//------------------------------// // Saturday Morning // Story: My Neighbor's Neighbor // by Antiquarian //------------------------------// This story is set roughly a week after the first Equestria Girls movie, and falls after the majority of the original My Neighbor, though the final scenes in both stories happen concurrently. Prior reading is not required, though it would give some context to Mr. Arrow’s relationship with the Apple family. Mr. Arrow rose at six, as was his habit, and went about his morning routine. He kissed the picture of his late wife he kept on the pillow on her side of the bed. Then he read from the bible she’d given him sixty-seven years ago when they were first married. He did his morning exercises – stretching, pedaling on the stationary bike, and weights to keep himself limber in his old age – and checked is day calendar – hardware store for lugnuts and grease; grocery store for milk, produce, and sausage; autoshop to tune the Chevy’s carburetor. After a quick shower, he donned pale slacks, a light blue collared shirt, tan shoes, and a woolen sweater against the autumn cool. Then he went downstairs for the paper and breakfast. As he fetched the morning paper, he felt a twinge in his right arm where he’d been shot by a German sniper in ’44. That told him it would rain today. The forecast hadn’t called for rain, just clouds, but he trusted his arm. It twinged whenever rain was coming. Bess had always found that funny, because he’d been shot at Foy, where the weather had been decidedly wintry and rain a distant memory. She said the wound must be scrambled in the attic if it twinged with the wrong weather. Mr. Arrow had stopped questioning it long before his wife had. He reasoned that if an old war wound felt like making itself useful for predicting the forecast, he’d accept its judgment with good grace. Entering the kitchen and setting the paper down on the table, he got out the skillet, stovetop coffee pot, cutting board, and knife, intending to make a breakfast hash of potatoes, eggs, peppers, and sausage, with black coffee on the side. When he went to get the coffee grounds, however, he discovered he was out. Grimacing, Mr. Arrow wrote ‘coffee’ on his shopping list. It was rare for him to forget a detail like that, but he’d been distracted the past few days. He knew the reason without needing to ponder much: the Apple family. More specifically, the older daughter, Applejack. The old man had lived next to the Apples for years, and had become close to them after the tragic accident that took their parents. Mr. Arrow was seldom the sort to seek out company or conversation, but he found himself making an exception for the Apples. They were good people, honest and hardworking, with a powerful sense of virtue and service. They rather reminded him of his own family. As the years passed, he found himself spending more and more time with them, especially the children. Lately, though, they’d been distracted and busy, especially Applejack. At first, it was been something to do with the Fall Formal. But the Formal had happened over a week ago, and Mr. Arrow hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Applejack since. When he’d caught Granny Smith out getting mail one day, the Apple matriarch replied with a smile that Applejack was reconnecting with some old friends. There seemed to be a great deal more to it than that, but Mr. Arrow wasn’t one to pry. Applejack’s business was her business, and that was that. Even so, he’d found himself harboring an uncharacteristic curiosity. Apparently, it had been enough to distract him from simple things like remembering the coffee. Mr. Arrow debated simply going next door and asking the Apples for some. Being farmers, they were certainly awake at this hour, even on a Saturday, but he decided against it. To his thinking, it would be all too easy to give into the temptation of curiosity if he troubled them. Besides, he reasoned, it had been a while since he’d eaten at Gertie’s. Gertie’s Diner, brainchild of the eponymous Ma Gertie, was a fixture of the community. Gertrude Rosenkranz was, like Mr. Arrow, a transplant to Canterlot. She’d arrived with the clothes on her back, an unusual name (at least by Canterlot’s own bizarre naming conventions), and the dream of a small-town diner. There were now five such diners scattered around the city. Ma Gertie had passed away three years prior, but Mr. Arrow still made a point of patronizing his old friend’s business and checking up on the family. As it had been some time since he’d visited, and he was out of coffee anyway, the decision was simple. Grabbing a jacket and flat cap against the expected rain, he climbed into his pickup and headed into town. Mr. Arrow’s arm proved to be as accurate as ever; the rain came two minutes into his drive and only intensified the farther he went. When he finally drew close to Gertie’s, he saw that the street was under construction, preventing him from parking as close as he would have liked. Sighing with mild annoyance, he left his car by a nearby park and started walking, his collar turned up against the elements. It was then that he saw the girl. She was sitting on a park bench, wearing an orange skirt with some kind of purple and yellow accents, though it was so drenched that it was difficult to tell the exact color. Her high boots, of the style that seemed oddly in fashion amongst young ladies these days, were equally ill-suited to keeping water out. A dark sweatshirt gave her slightly more protection with its long sleeves, but it was plainly soaked through. She had the hood pulled up, which concealed her hair save for a couple sodden red and golden strands, but the hood did nothing to hide the thousand-yard stare in her blue-green eyes. Nor did it hide the tears that stained her face even in the rain. Mr. Arrow was not one to pry. He was also not one to walk past a broken soul. Without hesitation, he crossed over to the girl. She didn’t seem to notice, which he took to be a Bad Sign. When he’d stood for nearly half a minute and still provoked no response, he cleared his throat and said, “Young lady, why are you sitting in the rain?” Her eyes jerked up to him in surprise. Unbidden, memories of shell-shocked green troopers in France and Korea sprang to mind. “What?” she asked dumbly. “You’re getting soaked.” For a brief instant, her eyes flashed scornful, and her body language lifted from broken to superior. When she opened her mouth, he assumed the words to come would be to the tune of ‘Ya think?’ or perhaps ‘No! Really?!’ Recalling how his own daughters had been at that age, Mr. Arrow would have bet the latter. But no verbal barb was forthcoming. Instead, she glanced sharply away, biting her lip as her body tensed like she was expecting to be hit. No, the old man realized realized, she was tensing like she wanted to be hit. Where before her eyes had been scathing, now they were full of shame. “I-it’s fine,” she stammered. Mr. Arrow raised an eyebrow. “It’s not. You’ll catch your death of cold.” Again, he expected, even hoped for, the stereotypical rebellious teenage response. Instead, the girl sunk lower in her seat and mumbled, “Maybe that’s what I deserve.” A chill settled in John Arrow’s bones that had nothing to do with the weather. For a moment, he pondered what to do. He couldn’t force her out of the rain. On the other hand, he couldn’t very well leave her here. It was one thing for a healthy young woman to sit out in the rain out of stubbornness. It was quite something else for her to sit out in the rain because she believed she didn’t deserve to live. But if she wouldn’t move on her own account, what would move her? Someone besides herself, came the inspiration. Wordlessly, he stripped off his jacket and held it out to her. She looked up at him in confusion. “What are you doing?” she asked. Smirking slightly, he replied, “I’m giving you my jacket.” Defiance flared in her gaze. Which was good, the old man knew. If she was fighting, then there was some part of her spirit that hadn’t been crushed “I’m not taking your jacket, old man.” “Then I’ll hold it,” Mr. Arrow replied calmly. Her lip curled. “But now you’ll catch your death of cold.” “I suppose we will,” he said. He continued to hold out the jacket. Already, his woolen sweater was growing sodden. The girl glared at him. Mr. Arrow returned the gaze with stoic unconcern. Her glare intensified. Mr. Arrow smiled politely. With an angry growl, the girl snatched the jacket from his grip and put it on. “Happy?” she snarled. Mr. Arrow nodded. The girl shook her head, her gaze scornful at first before it gave way to the same shame as before. “Stubborn old man,” she muttered. Mr. Arrow was honest enough to admit that was true. For a moment, the pair sat silently in the rain. Then, with one eyebrow raised warily, she asked, “Well, what now?” He held out a hand to her. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it. Mr. Arrow pulled her to her feet and gestured down the street towards Gertie’s Diner. “Now, we get breakfast.”