My Little Brony

by K. M. Hayes

  This book is not authorized or sponsored by Hasbro Inc. or any other person or entity owning or controlling rights in the My Little Pony name, trademark, or copyrights.

  Copyright © 2015 by Hollan Publishing, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Gretchen Schuler

  Cover illustration by Amanda Brack

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63450-676-2

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63450-677-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  Chapter 1

  IF MOM ASKED me to smile one more time, I’d lose it. I pasted on the best grin I could manage, but I was way too old for first-day-of-school pictures. Plus, I wasn’t particularly excited about my freshman year in high school. If it was anything like middle school, I’d spend at least half of it hiding from guys wanting to stuff me in lockers. Mostly by hiding in my locker before they had a chance to trap me in there.

  “Are you done yet?” I asked.

  “Put your arm around Holly this time,” she said, pushing me closer to my little sister.

  “Don’t make me touch Drew!” Holly whined as Mom draped my arm around her. She was eight years old. Her long, blonde hair was curlier than a pig’s tail and her nose was as turned up as a piglet’s. “He stinks!”

  “Just. One. Picture.” Mom’s voice had turned stern. I could tell her southern accent was about to come out more, which meant we were ticking her off. “And if you don’t smile, I’m a fixin’ to keep you here cuddling all morning. So get it together.”

  I smiled. Holly smiled. Mom took the picture, clearly unhappy with it. She was about to ask for another. I could feel it.

  “Are you happy now?” Finally, Dad interrupted the horrible family ritual. He’d been leaning on his prized truck looking at his phone while he waited for this to go down. “Me and Drew are gonna be late if you keep this up much longer. I gotta prep for my first class.”

  I tried to keep my face as steely as my father’s, but my stomach turned something fierce. Scott Morris, my father, wasn’t just any old teacher at Yearling High School—he was the football coach. A five-straight-state-championship football coach. Some of the boys he had coached had gone on to be NFL players and hometown heroes. He was like a god to people in our small Texas town.

  But Mom rolled her eyes. She was never impressed with him like others were. “Be careful, Scott, or I’ll make you get in the picture, too.”

  “Get in, boy,” he said as he opened the driver’s side door. “That’s our cue.”

  I bolted for the truck, glad to be free but still dreading the upcoming day. Dad drove down our long driveway with a wave to Mom and Holly. The golden grass of late summer stretched out as far as I could see. Only our neighbors’ houses dotted the landscape. Originally Dad had planned to keep horses on the land he had bought, but it had never happened. Mom said he was too busy to care for them, and I figured that had to be true since I hardly saw him.

  The drive was quiet. The only sound was the radio playing the country station Dad always listened to. The only one he listened to, even through the commercials. Not that I expected him to talk to me—he was what people called “a man of few words”—but still, part of me wished he’d give me some kind of advice.

  Yearling High wasn’t even the school I was supposed to go to. It was in west Austin, and Dad worked there coaching football stars. My local high school was Roosevelt, a much smaller school in town. My parents wanted me at Yearling because it was supposedly better, with higher test scores and good extracurricular programs. But I knew the real reason they insisted I change schools.

  As I sat there with Dad not talking to me, I swore I felt his disappointment in the words he didn’t say. If I had been better at football—or any sport, really—would it have been different? Would we be chatting about games and plays and the upcoming season right now instead of pretending we were alone in the car? Probably.

  It’s not as if I hadn’t tried to play. Mom and Dad had enrolled me in peewee football as young as they could, and I played until I was ten. During that time, I had broken four bones, had ten concussions, and even got kicked off a team because they couldn’t take how bad I was. It hadn’t even been a competitive league, and Dad’s reputation hadn’t been able to keep me in.

  I was that terrible.

  Mom had finally pulled the plug on my football “career” after I broke three ribs, one of which had punctured my lung. I still remember my parents’ fight in the hospital hallway as I lay in bed breathing as little as possible since it hurt so much.

  “I can’t take this anymore!” Mom had said. “He’s gonna get permanently damaged from this! What will it be next time? His spine?”

  “Injuries happen,” Dad had replied. “It’s part of the game.”

  “Part of the game?” Mom’s words had screeched angrily as her voice went up an octave. “He’s been injured more before his first decade of life than half the pros!”

  “It’ll make him stronger.”

  “Are you insane? What will it take for you to see he is not going to be a football star? He’s horrible! He’s as bad today as he was when he was four. He’s quitting. Right now. I will not let you do this to our son anymore. For both your sakes.”

  It probably should have hurt when Mom had said I sucked that bad, but as I lay there in pain, all I had felt was relief. I was bad. And I hated football. I hated it so much. I was always the smallest kid on the team, the one the other boys picked on and teased because I couldn’t run as fast or push as hard. Even after I had quit, they tortured me for not playing, for being different. Football had made me feel weak my whole life, so when Mom said I didn’t have to do it anymore, I had cried I was so glad.

  But Dad . . . I think he’s been mad at me ever since for not being what he wanted. Sometimes I still felt bad about it, but mostly I was tired. It was easier not to talk and just listen to the music, watching the fields turn into suburban Texas.

  Yearling High School was big, probably bigger than my town’s square, with a large marquee outside that said WELCOME BACK TO SCHOOL, BRONCOS! Students headed in, smiling and acting like they liked being there. Dad parked in a spot labeled COACH MORRIS and turned off the truck.

  “Ready, Son?” he asked.

  I blinked a few times, surprised. I seriously thought he’d get out and pretend he didn’t know me. “Uh, sure.”

  “Let’s go, then.” He got out and waited for me. Then we walked together toward the school’s entrance. When I sped up to lose him, to show him he didn’t have to stick with me if he didn’t want to, he kept up. I almost asked him what was up, but I couldn’t do it.

  “Coach!” A big guy said about thirty seconds after we entered the school. He must have been a linebacker on the varsity team, judging by the fancy leather YHS jacket and the fact that he was the size of a bear. “Good morning, sir!”

&
nbsp; “Harvey.” Dad nodded and held his hand out to me. “This is my son, Drew. He’s a freshman this year.”

  The guy glanced at me for the first time, an eyebrow cocked. Then he held out his hand. “Oh, hey! Welcome to YHS, Drew! I’m Jake Harvey, one of your dad’s team members.”

  “Right.” I took his hand, trying not to wince at his killer grip. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Yeah.” He smiled at my father, not me. “Well, I guess I’ll see you both around. Better get to my first class.”

  “Don’t want to be late,” Dad said.

  “Yes, sir!” Jake ran off.

  This very same scenario with different football players happened precisely three more times before I got to my locker. Dad stood there waiting for me to work the combination, and I realized something super weird was happening.

  “What’s your first class?” he asked, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

  “English,” I said, the dots finally connecting in my head. He was following me around so word would get out that I was his son. Because if people knew that, I might not be bullied like I was in middle school. I knew that was why they made me transfer, but I hadn’t thought Dad would go to such lengths. Maybe I should have been grateful, but I was only angry. “I think I can get there by myself.”

  His eyebrows rose, wrinkling his forehead up to where hair used to grow. “You sure, Son?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be fine.” I’d survived up until now without his help. I didn’t need my dad giving me street cred. This was so much worse than being the loser because now I was reminded that even my old father was cooler than me.

  “Well, okay,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Holler if you need anything.”

  “Sure.” As I watched him walk off, I could hear the conversation he must have had with Mom. They knew I had been bullied constantly. Even if I hadn’t talked about it much, the black eyes had said enough. Living in a small town meant everyone knew your business, so word got around fast that I was the exact opposite of my esteemed father. It wasn’t the “better school” they wanted for me at YHS—it was the fresh start, where no one knew what a loser I was.

  I stared at the ground as I headed to class, and my face burned with shame. I was so pathetic my parents had to save me. What was worse? They weren’t wrong.

  Chapter 2

  I GOT TO English in time to pick my seat. There were only a couple students sitting quietly, most of them in the front. The nerd seats. While I might have seemed like a nerd in middle school, with my small build and good grades, even the nerds had known not to be my friend. They were picked on enough, and they didn’t want to befriend the guy who got it worse than anyone.

  So I didn’t take a front seat. Or a back one, where the slackers liked to sit. No, I went right for the middle by the window, hoping that would be inconspicuous enough. My goal in coming to Yearling was not to stick out in any way. Maybe I could be that guy people ignored. It would be way better than the last two years.

  People filed in, but I didn’t look up because eye contact was dangerous. That was when people started conversations. So I drew in my notebook to look busy. Well, not drawing, but writing “English” in cartoon-like letters for kicks. I’d never taken an art class—I just liked to doodle when I was bored in class. Which was often.

  “Okay, guys, happy first day of school and stuff,” a low voice boomed over the chatter in the room. I looked up, expecting to see your average high school English teacher, but this guy was younger. Still old, but maybe thirty at most. He wore jeans and a T-shirt with only a vague attempt at formality by sporting a vest over it. “Welcome to Honors English. I’m Mr. Rivera, and I’ll be the one torturing you with the English language for the next year.”

  Some of the students laughed. I was tempted but didn’t want to draw any attention and reveal that I thought a teacher was cool.

  “Since this is your first class of the day, this is also your homeroom. Which is just a fancy way of saying all school voting and announcements and junk will happen here. Let’s start with me butchering all your names as I call roll.” Mr. Rivera held up a paper, cleared his throat, and intentionally mispronounced every person’s name. It was hard not to smile at his weird pronunciations. As he started on the ‘M’ names, I waited my turn to see how he would butcher a name as boring as mine. “Ahn-du-roo Mor-eez?”

  I was admittedly impressed at his creativity. “Here.”

  He glanced at me. “Coach Morris’s son?”

  Whoosh. I swore I heard that sound when everyone turned to look at me. I leaned back on the windowsill, wishing I could run right through the glass. Nodding was all I could manage.

  People started whispering. So much for being ignored. How did my parents think this was a better solution? Coming to YHS meant everyone would know who I was, and worse, expect me to be just like my dad. Which they’d quickly find wasn’t true at all.

  “So you go by Drew, right?” Mr. Rivera continued. “Coach calls you that at least.”

  I nodded again.

  “Cool.” Mr. Rivera made a note on his roll and went on butchering names. No one else was asked if they were related to school faculty. Dad talking about me hung in my mind. I had a feeling I didn’t want to know what he said; it was probably along the lines of asking Mr. Rivera to watch out for his pathetic son.

  “Ski-lair Zoek?” Mr. Rivera said. No one replied, so people looked around the class. “Okay, okay, I’ll pronounce it right. If you insist. Skyler Zook?”

  “She’s not here,” a girl in a prim dress said. I hadn’t caught her name because I had deliberately not paid attention. She flipped her dark brown hair over her shoulder. “Trust me, you’d know if Skye was here. She’s impossible to miss.”

  Several students laughed.

  I knew those laughs, the sound of cruelty in them. My insides squirmed from all the times people had laughed at me in the same way, even if this time it wasn’t directed at me.

  “Well, I guess that’s—” Mr. Rivera started.

  The door burst open and in tumbled a girl. My eyebrows rose as I took in her appearance. She was tall and lanky, but that wasn’t why she took up the entire room. Her clothes were bright with colors from the rainbow—all the rainbow colors—and she wore a headband in her white-blonde hair. A headband with blue cat ears.

  “I’m here! I’m here!” she said through short breaths. “Did you get to the end of the roll yet?”

  “Skyler Zook, I presume?” Mr. Rivera said. “Otherwise known as Skye?”

  Skye nodded. “Yup, that’s me.”

  “See?” the prim girl said. “You can’t miss Skye. Even if you want to.”

  More quiet, cruel snickering. I watched Skye, knowing how much this kind of stuff hurt even when you pretended it didn’t. She tipped her chin up and stared back at the prim girl. “Exactly my plan, Emma. Better than looking like I’m going to church.”

  Emma scowled.

  “Now, now, ladies,” Mr. Rivera said. “Please save all cat fights for the second day of school. And not in my class, please.”

  Skye stomped over to the one empty desk right in front of me. That was when I noticed she also wore a rainbow tail. And above that tail was a backpack covered in bright cartoon ponies. I vaguely recognized them because Holly watched that show. My eight-year-old sister would wear a bag like that . . . so I could see why Skye, who was my age or even older, got grief.

  Relief and guilt hit me at the same time. Relief because obviously YHS had a student everyone would definitely pick on. Guilt because Skye would be in the place I had occupied at my old school, which meant I was at least one step up. It was cruel to think like that, but it wasn’t as if I could do anything.

  I determined to ignore the blue cat ears right in front of me. Hopefully the pit in my stomach would go away eventually.

  Chapter 3

  LUNCH HAD BEEN the worst in middle school. Even when the jocks hadn’t found me to pick on, it had been a constant reminder I was alone. My one
friend in the whole world, Quincy Jorgenson, was homeschooled so he couldn’t eat lunch with me. I’d spent most of my lunches hiding in the bathroom, an empty classroom, or the library to avoid people at all costs. If Quincy had been there, we could have at least hidden together.

  But I was selfish to want him there because Quincy had Tourette’s syndrome. He had been so bullied in elementary school his mom pulled him after second grade. I never got why people had a problem with him. His tics weren’t even that bad. Mostly he flared his nostrils a lot and randomly winced.

  So, with that bad history, my heart raced as I approached the cafeteria. I usually avoided the place at all costs, but Mom had opted for a longer picture session rather than making me lunch. She’d given me a ten dollar bill and that was it.

  People often thought of cafeterias as a group of obvious social castes, which was partially accurate, but to me the people in the cafeteria or the commons belonged in some way. This mind-set forgot people like me, the castaways, who hid in the nooks and crannies of a school like mice and knew they’d be dead if anyone spotted them.

  I kept my head down in line as the noise of a million conversations crashed down around me. I’d get my food, find a quiet place in the hall, and survive. At least that was the plan. But as I got out of line with my burger and fries, someone called, “Drew! Hey Drew!”

  It probably wasn’t me they called, but I turned like an idiot. I fully expected to see some other guy named Drew heading for the voice, but I recognized the caller—the first football player I met this morning with Dad, Jake Harvey.

  He motioned for me to come over. I looked behind me, just in case I was mistaken.

  “Yeah, you!” He laughed, but it wasn’t in that mocking tone I knew so well. It was . . . nice. Like how buddies laugh together. So I headed over, not sure what to expect. “Hey man, you can sit with us.”

  “Really?” My voice cracked when I said it, and I wanted to die.

  Jake didn’t notice and pulled out a chair. “Yeah. Sit by me. I need tips on how to get on Coach’s good side.”