“Great rehearsal!” I say to Torch Song as we leave Carousel Boutique. And it [i]was[/i] great. I always have the spot almost at the far end from her, but her voice still carries down to me, lyrical like a songbird. “Thanks, Toe Tapper.” She doesn’t smile. I say that all the time, but does she even take me seriously? She’s really good! “I mean it. You should be a professional.” I’ve never really thought about it before, but what strikes me the most is how effortlessly she sings. The best always can. Not that she doesn’t put in the work! Whenever I walk past her house on the way to the market, I hear her practicing. And she doesn’t struggle with it like I do, or anypony else I know. Music flows from her without a thought, at her beck and call. But still no smile. Well, on on her lips, but her body disagrees. She veers off and sits on one of the benches near the well, with that oversized pony statue staring down at us. “I tried once.” News to me. But good for her! Nopony makes it on the first try, or so everypony says. “And?” Who could ever deny that talent? Beautiful voice, and she puts her whole soul into it. Any record exec who misses that doesn’t deserve his job. Fluke thing, he had a bad day, or something like that. She somehow squeezes her whole body in, and gone is that constant air of confidence. “N-no, it didn’t work out.” She looks so [i]small[/i]. So I finally sit down beside her. “I know, show business is cutthroat. Don’t let it get to you. Just ’cause one guy didn’t have enough sense—” “I didn’t—” She sighs sharply and shakes her head, the beads in her hair seeming to trail sparks as they glint in the wan light leaking from the town’s hibernating buildings. And the one braid whipping around as if she were the self-flagellating type. Well… she does get very down on herself at times. It’s rare, but I can see it in her eyes: something hollow, deep—ripples in a subterranean lake, undulating into the darkness until they disturb something that shouldn’t be. After a moment of silence, she finally says: “I didn’t stop there. I tried a couple of other recording companies. Same answer.” Though I notice she didn’t exactly tell me the answer. She glances down at her flank, her braid once again flogging her ear. And it leaves her mane pointed at me, all done up in its bun. I often wonder how it would look if she let it down. Another jewel shines in the sparse light—no, she… she’s crying. “As they put it, ‘Somepony short and fat isn’t very marketable.’” My stomach writhes. I could say so many things, but she’d take most of them the wrong way. “Well, [i]I[/i] think you’re pretty.” She returns a wry smile, but of course that doesn’t solve her problem. There has to be a way. “Look,” I cast about, “remember what we did with Fluttershy? It worked! Ponies loved her singing, and when they saw it was actually her, they transferred that love right to her, no problem. We can do that—set up an audition, we’ll find a stand-in, and then you’ve got your hoof in the door—” “Don’t you think I would have come up with that idea already?” She sits up as tall as she can, as proper as a concert pianist, and sucks in her belly. I catch her doing that occasionally. I raise an eyebrow at her. She just got too nervous and couldn’t make herself go through with it, I bet. “But why wouldn’t that do the trick?” Immediately, she turns her head back toward me, her eyes casting out an entreaty I can’t answer. “They never even heard me sing. Wouldn’t listen. Took one look at me and turned me down. The singing doesn’t matter. It [i]never[/i] mattered.” “But that’s why we switch—” “You said it yourself,” she squeaks out. “When everypony [i]saw[/i] it was Fluttershy.” I can only stare back, open-mouthed. I don’t understand. “Tapper, don’t you get it? Don’t you remember? Fluttershy was a model.” The silence eats any response I could give. “When they saw the Ponytones on my resume, the interviewers asked after her instead.” I shuffle my hooves against the limp, dewy grass for a moment. “It matters to me.” She really is pretty. But I don’t say it out loud.