Little My Rainbow

       The sea was no help at all—calm and smooth, a sickening swirl of every stupid summer colour: blue, turquoise, green, even a murky purple where the horizon blurred into haze. But there was no wind, no storm brewing, just this smug, glittering expanse. Little My screamed at it until her throat burned. A seagull wheeled overhead, mocking her with a shrill echo. Too far to hit with a stone. She wanted to throw herself onto the pale sand, thrash and howl—but that was pathetic, so she waded into the water instead. The shallows were warm, lapping at her ankles like some simpering fool. A rare wave would catch her at unawares and splash over her head. Useless. Couldn’t scrub the fury out of her if she clawed her own chest open. She yanked at her dress collar—fingers snagged on the bow, tugged—and the ribbon came loose. She glared down. Pink. It was pink. What kind of absolute nonsense was this? It was supposed to be red, like the dress! She pinched the fabric between her fingers. Different texture. Had the bloody thing faded without her noticing? How long had she been strutting around with this vile pastel scrap fluttering under her chin, beyond notice? She tried to shake the soggy piece of fuzz off, but it clung like misery. Little My halted. Stomped back onto the beige sand. No—since when did she care about a ribbon? She wasn’t afraid of anything, least of all some stupid feelings! Even her mother—ugh—wallowed in them like a happy walrus, cooing about love left and right. Was it really that hard? The sea shoved her knees one last time. She spun, flipping the bird with both paws to the turquoise expanse. Hmph. Hugging Little Wee hadn’t been completely revolting. But that didn’t count—he was just a little brother. Wait. Snufkin was technically a brother too. Younger or older? Who knew. Their mother certainly wouldn’t tell. But Little My instantly decided he was the younger one. Obviously. She sprinted down the beach, chasing her thoughts and air-drying at the same time. Wet socks were worse than unrequited whatever-this-was. Useless, like Sniff’s button collection—but even buttons had uses. Terrifying Sniff. Pelting sparrows. She was chaos incarnate—why was she the one suffering? Time to make others squirm. Take Snufkin. He used to bolt at the first sign of serious talk, or at least hide under that ridiculous hat. Coward. Little My grinned and trotted off to find a freshwater stream to rinse the salt from her hair. And to test some ideas, to grapple some useless feels head on, like she always did. The sea could keep its pretty colours. She had better things to do.       *** The stream ran conveniently close to the tent—and to the green hat just visible in the grass. The rest of its owner was hidden, napping with the hat over his face while perch smoked over the fire. Little My crept toward the flames: to dry off, to gnaw a fish quietly, to glare once more at her pink (once red) ribbon. She twisted it into a crumpled rose-shape—not that she’d pluck real dog-roses bare-handed! But where to find a pin? Ah. A fishing rod stood idle by the bank. The hook would do. With her hook-speared atrocity of a flower, she stalked toward Snufkin. Her cheeks burned. From the heat of the fire, obviously. She exhaled and grabbed his hat. He barely lifted his head, squinted. “Knew it was you. Woodies are politer. Other Moominvalley folk would’ve announced themselves. What are you doing?” She was already jabbing the hook into his hat’s green felt. Ugly. Ridiculous. Her style. “Marking territory,” she declared, voice steady. “You know I like riding your hat.” Good enough for a confession? For her, yes. And it wasn’t scary—no, the scary was a wrong word, just… not feeling like an oyster split open. What came next by the motherly instructions? Ah, yes. Grab the object of affection by something.Right. She yanked his scarf—once to make him sit up, twice to pull him closer—close enough to see: Brown eyes, finally wide. Messy auburn hair with a touch of ginger (hm, a bit Mymble-like, mixed with that Joxter fellow). A frayed yellow knit scarf. Smoke-and-grass scent. So close. If she stood on tiptoe— She did. Reached— And bit his nose. Then she cackled at his stunned expression, the blush creeping up his ears. “I wasted my bow on you,” she informed him. “So now you owe me a scrap of that scarf. Can’t have my dress flapping open.” Without pause, she clambered over him to his other side—where his pocket knife had to be. Not like she’d tear fabric bare-handed. “Er—” His face was priceless. “Why?” “Because we’re siblings, brother dear.” Little My brandished the knife. “Remember when I tried to introduce you to a Joxter guy at Moominpappa’s memoir party? Thought he looked like you. Well, Mum just confirmed it—she had you with him. Congrats! As your elder sister, I’ll be taking your education in hand.” Well, actually, the Mymble hadn’t confirmed anything, just shared a hunch, but this obnoxiously nice idiot didn’t need to know that. “Little My, this is a stupid joke.” “Nope! Not a joke, not stupid. Don’t believe me? Let’s ask Mum! After you give me that scarf. Hurry, or I’ll tell Moominpappa about your recent forest adventures with Moomintroll!” That funny blush definitely got a shade deeper, but in a second, Snufkin retrieved his hat and hid under its brim. “You could’ve just asked, y’know. Threats aren’t getting you anywhere, because I… we’re not going to hide it forever.” “Yeah, totally. Just for several years, if I haven’t meddled.” She grinned. Sisterly character-building worked once more. Chaos, as always, was the best solution.