A certain filly suffers a sleepless night. She loves art. She loves beauty. She loves ponies not instantly laughing at her like they do her parents. But it's her first day of school tomorrow, and she has to decide what kind of pony she's going to be.
A certain filly suffers a sleepless night. She loves art. She loves beauty. She loves ponies not instantly laughing at her like they do her parents. But it's her first day of school tomorrow, and she has to decide what kind of pony she's going to be.
If it hadn’t been the night before Rarity’s first day of school, she might have felt fewer butterflies in her stomach. But sitting up on the pillow at two o’clock in the morning, lit only by the bedside lamp, she rocked backwards and forwards, fruitlessly trying to sleep again.
When tomorrow comes, I’m not gonna be a baby anymore. The thought seemed too big for her head, no matter how much time she gave it or how often her brain said it.
Warily, she cast her gaze around the room. Dark wardrobe loomed, dark desk lurked in ambush, dark lampshade dangled like a spider overhead…
I’m gonna be a Lady.
Rolling forwards, she waddled along the bed and reached down for the book that had slipped off earlier. Not that she wanted to read it – last time, she’d given herself a headache – but the pictures under the bedside lamp made the butterflies settle down.
I’m gonna be a Lady. I’m gonna meet ponies. I’m gonna be a Big Girl in the World. I’m gonna be me.
There was just one problem: she didn’t know what “me” was.
Rarity opened the cover and let the pages rush past. Across the top of each, the words “Genres and Artistic Categories” flashed past.
Eventually, the slowing pages gave way to the bookmark she’d slipped in earlier – a glittery one with a butterfly on top – and her hoof hit the middle. She skimmed the text, but as usual the headache threatened and she turned to the illustration instead.
Over the last few months, every illustration in the book had received at least one thorough scan. She’d learned to spot the meaningful little touches – the swirl of leaves in a corner, the twitch captured in a painted mouth, the way the lines of dresses suggested a symbol – and had memorized all the subsections of the book, hoping to see broader patterns. She’d seen the rise and fall of realistic paintings, the evolution of abstract shapes to more complex whirlwinds of colour, the clever stories behind apparent nonsense.
Quietly, Rarity turned the page.
It’s not fair, she thought. Look at how pretty they are. Everyone knows what’s surreal and what’s geometrical, what’s allegorical and what’s classical. They all fit neatly. It’s like a big, weird family where everyone can join in.
Oh, artists themselves weren’t always accepted. Some didn’t achieve fame until long past the point when they’d have been alive to enjoy it. Some were hated, some loved; some were geniuses in their own time, some centuries later.
Nonetheless, in this book, their artworks got equal time. Whoever had written it was prepared to welcome anything, even the frankly vile stuff with the bugs and the formaldehyde. Rarity got the impression she could get an entry in there just by leaving her bed untidy.
Not like ponies.
The rest of the house creaked. Elsewhere, Mom and Dad – Mother and Father, she corrected – were snoring. They thought art was “cute”. “Cute”!
In the streets of Ponyville, fillies sniggered behind Mom and Dad’s backs. At their vacation shirts with the garish flowers.
Rarity felt bile burning its way up her throat. She would not – could not – should not – must not be sniggered at. Seeing others sniggered at was like getting shot.
She closed the book and sighed. It used to help. Sadly, not this time.
Instead, she slipped pen and paper off her bedside table and used the book to lean against. She wrote:
Rarity’s Genre:
Do not talk in a funny voice.
Do not burp when other ponies are around.
Do not eat something burnt and say it’s good.
Do not wear ugly clothes.
Do not make ponies ask where I get my money from for all these vacations.
Do not live in a shack near a pond.
Do not have no idea what something is.
Whether it was the act of writing or the butterflies, she burned horribly. Now she couldn’t stop remembering more and more items for less and less space. So she stopped writing.
If these kinds of things caused sniggers, then she had to be a different genre. Tomorrow. She wouldn’t be sniggered at.
Numbness held her steady during the walk. She briefly delighted in the rustic style of the country lane, with its simple plank fences, its bushes, and its guardian trees. Unfortunately, as soon as she saw the school, spikes ran through her insides. The chafing under her saddlebag flared up.
Foals gambolled outside. One or two familiar faces galloped past.
She hadn’t actually spoken with them. Not one-to-one. She’d seen them out and about in the street, true…
…sniggering…
…but that didn’t mean they knew her, surely? She was a… What’s the word the book used…? Ah, a tabula rasa. Blank slate. She liked that. It sounded elegant, especially compared with “blank slate”.
Her gaze alighted on one unicorn filly, sitting alone on the edge of the playground.
Aha, perfect. Look at how she’s fidgeting. Look at how she leans forwards slightly when someone runs past. She wants company. She’ll make a splendid test for the new and improved Lady Rarity.
“Good morning!” Rarity said as she approached. “How are you?”
Startled, the filly spun round on her seat. Confusion wiped her face clear for a moment.
Rarity beamed. Be polite. Mom and Dad say “please” and “thank you”, but they don’t do it right. Most ponies don’t smile very well when they do it. There’s a knack, I think.
Weakly, the filly raised a hoof and waved. “Uh… hi?”
“May I join you?” Maybe I’m putting it on too hard, but it’s what a Lady would do. Mom and Dad aren’t Ladies.
After a while, the filly grimaced. “S-Sure. Sure.”
“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” said Rarity as she “placed her derrière” on the rough stone, “but do you like art? I do.”
“Uh…” The filly glanced around – Poor girl can’t believe her luck! – “Not really. I like… animals.”
“Oh.” Rarity sagged. “OK, then.”
No! Don’t you remember!? Do NOT have no idea what something is. This is like that!
“Er, I mean,” she said hastily, “how fascinating! I… like animals too. Like…” She thought back to her book. “Like butterflies.”
To her delight, she saw the filly’s lips twitch, trying out a smile. She was sure the right thing to do was to make that smile wider. That meant liking. Rarity wanted liking. She almost drooled for it.
“Oh, yeah,” said the filly, “butterflies are amazing. I’ve got a net at home. I don’t keep them!” She waved her forelimbs around as though to banish the horror. “I just catch them, take a picture, and let them go. I don’t like hurting them.”
“Most gal-lant!”
Wow, I’m really good at this.
“Lots of Canterlot ponies have tons of collections. Not that I approve!” Rarity smiled weakly. “I like the Canterlot ponies who don’t collect them!”
“I’ve got lists of genera at home,” said the filly to her hooves. “Uh… would you like to see them one day?”
“I’d love to!” Ignorance overwhelmed poise in her head. “What is a ‘genera’, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Horrifyingly, the filly sniggered –
Wait…
It sounded pleasant. More like a giggle. Giggles were unknown territory.
“It’s ‘genus’ on its own,” said the filly. “Different kinds of butterfly.”
“Aha! Different genres!”
This got her an odd look. “No. Different genera. You talk funny. Are you from Ponyville?”
Doubt coursed through Rarity’s head. Hadn’t this filly seen her with her parents? She must know her face, right?
But if not, perhaps that was a good thing.
“No!” said Rarity breezily. “Pfft! The idea! I’m from Canterlot. Mother and Father moved here recently. That’s why I talk like this. As if I’d come from this dirty little… Er, I mean, I really do like it here. It’s so… idyllic. That’s why we moved, in fact.”
“It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Phew! “You do things differently here?”
“Uh huh. Our Winter Wrap-Ups are all done by hoof. I’m gonna be on the animal team one day and wake up the mice and rabbits and porcupines and snakes.”
“Inspired!” While playing fillies giggled, Rarity extended a hoof. “Lady Rarity.”
Slowly, the filly accepted it. “Sparkler.”
So far, no hiccups.
The classroom was just a box of a room with straw on the floor. Given how pink and swirly the outside had been – And how white and pure its steps! How grand its belfry! – the inside was lacklustre.
Gloomily, Rarity pretended to listen while the teacher introduced herself and chalked stuff on the blackboard and didn’t even try to ask Rarity her name, or what kind of art she wanted to do. Mom and Dad said they’d do art.
The teacher had placed all the students in straight lines and neat rows. Sparkler sat some way away.
Bored, Rarity's ears flicked. Whispers tickled her hearing. She noticed lips moving on the two fillies before her.
“And then Fruitbasket said she was never going to forgive her for telling everyone,” whispered the one breathlessly.
“I wouldn’t either,” hissed the other. “Blueberry Swirl told Cheerilee, and you know Cheerilee can’t keep a secret.”
“Yeah, but Fruitbasket shouldn’t have said she liked liked Honey Drop.”
“Pfft. She doesn’t even know what that means.”
“She does. She just wants attention.”
Fruitbasket? Wait, I’ve heard about her. Why does she want attention? Does she really “like like” Honey Drop, or is she faking it? Curiosity giggled in her chest. She was hearing secrets. It was like eating chocolate cake when Mom and Dad had told her not to.
She had to tell someone! This was fascinating stuff. She would never have guessed that about Fruitbasket. She always thought the filly was a stone wall when it came to feelings. Besides, what did “like like” mean?
Excitedly, she turned to the filly next to her to ask, but then drew back from the sight. Her neighbour stared at the teacher avidly, sat up straight, even wrote things down now and then with – Ew! – a pencil in her mouth. Rarity took one whiff and sweat clawed at her nose.
Gross! Look at her hooves! There’s bits of mud stuck to them! Doesn’t she wash?
Grimacing, Rarity returned her gaze to the blackboard just as the teacher said, “Now, can anyone tell me what this is?”
Disappointing squares crammed themselves in the centre. Rarity looked around. No one put their hooves up except the stinky filly she’d just been eyeing up.
“Yes, uh… Applejack?” said the teacher.
“Miss Pencil Sharp’ner,” said Applejack, “that looks like a Mark Ten Softskin Crate. We got ‘em up at the farm.”
The teacher blinked in surprise. “Oh. Uh. Is it? Well, I was actually going for ‘box’, but… good answer, Applejack! Have a star.”
A star!? She gets a star!? For that!?
Rarity gaped as the silver sticker floated over to Applejack’s puffed-up chest. To her astonishment, the mare actually blushed at this as though ashamed, yet simultaneously a smile bloomed between the natural rouge.
Ridiculous! An apple farmer gets a star over me? But… But Ladies are educated! Not farmers! All the best books come from Canterlot, not from orchards.
To her horror, she saw the mare actually pick her nose. With those muddy hooves! Wooziness shook her head up. She wondered if this was what it was like to almost faint.
More squeaks of chalk against board. “Now, who can tell me what this is?”
Rarity’s hoof shot up at once. She’d be darned if she was going to miss this one. “Miss! That’s an impressionistic sunflower! I saw one like it in my book!”
“No, no, no… uh… Rarity. That’s a daisy. I was actually going for ‘flower’.”
Hopeful, Rarity stared at the box with the stars. Nothing came out.
“What!?” she shrieked. “But Fidelity’s Greeting the Sun looks like that, and that’s a sunflower!”
To her surprise, scowls met her across the classroom. Fillies turned in their seats to throw them at her.
“But,” began the teacher, “young lady –”
“It’s not fair! I did what she did, and I know art when I see it. I’ve seen pictures! How come I don’t get a star? She got one, and that was for a silly old crate!”
Sighing, the teacher threw up her hooves. “All right, all right. It was a keen answer, I’ll grant you that. Here you go.”
“Thank you.” Rarity closed her eyes and stuck out her chest expectantly. Her first star tickled a bit as it landed.
She beamed around at the other foals. None of them beamed back.
Later on, when the teacher finished explaining the rules and ran through the register, she heard voices muttering about her.
That evening, Rarity ran back to her home, through the door, up the stairs, past her mother who yelped in surprise, into her room, and onto the bed, bouncing on the mattress.
She wailed. She rolled about. She burst into tears so violently that they splattered the wall. She buried her face in the pillow as though trying to choke the pain out.
They hate me! They HATE me!
When her mother came in and asked in that stupid whiny voice of hers if she was OK, she smothered herself with the duvet until the tacky-looking mare gave up and went away.
Snob, am I? Liar, am I? I’m not a snob! I’m not a liar! I’m just not some common hick who’ll die unknown and unloved. I’m a Lady. Because I said so!
After a while, she dragged herself out of the duvet. She pulled up the book and flicked through the pages.
Her heartbeat slowed. The clouds of her mind stirred.
The book had to be the key…
Shame flared into rage.
By the time she’d set up canvas and paints, her father had come in. Was she fine? Yes, she was fine. Any problems at school? No, no problems at school. Anything she wanna talk about? Father, I am working.
Guilt nibbled at her soul; she added a much more gracious “No, thank you.” After all, they were asking. Courtesy was the done thing.
He said someone wanted to talk to her. Intriguing: she waved and demanded an audience. Like a Lady to a servant.
Turned out to be Applejack. Rarity curled her lip but absorbed herself with the paints. Her strokes were a bit too vicious.
“Whew,” said Applejack. “Ah din’t know you were a paintin’ genius.”
Yes, I expect there are a lot of things you don’t know. “How can I help?”
“Ah jus’ wanted to say that – at school, Ah mean – Ah thought you deserved that star. Granny always says nothin’ wrong with bein’ s’phisticated. Mah aunt and uncle are s’phisticated.”
“Uh huh.” Rarity continued painting, mostly pink around the edges.
“An’ Ah don’t think you’re a snob, neither.”
“Good.”
“Although… ‘s true you ain’t a lady. An’ you ain’t from Canterlot.”
Rage stung. To be told off by this country hick! “Excuse me, but I am busy. Don’t you have trees to kick? Or a spittoon to spit at?”
She noticed Applejack stiffen, but the filly was a fly buzzing around her picnic table. It was all about the art.
“Please yourself,” muttered Applejack, who left.
I don’t need friends like that, thought Rarity at once. I bet they snigger at her all the time. Wallowing in her own filth…
Rarity stopped painting for a moment.
This didn’t feel right. Surely, a noble mare wasn’t supposed to think like a hive of wasps, stinging everything? A Lady had a noble spirit. This didn’t feel noble. This felt like dirt.
Her brushstrokes became much gentler, much more graceful. Cooling with shame, she ran into the maze of counterstroke and shading and the flush of wet hues on the canvas. Soon, she knew, she would be lost among them, and this dirty, stinging feeling would die away.
Swirling her brush out in the cup of water, she noticed another filly at the door and blinked back into reality.
“Hi?” Sparkler struggled with a smile.
“Uh…” No, not yet. Rarity hid behind the canvas.
“Sorry. I wanted to check you were OK. You looked –”
“I’m fine. Merely painting.” Please go away. Please stay. I don’t want anyone to see me right now. I want someone around who won’t hate me.
“Sure, but… is there… anything I can do?”
Glancing at her, Rarity's mind sparked. After all, she hadn’t decided yet what kind of pony to put in…
Smoothness flowed through her voice. “Actually, yes. If you don’t mind my saying so, you have such a fine face. And your stance!”
Sparkler paled and sank slightly. “Wh-What about it?”
Oh no… She’s going to refuse… Quick!
“I wonder if you could just… stand here for a moment? Perhaps we could have a nice talk. So… you like Winter Wrap-Up, do you?”
Sparkler beamed and began talking. Instantly, Rarity tuned out. She prodded the filly occasionally with a probing question, but ignored the rushing answers. Yes… that outline and that manestyle…
“Can I see?” asked Sparkler suddenly.
Alarm shot through Rarity’s face. “What!? Certainly not! I have no intention of sullying my artwork with – I mean, uh, it’s not ready yet. Thank you. Maybe we can talk tomorrow?”
“Huh?”
Without looking up, Rarity pointed at the door. She’d gotten what she wanted.
Success! I have entered the zone! What a wonderful feeling it was! Huzzah! Now I am a true Lady!
When she looked up, Sparkler was gone.
Days passed. Whispers prodded and poked at her in the classroom while the fillies said all sorts of things about her. Funnily enough, the colts were never involved. Neither was Applejack. They just seemed to ignore it and get on with wrestling in the playground, or straining over mathematical problems in class.
Weird, she thought.
Over time, she stopped sticking her hoof up and spoke less and less. What little fire burned in her chest shrank under all the words. Snob. Liar. Pretender. Suck-up. Fool. Playtime was the worst; there, she simply sat next to Sparkler on the same stone. Even Sparkler had to be dragged into conversation these days.
Upon the tenth night, Rarity lay awake in bed. The butterflies in her stomach had become a farm.
“Where did I go wrong?” she mouthed. Not too loudly, in case the darkness heard her.
I’m giving them something. It’s just not the right thing. Oh, do Canterlot Ladies have to put up with this?
What else can I give them? Applejack does fine giving them baked treats and apples, but that’s just… food. Any fool can bring in food. It doesn’t last.
Anyway, it’s a common pleasure. Not fit for a Lady. I need to think… nobler… higher… more courtly…
Inevitably, her gaze turned to the silhouette of the canvas.
No, she thought at once. Oh no. That’s private! Anyway, beauty is delicate and personal. Those ruffians would probably tear the canvas, or make stupid comments like “It’s all right” or “Ooh, pretty”. Beauty must be preserved!
Still.
There had been a lot of whispers.
She squirmed.
Why not, after all? I want to give them a higher pleasure, fit for a Lady. What’s higher than awe and wonder? What’s higher than shuddering before the majesty of art?
She held her mind on the brink for another day, when the whispers prodded it and the colts ignored it and she missed so many questions she could have answered, if only she hadn’t refused to put her hoof up.
Sitting on the step again, she didn’t even try speaking with Sparkler. Sparkler wouldn’t understand. She hadn’t read Guide to Canterlot Etiquette by Prim and Proper. Not that morning in bed, anyway.
A Lady had to have bounty and wealth. Rarity had neither.
A Lady had to give to charity. Rarity was still saving up for a sewing machine.
A Lady had to show kindness and benevolence. That involved giving things, not necessarily money.
Rarity hummed to herself. The idea was sprouting in her head. Even through the next geography class, she let the teacher drone on and focused on the petals blooming across her thoughts.
Someone had mentioned show-and-tell. Why not, after all? There’d be other artworks. Paintings were only the genesis of her ladylike future…
She galloped home that evening. She prepared her speech, stumbling over and rewriting a lot of it. Her mother came up to tell her dinner was ready, but Rarity simply lied about coming down later and asked her to keep it warm. Mother knew about her “painting” moods and gabbled on about it happily.
Dinner could rot for all Rarity cared.
The next day, she finally stood in front of the class. Her knees shook slightly. She’d had no idea how many glares could fit into one classroom. Now she was actually here…
“Um… Ahem…” She cleared her throat and tried a flourish. “Ladies and gentlecolts…”
Someone sniggered. She didn’t see who. Not that it mattered. At once, she crouched down. All fifteen of her planned flourishing gestures were quietly abandoned.
“Um… Well…” To her horror, she barely remembered her own speech. “I… just wanted to show you something I’ve been working on…”
Their glares continued unabated.
Rarity sighed.
“I… wanted to share this with you. It took me a long time to do, but I thought… well, I think I might have done something wrong, so I thought I’d do something right… and, um… I’m quite happy to give it away, if anyone wants it…”
Running out of steam, she immediately turned to bite and pull off the canvas cover. The silence aimed swords at her. Her artwork beamed out at them. She risked a peek.
Gasps. Smiles. Nods of appreciation.
Finally, the world rolled off Rarity’s back and she sighed with relief.
This time, Rarity sat on the stone alone, watching the fillies on the swings and on the roundabout. Moodily, she chewed one of Applejack’s fritters. That particular show-and-tell had been delicious.
I don’t understand it. They loved the painting. Loved it. So… why am I still here? No one’s asked me to join in yet. And where’s Sparkler gone?
Chewing sullenly, she didn’t respond at first to the shadow falling over her. However, she did jump when a voice said, “Uh… can Ah join you?”
“Wha?” Bits of fritter sprayed over the grass. Burning with humiliation, Rarity nodded her head and choked. Strong hooves beat her back.
“There we go.” Applejack sat down on the step while Rarity’s eyes watered. “Huh. Din’t have you down as a gulper. You got an Apple family appetite.”
Rarity stiffened… and then relaxed. No. Surely, trying to push ponies like Applejack away had been the problem from the start?
“One enjoys fine cuisine,” she said. She didn’t actually know what “cuisine” meant. She just wanted to sound gracious.
“You know, when we firs’ met, Ah thought you was just some Canterlot wannabe. Ah shouldn’t have said what Ah said, an’ Ah’m… uh… As much as you were lyin’ a bit… an’ a li’l snobby…”
“Gee. Thanks for that.” Rarity munched on the fritter.
“But… Ah shouldn’t have said them things Ah said. ‘Tweren’t nice. So… Granny says Ah owe you… an… Well… Ah’m s… Uh…” Giving up, she extended a hoof. “No hard feelin’s?”
Rarity swallowed, trying not to make it look or sound like a gulp: not easy when she hadn’t been taking ladylike bites. “I’m not a snob,” she said shortly.
“Well, all the fancy words an’ art an’ stuff… An’ you sayin’ you’re higher than y’are…”
“That’s not my genre. You can’t tell me what I am and what I am not!”
Applejack shot up and snapped, “Take it easy! Ah ain’t makin’ fun o’ you! Sheesh! You don’t want me around, Ah’ll go –”
Panic snapped Rarity’s heart. “No wait! Please! Don’t go. I didn’t mean that.”
Once more, Applejack sat back down. “Huh. You say a lotta things, don’tcha? It’s jus’ you can be such a bratty thing at times.”
“No I can’t! Me? Bratty? The very idea!” Rarity tried a chuckle, not very convincingly.
All the same, she had found that other book last night. The one she tried to hide behind the wardrobe. Didn’t work, of course. Hiding it somehow made it more obvious to her. So instead, she’d spent most of yesterday poring over the hoof-written or mouth-written genealogies and along the photos taped inside.
Canterlot ponies, after all, took a keen interest in pedigree. Family history. Trees. Who was related to whom.
She groaned.
“What’s wrong?” said Applejack gently.
The tears were coming. Pre-emptively, she sniffed. “Maybe I am just a bratty little snob. Maybe I was born to be one.”
“Born? Shucks, Rarity…”
“Will you let me finish?” she snapped.
Stunned, Applejack lowered her would-be comforting forelimb. “OK?”
“I’ll never be a Canterlot noble, will I? My parents are as far away from being nobles as… as… as a pig in a mudhole! There! I said it! I’m going to grow up wearing those horrid shirts and saying those stupid things! I’m going to be sniggered at for the rest of my life!”
“Why?” said Applejack.
Rarity pouted at the ground. “It’s my genre.”
“Ha! You don’t half say the darnedest things!”
“All right, then, it’s my destiny. My nature. My identity. My… me.”
“Oh, that. That’s just poppy talk. You don’t wanna go believin’ that. Ah mean, look at me. Ah come from a long line of apple farmers, but…” She glanced around conspiratorially.
Rarity leaned forwards, fascinated by the “but”. “What?”
Behind a hoof, Applejack whispered, “Ah’m gonna be leavin’ soon. Ah’m headin’ for the s’phisticated life in Manehattan. No apple farmin’ for me. Ah’m choosin’ mah own me.”
“Choosing your own me? I mean, choosing your own you? I mean… But… How?”
“Well, Aunt an’ Uncle Orange do a lot of charity work. So Ah got to thinkin’: maybe they’re onto somethin’. Maybe the best way of doin’ good for others is to think big. Manehattan ponies help all kinds of causes. Ah reckon if Ah wanna do more than feed ponies treats an’ help family round the farm, that’s the next step up. Helpin’ loads of ponies at once!”
“You mean…” Rarity licked her lips at the word. “Philanthropy?”
“Ah mean helpin’ ponies. Givin’ ‘em stuff. Easier to give ‘em stuff in a rich place like Manehattan, with all them ponies around. Right? Somethin’ to think about, eh?”
“Yes… something…”
When Applejack eventually left, Rarity’s mind was ticking away.
After school, Rarity retreated to her room once more. Her piggy bank – or rather her porcine savings account – shook in her grip. Counting the coins, she lit up with hope and then dimmed with disappointment.
Fifty seven bits? That’s nowhere near enough.
Perhaps the gemstones collection would provide? She lunged for the wardrobe and threw the doors back. Cheerfully, she tipped the tray over the carpet.
“So if philanthropy is about having a lot…” Under her breath she counted out the worth of the collection. “Red is one, green is two, purple is five… Oh, it’s still not enough. I need more. More. More! How can I be generous if I don’t have anything to be generous with?”
She looked up and stopped. To her amazement, Sparkler was at the door.
Frowning.
“Um…” Rarity stared. First the blank look, then avoiding her, then frowning in her own home. Rarity’s upbringing shrugged helplessly at her.
When Sparkler eventually spoke, her voice was an icicle. “I never said I wanted to be painted.”
It took a moment for Rarity to remember; her mental imagery had tangled itself up. “Huh? Oh, you mean the painting? Well, I can explain. You see, your face had a delightfully relatable –”
“You didn’t ask if I wanted to be painted.”
Rarity frowned back. “Ask?”
“Yes. Ask. You used me. I thought you cared about me, but you just used me to get popular.”
“Oh, no no no! Ahahaha! You’ve got it wrong, you silly filly. See, it’s a privilege to be painted by an artist. I was doing you a favour. Lots of ponies pay good money for –”
“I hate being painted!” The ice cracked. “And I hate being used!”
Rarity spluttered. The world was cracking around her, and she had no idea why. “But – aren’t we friends?”
“NO!”
Sparkler spun round, and then spun back.
“And you know what the worst part is? Everyone wants to be like you now! You got it into Applejack’s head that the noble thing to do is go off and be a snob!” Tears ran down her cheeks. “You’re the worst friend ever!”
Utterly lost, Rarity gaped at her. Then a thought struck her. Perhaps generosity was missing. Quickly, she levitated one of the gemstones.
“Would you like one?” she said gently.
Sparkler batted it so hard it soared out of the window. Sullenly, she went out.
Hurrying to the window, Rarity held her breath. Not my first friend! Surely not!? Please don’t let it be so… She could see the gemstone where it had landed in the mud.
To her surprise, she saw Sparkler stop on her way past. She saw her look at the gemstone. She saw her pick it up. Twirl it experimentally.
Sparkler left.
A flicker of hope fought for life in Rarity’s chest. Maybe… one day soon…?
But then she caught sight of the painting in the corner. It showed a filly, plain and frumpy around the mane. It showed her peering into a mirror. It showed the reflection, a filly bejewelled and curling elegantly like a well-crafted Princess. Gemstones surrounded the figure. The filly looked into the mirror longingly, sadly, almost hungrily.
Only after staring at the painting for a few minutes did Rarity realize her mistake. She hung her head in shame. She’d seen too much. Shown too much.
She knew without a doubt that Sparkler was never coming back.
