//------------------------------// // Age 9 // Story: Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Part 2: Talk To Me // by brokenimage321 //------------------------------// Foxie groaned to herself as Mr. Rich stepped to the front of the room. As he began to lecture on profit margins and macroeconomics, she slowly let her head drop to the desk. Career Day. Well, at least it wasn’t spelling. To be fair, it wasn’t all bad; Candy Stripe had gotten her aunt, Nurse Redheart, to come in, and Uncle Softie had told everyone about his new dance studio (he said he’d quit touring so he could be closer to his family, drawing more than a few disbelieving stares). She already knew all about the studio—Whiskey had been going regularly almost since the doors opened—but it was nice to hear someone talk about something she understood, at least.   But Foxie already knew what she wanted to do, for sure. She didn’t need someone telling her about what it was like to be a taxi puller, or a storekeeper, or a farmer. She wanted to be a baker, just like her Mama. Plus, all too often, Aunt Cheerilee introduced them as “so-and-so’s father.” After years of this, it had almost started to feel like she was rubbing it in.  And it was working—each time, Foxie felt a little twinge of jealousy. Not a big twinge, mind you—just a little one. After all, Mama was all the parent she’d ever need. She was kind, and loving, and hardworking, and always there. And she’d even started to show Foxie how to make bread and mix cakes on her own. But still: sometimes it would be nice to have a daddy. Especially since that meant that Mama could come to Career Day and show everyone else how awesome it would be to be a baker.  After a moment of resting her head on her desk, Foxie felt someone’s gaze burning into her, and she knew, without looking, that it was Auntie—no, Mrs. Cheerilee. She didn’t like being called Aunt, not in the classroom. But Foxie picked her head up anyways and tried to pay attention. Within minutes, she was starting to nod off. Foxie gritted her teeth, then sat up and pulled out a pencil and a sheet of notebook paper. She glanced up attentively, as if she was taking notes—but her pencil moved in a different pattern entirely. Soon, under the point of her pencil, skating this way and that across her paper, a pony began to materialize: an enormous Filthy Rich, mouth wide open, an endless stream of bits spewing from his mouth and running off the end of the page. Another few strokes, and a crowd of foals slumped in their seats underneath him; a few strokes more, and they were all snoring, loud enough to shatter glass. Foxie sat back and examined her drawing. It was a little mean, perhaps—but it really wasn’t all that bad of a resemblance. She smiled to herself and put her pencil down. Whiskey looked over, stared at the drawing for a moment, and snorted. Mrs. Cheerilee looked up and glared at the two of them just as Foxie, smiling brightly, turned her paper over. She picked up her pencil again, then began to write, as if she was taking notes: Mr. rich is stupid and boring, and no one likes economiks except him. And career Day is stupid and boring too. And I like mrs. Aunt cheerilee better as an aunt than a teacher.    At that moment, the bell rang. Mr. Rich looked up at the clock, then sighed dramatically. “Oh, darn it,” he muttered. He glanced over at Mrs. Cheerilee. “Shall we continue after lunch, or—?” Foxie opened her desk and stuck her head inside, surfacing with the brown paper bag that held her lunch. Without waiting for Mrs. Cheerilee’s answer, she pushed her chair back noisily, then stood and started from the room. By the time she made it to the door, most of the class was on their hooves and rushing to escape. Some of the foals immediately ran to the playground, but most of them scattered for their usual lunch-eating spots. Foxie glanced over underneath the apple tree, and sighed; since Pumpkin and Pound had gone off to Dream Valley Union High at the beginning of this year, older kids had started taking the spot they all used to share—this time, it was Azalea and Dew Drop. They saw her looking and sneered at her; Foxie took her bag from her teeth using her magic, then stuck out her tongue. By the time she had turned back around, Whiskey and Tango had already taken their increasingly-accustomed spot against the schoolhouse itself. Whiskey already had her sandwich out—cheese, on Mama’s best crusty white bread—and was shoving it into her face with big, desperate bites, while Tango had started delicately on his apple. Both of them had their little cardboard boxes, tied with a bow, no more than three or four inches across, sitting on the grass beside them. Foxie sat down and took her sweet time unpacking her lunch—after all, if something was worth doing, as Aunt Rarity had told them during one of her visits, it was worth doing properly. She dug her napkin from the bottom of her bag, then spread it carefully on the grass. Next, she pulled her sandwich (peanut butter and raspberry jam) from her bag, carefully unwrapped it, and set it in the center of the napkin. Next, she dug out her apple, polished it a little on her coat, and set it in the upper-right corner. Finally, she pulled her little cardboard box from her bag, tied with a pink ribbon, and set it just left-of-center, beside the sandwich. She took no small pleasure from the exasperated glares she drew from her siblings during the whole production. As she settled her box down, Whiskey put down her sandwich, and Tango his apple. Together, the three of them picked up their little boxes, then held them close together, each examining them carefully. “...Chocolate,” Tango said first. “Spice,” Whiskey added. “Vanilla,” Foxie said slowly. “...with lemon-cream filling.” Whiskey shot her a look as she tore the ribbon off her box, revealing a stunningly beautiful cupcake. She, as always, yanked it from the box and took a massive bite without hesitation. Immediately, she groaned. “Fee god it,” she grumbled to Tango, spraying crumbs on him. Tango rolled his eyes, then turned to Foxie. “How do you do it?” She shrugged, still fussing with her box. “No, seriously,” he said. “Mama makes a different flavor every day, with no real pattern—I’ve been taking notes,” he added, puffing out his chest a little. “But you’ve gotten, like…” He did some quick calculations in his head. “At least four of the last five right. How do you do it?” She shrugged again. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just get a feeling.” “A feeling,” Tango repeated, voice flat. She nodded, but said nothing more—instead, she finally got the lid of her box free, and lifted it. As she did, she let out a little gasp. Carefully, she lifted the cupcake free from its little box using her magic. It was a cupcake, to be sure—but it was also a work of art. The frosting, a brilliant sky-blue, had survived the journey in her bags unscathed, and had been sculpted into a perfect, mountainous swirl. It was crusted over with big, clear sugar crystals, making the whole thing look more like an ice sculpture than an afternoon treat. And, of course, there was the vanilla cake—hoof-mixed to one of Mama’s custom recipes, the ones she had spent her entire life perfecting, stuffed with mouthwatering lemon cream. She spent a moment more just staring at it, turning it this way and that, letting it twinkle in the sunlight. She should probably stop being amazed by now, but every single day, all three of them were treated to a new creation of Mama’s, carefully packed in the little cardboard boxes she had bought just for them. Every day, a new cake flavor—which had, of course, led to their guessing game—and, every day, a new, intricate decoration, three identical copies. Foxie knew they only did cakes by special order at the Bakery, so all the batters, all the frosting, all the decorations were just for the three of them. And even though it probably took her hours each night, on top of everything else she had to do, Mama did it all just for them. Her little way of saying “I love you,” of giving them a little hug even when they were at school. Foxie smiled. She’d like to see Mr. Rich do something like that. She stared for a moment more, then frowned, and lowered the cupcake. A couple yards away sat a small knot of colts and fillies. They had been busy with their own lunches, but, had stopped to stare at the cupcake with Foxie. When they saw her staring back at them, they quickly turned back to their own food—but not before one or two of them shot jealous, hungry glances back over their shoulders at her. The three of them ate in silence. As always, Foxie saved her cupcake for last—and, when she finally bit into it, a little shiver ran from the base of her neck, all the way down her spine, and into her tail. She leaned back and moaned softly, then kicked her little hooves in pleasure. She’d told Mama, so many times, that she needed to start actually selling these things. She told her that they’d be rich—but, every time, she’d just smiled and said she’d think about it. Foxie realized suddenly that, even if she did start selling her cupcakes, that they wouldn’t be the same—that they wouldn’t be for them anymore. That she wanted to keep it it all special, just between the four of them. She took another bite, then leaned back against the schoolhouse beside like Tango and Whiskey. Foxie turned to watch the foals on the swing for a while, before she heard Whiskey scoff. Foxie turned to follow Whiskey’s gaze. Apparently, it was lunchtime for the grownups, too; Uncle Softie was wiping Johnny’s mouth with a napkin, and, a few steps away, Uncle Mac was lying back on the grass, sharing lunch with Mrs. Cheerilee. And, over there, under the other tree, was Uncle Flash and Aurora. Tango waved at Rory, and, though she quickly looked away, Foxie saw her shy little smile, and the half-wave she sent back at him. “Where does she get off?” Whiskey grumbled suddenly. Tango and Foxie turned to look at her. Whiskey noticed their stares, then turned to face them. “Aunt Cheerilee,” she said. “Everyone’s dad is here, but there’s like, two moms…” she waved her hoof irritably at where Nurse Redheart sat with a filly with a pink-and-white mane—her niece, Candy Stripe. “...and she doesn’t count,” she added. She sank a little lower against the building. “Mama woulda come,” she grumbled. “If she’d been asked.” They all knew it was a lie. Pinkie would do anything for the three of them, but she was all by herself, and the mornings were when she did all her prep work for the day. She would come—if it didn’t mean that they might lose out on a whole day of sales. If it didn’t mean they might not make rent that month. Foxie watched as Whiskey wiped away a budding tear. “It’s not fair,” she grumbled, mostly to herself. Tango leaned back against the school with a sigh. He had that look again—that turned-inward look, where you could tell that he was no longer quite listening. He had retreated into his head, to do whatever it was that he did in there—fly his spaceships, probably. Foxie watched them quietly. As she watched them—each dealing with their great shared heartache, in the only ways they knew how—she realized that she loved them. Oh, she’d known it before—but it was always in the background, in the same way that you know the sun has risen, even if you weren’t looking at it. But now, she knew it, for sure. And these three little foals—herself included, for she wasn’t entirely free of it either—had one thing that was keeping them from being truly happy. And suddenly, she clenched her jaw. She stood. “Let’s do something about it,” she said. Tango and Whiskey looked up at her. “Do something about what?” Whiskey asked, blankly. “Daddy,” she said. “All we need to do is find him, and he’ll come right back. I mean,” she added, “we love him, and Mama loves him, too—she said it herself. And she makes the best bread and cakes in Ponyville. And we’re practically the best-behaved kids around!” “Kinda,” Tango interjected. “Kinda,” Foxie agreed. “So, why wouldn’t he come back?” Whiskey looked up at her, the faintest glimmer of hope in her eyes. “But,” she said, “where are we gonna find him? Equestria’s a big place…” “Canterlot,” Foxie said eagerly. “Mama said she met him in Canterlot, and they lived there awhile. That’s where he is. And that’s where we’ll go.” Whiskey sank just a little. “But we don’t even know his name,” she said. “How are we gonna find him?” Tango scoffed. “Canterlot can’t be that big,” he said. “I’m sure, once we get there, all we need to do is start looking, and we’ll find him in no time. After all,” he said with a grin, “you meet half the ponies in Ponyville just walking through town square—not to mention all of Mama’s customers. Can’t be too much different there.” The paused, then tapped his hoof against his chin thoughtfully. “But, the train isn’t free…” Foxie deflated a little. She’d forgot about that detail… And then, Tango looked down and smiled. Foxie followed his gaze. He was staring at the half-eaten cupcake still sitting on Foxie’s napkin. Foxie swallowed. She had an idea where this was going—and she wasn’t sure she liked it. But, if this is what it was going to take to fix their family, then… She clenched her jaw. Then it would all be worth it.