a bit much—“you decide that a major royal event must take place this afternoon. I still don’t understand why you cannot simply reschedule.” “Because Cheesie won’t be there,” said Pinkie, looking at the swatches and pulling out a dark rose one. Of course, thought Rarity, savagely running a pin through the brocade swatches, we mustn’t inconvenience poor darling Cheesie, so why not impose on one of your oldest and best friends? Friendship clearly means nothing when a stallion enters the picture! But then, looking over at Pinkie, she wasn’t sure that Pinkie thought that way. In fact, she hadn’t even introduced Cheese with a flourish of “this is my coltfriend.” They hadn’t said anything about it, hadn’t been holding hooves at the table; she’d simply seen that Cheese adored Pinkie, and that was all. Still . . . “And why can’t Cheese be there next week? Why can’t he reschedule?” “’Cause he just can’t,” said Pinkie. “He’s going away tonight, and I don’t know how I know, I just know and he just knows. I don’t think I can explain. I understand. I’m sorry,” she went on, her ears swiveling down. “I just thought Twilight’s been so sad about the library and she would like it so much, and you would make it look so pretty, and Cheesie and me, we’ve never really thrown a party together before, except for the birthaversary and I guess that doesn’t really count, but we’ll think of something else. We’ll see you at the party later.” Curses, thought Rarity, rubbing her eyes with her hoof. “Very well. Sit down and explain exactly what you want this carpet to do.” Pinkie explained at great length what she wanted and why she wanted it and why it would be such a super extra enormously special thing to do for Twilight. Rarity knew it was going to be impossible to do it in time, of course, but on the other hoof, she was Rarity, and she had pulled together entirely new collections in as little time as this. She could call in some favors and, well—it could be done, possibly. Meanwhile Cheese, who seemed to be trying to avoid the kitchen, had brought Rarity’s copy of the Evening Standardbred into the shop and was reading it, muttering to himself. All at once, he gave a loud snort. “‘Extended leave of absence.’ That’s what they’re calling a total nervous breakdown in Canterlot-speak these days, huh? Pfft.” “Excuse me, Mr. Sand—Cheese, if you will,” said Rarity, putting down the notebook and colored pencils with which she’d been doodling some ideas, “to which article are you referring? Would that possibly be the article on Mr. Trenderhoof?” Cheese simply stood there, jaw dropped. “Cheesie!” wailed Pinkie. “I told you not to say anything about Trenderhoof!” “But—but I didn’t!” he stammered. “You shouldn’t say anything about Trenderhoof to Rarity, silly! She had this gimondo crush on him and then when he came here he was super rude to her and didn’t crush her back and it makes her feel really, really bad, so nopony talks about it in front of her, ‘cause it makes her feel like she wasn’t good enough or something!” “I’m not surprised,” said Cheese. “Pinkie Pie!” snapped Rarity. “I am appalled at your rudeness when I have done nothing but try to assist you, and what precisely do you mean by ‘I’m not surprised,’ Mr. Sandwich?” “He’s got lousy taste,” said Cheese, shrugging. “Well, really!—what?” “I keep running into Trenderhoof, and he’s got lousy taste. He wouldn’t know something good if it bit him. Oh, sure, he likes finding little out of the way nice places, but then he ruins them by making them over to suit himself. He gets bored with things. He said cupcakes were over.” Pinkie Pie gasped. “He never!” “He did,” said Cheese. “He’s got lousy taste, except I guess Braeburn’s kind of nice-looking. I dunno. I don’t think of Braeburn like that, and I don’t think Braeburn thinks of Braeburn like that, but he introduced himself as an apple rancher and I’m not sure if Trenderhoof was into the pony or just the fruit. He’s crazy. Pssht. Don’t even ask me about our ‘friend’ ‘Trend,’” he finished, making air quotes with his hooves. “Oh, no,” said Rarity, strolling over to her chaise longue and reclining on it, “I insist. No, Pinkie, I am tired of ponies walking on eggshells around me about Trenderhoof as though somepony had died, for heaven’s sake, and I want to hear what Mr. Sandwich has to say, and I positively refuse to lift a hoof making this carpet until I have the whole story.” “Story?” said Cheese, blinking. “Did you say you want to hear the whole story?” “Yes,” she said firmly, wrapping her tail around her hind hooves to make it clear that she was not budging until his story was over. Evidently, this was all she needed to tell Cheese, for whom “story” seemed synonymous with “performance.” What she saw next was a dizzying quarter of an hour of accordion music, jokes, sound effects, and dialogue, with Cheese’s rubber chicken playing, in turn, Braeburn, a waiter, a tipsy Trenderhoof, Flash Sentry, and a fire crew. The stories were rather confused, and involved quite a lot of heavy drinking and waffle batter, but Cheese made his overall point nicely. He finished, front legs spread wide, and Rarity realized just a second too late that she was supposed to applaud. By the time she made a few polite little opera hoofclaps, the moment had clearly passed, and Cheese stood there, looking awkward again. Then he added-- “And if you ask me, I’m glad he went meshugganah out where everypony could see him, because he’s been going that way for ages, and he needs a nice long break somewhere where nothing ever happens and he can’t get any coffee, and he can leave the rest of the world for us to have some fun in. He prefers Taztelwurm entrails to cupcakes. He thinks I’m loud and tacky, and y’know, I just don’t think his opinion matters all that much.” Hmm, thought Rarity. I wonder. On one hoof, Pinkie’s awkward party stallion, and on the other hoof, Trenderhoof . . . but that’s ridiculous. Everypony knows Trenderhoof’s taste is the ne plus ultra! But evidently, Cheese wasn’t done. “And maybe this is way out of line, but you do all this fashion-y stuff, and I thought you would know . . .” “Yes?” “Will you tell me why really beautiful mares put so much stuff on their faces when they don’t need it? I just can’t figure that one out.” “Cheesie!” squeaked Pinkie, who clearly knew this was a bridge too far. “It is to enhance one’s natural assets,” said the offended fashionista, although perhaps, on second thought, she wasn’t that offended at all. Cheese sighed. “I think I’ll stick to the things I know, then. And we’ve got a lot to get done before this afternoon, so I’d better go and do some of them.” “We’ll see you at the party, Rarity?” asked Pinkie. “Oh, of course. And what time do you want me to bring the runner?” She was barreled over by an excited and happy little pink hurricane. “Oh, I knew you would do it, Rarity, I just knew you would! It’s going to be super-duper, you’ll see! Anytime before school lets out is fine, because otherwise Cheerilee’s students will be all over the place and it’ll be impossible to put down. You’re so awesome! Bye! See you there!” Pinkie gave her friend one last enormous hug, and trotted out the door after Cheese Sandwich. She heard a thwack! sound from just outdoors, as though someone’s hat had just been pulled off and abruptly put back on again with some force. “Cheesie! I told you not to mention Trenderhoof!” “I couldn’t help it, Pinkie! I had to cheer her up!” Yes, thought Rarity. Yes, on the whole, her odd friend’s even odder friend had cheered her up a good deal. After all, if even Pinkie had a Cheese, what might not be in store for a fabulous mare such as herself? She would think of this tomorrow, perhaps, because in the meantime, she had a great deal to do. The boutique was soon a blizzard of scissors, ribbons, and cascading fabric, and in the middle of it, Rarity sat, glasses firmly placed on her nose, creating beauty, utterly absorbed in what she loved to do best in the world. And she had to admit that Trenderhoof looked MUCH better as a rubber chicken.