Stout Hearts and Dragonflies

by Lightoller

Chapter 5

Stoutheart’s stomach rumbled. Again.

It seemed louder than the last one a few minutes ago, but he could care less if it drew someone’s stare. He was starving, but he pinned the blame for that solely on himself. His breakfast earlier that morning consisted of an orange before he decided to head outside and wait for his ride. The calisthenics and game of handball in Phys Ed had done the rest.

The latter had ended in a loss for him and “Team Spitfire”—no doubt giving Rainbow Dash a small measure of revenge for the drubbing her team took yesterday—but Stoutheart didn’t mind. Spitfire’s tired remark of “Can’t win ‘em all” bounced in his head like a pinball. He admired her graciousness in defeat. Besides, it was not like he and his team got steamrolled. They made Dash’s crew work their asses off for that victory, eliciting respect from Iron Will that surprised everyone.

Flitter had been on his team as well, but unlike yesterday, Stoutheart had little time to make small talk with her. The fast paced nature of the game, coupled with fatigue, made it impossible, though she did offer her usual bevy of compliments once the game mercifully ended. Stoutheart wanted to mentally kick himself for letting another chance to tell Flitter how he felt about her slip through his grasp, but the logical part of his brain had won out: Not the time. Not the place.

He cut the reverie short by glancing at the menu scribbled on the chalkboard behind the counter. Apparently the faculty had decided to forego the usual Friday fare of hamburgers and fries and try something new: spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread on the side. On the outside, Stoutheart’s mouth was closed, but on the inside, it watered.

Ignoring the chit chat around him, Stoutheart approached the counter and held out his bowl. Almost mechanically, a big heap of steaming noodles plopped down into it, followed by a deluge of tomato sauce and topped with some meat balls.

“There ya’ go sonny!” said Granny Smith with a smile. “Figured since you’re in the same gym class as mah’ granddaughter, you outta’ get a big helpin’ to get you through the rest of the day!”

“Thanks ma’am,” replied a grateful Stoutheart who flashed his own smile. He then moved farther down the counter, where he dusted the food with some parmesan cheese and had a slice of freshly baked garlic bread dropped next to his pasta by another staff member armed with some tongs. Before leaving, he snatched up some napkins, and paid for a bottle of Burple Classic.

Leaving the line, Stoutheart re-entered the cafeteria and headed for his usual seat. Up ahead, he could make out Spitfire and Fleetfoot. The former was taking her time with her food while the latter appeared to be digging into the spaghetti if she hadn’t seen the dish in years. Soarin’ was there too, but his back was to Stout.

On his way over, Stoutheart’s eyes drew to the left; Thunderlane, Cloudchaser, and Flitter sat just across the aisle. The two sisters were eating, but appeared to be listening as Thunderlane related some kind of anecdote, sometimes using hand gestures to emphasize the storytelling.

Though he refocused his stare ahead, Stoutheart slowed a bit as he passed them. The idea of finding an empty seat next to the trio and chatting with them filled his mind, but like “Operation ask Thunderlane if Flitter’s Single”, it became stillborn. Instead, he turned right and headed for his usual table, taking a seat next to Soarin’.

“Hey Stout!” Fleetfoot called out with a mouthful of pasta. Some of it, partially chewed, flew out and landed on table. Spitfire made a face.

“Geez, Fleet! Say it don’t spray it!”

The girl swallowed her food and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry ‘bout that!” She quickly mopped up the disgusting blob with a napkin and used a second to wipe away the sauce staining the corners of her face.

Stoutheart sat down and cracked open a soda. “I take it the spaghetti’s good?” he said nodding over to Fleetfoot’s rapidly disappearing bowl.

“Yup,” said Soarin’ as he twirled up another forkful. “I don’t know what they used in this stuff, but it’s damned delicious.”

Stoutheart nodded for taking a bite of his own. “Wow, you ain’t kidding,” he said while chewing. He then swallowed. “Tastes almost like the stuff my grandma cooks when I visit her.” He began chowing down, savoring the richness of the sauce and the juiciness of each meatball. To his palette, they tasted like the frozen meatballs his mom sometimes bought at TitanMart. He didn’t mind a bit. In his ravenous state, they were just as heavenly as anything homemade. Then he took a sip of his drink. Nectar from the gods, he thought blissfully.

“What do you three clowns have planned for the weekend?” asked Spitfire as she brought a bottle of iced tea to her lips.

“Scorched Earth marathon on my JoyBox,” announced Soarin’. “Sunset Shimmer’s going down. Hard.”

“Binge watch some episodes of Ogres and Oubliettes,” said Fleetfoot without prodding.

The other three stopped eating and stared at the Wondercolt.

“What?” she shrugged and took a draught of her root beer. “I know it’s based on a board game and all that, but it’s really good! What about you skipper?”

Spitfire’s mouth tightened into a grin. “Catch up on my beauty sleep for starters. After that, I’ll play it by ear.” She turned to Stoutheart and gestured to him with a meatball impaled fork. “What about your weekend Stout? Got any new books waiting in the wings?”

Stoutheart looked up from his spaghetti. “Nah, I’m going hat hunting tomorrow.”

“Hat hunting?” asked Soarin’, his face a mask of confusion.

“For my Wraith costume on Monday,” explained Stoutheart. Only then did his friends nod in realization.

“You still haven’t found one yet?” asked Spitfire matter-of-factly.

Stoutheart shook his head and sighed. “I’m going to try the mall again and see what I can come up with. Call it a last ditch effort, I guess.” His words carried a bit of optimism. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and find something.”

“And if you don’t?” rasped Fleetfoot before taking another mouthful of pasta.

“Then I’m screwed,” Stoutheart shot back flatly as he stabbed another meatball and ate it. “Aside from that, I dunno.”

For the next few minutes, the four of them ate in silence, their only company being the combined babble of hundreds of voices within the cafeteria. The urge to look over to his left overwhelmed his mind and he tried everything he could think of to stop himself: he focused on the deliciousness of his lunch. When that didn’t work, he reminisced about the last non-fiction book he read. Then he ran some lyrics of his favorite band—a power metal group called Phalanx—through his head. But the urge to gawk was irresistible, and he cursed himself for his weakness.

This time it was Cloudchaser talking, going on about the latest Sapphire Shores album if his ears didn’t deceive him. Thunderlane seemed to be listening as he shoveled in another mouthful of spaghetti while Flitter sipped at a carton of chocolate milk. The skirt and T-shirt of yesterday were gone, replaced with a light pink hoodie, jeans, and sneakers. Given the sudden drop in temperature that had come with last night’s storm, the attire was sensible.

Suddenly, as if she sensed Stoutheart’s eyes on her, Flitter turned away from her sister and caught his gaze. His pulse quickened and his breath caught in his throat. She smiled and waved at him, but Stoutheart did not return the gesture. With the speed of a whip, he jerked his head around to look at his meal.

Nice going dumbass, he thought bitterly. You probably made her think she did something wrong. He hung his head at the move and grimaced before finishing off the rest of his lunch. He could feel a belch coming on, but when it came, he stifled it.

“How long’s this going to go on?” Spitfire’s voice came with the intensity of a gunshot that broke Stoutheart out of his mental self-flagellation. He looked up at the girl, sighed once again and tried to form a response, but anything he had formed in his brain ended up dying in his throat.

Soarin’ leaned over to him. “Just go and talk to her dude!” he whispered.

“No,” said Stoutheart his tone once again flat.

“C’mon, what do you have to lose?”

Stoutheart scoffed and turned to meet his gaze. “I’m sure that’ll go down great,” he shot back sardonically. “‘Hey Flitter, how’s it going. Nice weather we’re having huh? By the way, I have a crush on you. Would you like to go to the dance with me on Monday?’”

“Just trying to help Stout,” he replied back defensively.

Stoutheart looked over at his classmate and nodded weakly. “I know, I know. Sorry.” He began tracing lines in the remnants of his spaghetti sauce with a fork. “This is all new to me. I haven’t the faintest idea how to proceed.”

Spitfire gave him a sympathetic look. “I wish I had some wisdom to give you, but this whole romance thing is alien to me too. I’d probably have better luck performing quantum physics while standing on my head.”

“It’s alright,” acknowledged Stoutheart with a chuckle. It didn’t last long. “Maybe I’m wasting my time,” he sighed.

“How so?” asked Spitfire.

“I dunno,” shrugged Stoutheart. “Maybe…” he took a moment to form what to say next. “Maybe she’s already seeing someone but is keeping it on the Q.T.”

“Maybe she’s not even into guys!” blurted Fleetfoot. Her mouth was crammed again with spaghetti but the words came clear enough.

“Seriously?” deadpanned Spitfire.

Fleetfoot swallowed her food put her hands up in a defensive posture. “What? It’s possible! I’m sure there’s a few girls here who swing that way. Look at Lyra and Bon Bon! Also that one chick who plays the cello.”

“Octavia?” said Soarin’, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How do you know she’s a lesbian?”

“I saw her holding hands with Vinyl last week after school. Don’t need to be a rocket scientist to know they’re together.”

“Fleet may be a bit rough around the edges in her presentation, but she’s got a point,” said Stoutheart, steering the conversation back on track. “Can’t dismiss it out of hand.”

“I stand by what I said before Stout,” reiterated Soarin’, who jerked his head in the direction of Flitter’s table. “Take your butt over there and talk to her.”

Stoutheart did a sideways glance to that table before refocusing on his friends. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I just don’t know.” He then dropped the fork on the plate and took a bite of his garlic bread. It was lukewarm now, but Stoutheart didn’t seem to care. “And even if we did get together, I doubt it would last.”

“Ah c’mon Stout, don’t say that,” encouraged Spitfire.

“No, I’m sure of it.” Stoutheart’s voice was quiet but hard as steel. He rubbed his chin. “I give it a week…maybe a month before she’d get bored and dump me.”

“You don’t know that,” countered the soccer captain. “For all we know she could be a closet egghead like yourself. If not, well, I’m sure you’ll be able to break the ice with something.”

“I’m with Spitty,” said Fleetfoot gesturing to her classmate with her fork. “You could always wow her with that story about your great-grandpa wiping out the whole Neighponese navy.” She flashed a sauce smeared smile.

Stoutheart had half-a-mind to correct her on his namesake’s exploits at Cerberus Island, but quickly killed the notion. “Maybe,” he said wanly as he brought his garlic bread up for another bite. He munched it in silence, while the three soccer players looked at him, expecting to say something else. When he didn’t, Spitfire, Fleetfoot, and Soarin’ shifted awkwardly to another matter. To Stoutheart, their words came muffled, as if he were wearing ear plugs. He was too lost in his own thoughts to notice and he didn’t really mind. Ruining someone’s lunch with his problems was not on his agenda today.

As Stoutheart consumed the bread, his mind pondered. He gave a sideways glance at Flitter’s table again. Nope, sorry Soarin’. Not happening. His brows furrowed in irritation. After a few minutes, the best idea he could conjure up was what he would do if Flitter shot him down. If she says no, I’ll leave it at that. I won’t beg, I won’t put on some ridiculous scheme to win her over, or pursue her like some sicko. The idea of giving up annoyed him, but his decision was final.

Once his bread was gone, Stoutheart picked up the rest of his Burple and chugged it. Then he looked at his watch and rose from his seat.

“Where you goin’ Stout? Library again?” asked Soarin’.

“Mmm hmm,” grunted Stoutheart with a nod. “Maybe there’s a book there about the Excelsior I haven’t read yet.”

“Doubt it. You must have read every book about that ship by now,” teased Fleetfoot.

“Just the good ones Fleet,” replied Stoutheart as he collected his utensils in his bowl. “Just the good ones.”

He masked his internal struggle with a smile before giving parting wave to his friends and headed back into the kitchen, where he dropped off his bowl and threw his bottle in a blue recycling bin. Then he walked through the cafeteria doors and was gone.

* * * *

The route to the library was well known to Stoutheart; he had traveled it frequently following his afternoon repasts, and usually it took all but a few minutes, but today was different. He walked slowly, as if his navy blue and white sneakers were crafted from lead. His hands disappeared into the pockets of his jeans. He moved through the hallway with barely an acknowledgement of the walls, the lockers, and the Halloween décor that mirrored the CHS lobby. The same went for the smattering of students that hurried past him in a blur or sat chatting in twos or threes off to the side.

He had all but purged the thought of Flitter from his mind when a noise made him jerk his head up and look left—in the direction of an entrance to a public restroom, a pair of wall mounted arrows pointing to the boys room off to the right, and the girls room to the left. The sound came from the former.

Stoutheart’s curiosity was piqued. He inched forward to the wall and picked up a smacking noise akin to someone smashing their fist into an open palm followed by another grunt. It sounded male—and young.

“You little shit!” another male voice—older—tore the air.

Well, this isn’t good, judged Stoutheart as he hugged the wall and crept slowly along it as if he were in one of his Wraith books. Reaching the end of the wall, he carefully peered around, taking care only to show the top of his head and eyes.

On the floor, lay the crumpled form of boy, with pale grey skin and a crop of dark grayish blue hair that looked like a miniature, less flashy version of Soarin’s own hair style. The eyes were shut tight in pain, and the mouth curled into a grimace. His arms encircled his abdomen, an obvious sign that he had been hit there. “That all you got Hat Trick?” hissed the boy painfully but with a pinch of smugness. “My grandma hits better than you and she’s got arthritis.”

Standing above him was a boy almost Stoutheart’s height. He was clad in a hoodie whose sky blue color suggested to Stout that it was official Wonderbolts apparel, and mustard cargo pants whose cuffs draped themselves over a pair of black sneakers. Rising from the top of the hoodie was a neck of peach-colored skin and a head obscured by a thick mop of coppery hair. His left hand was clenched tight into a fist, while his right massaged that side of his body, a sign that the kid on the ground had got his own blow in before being felled.

“Humor ain’t gonna’ save your ass Bumble,” the aggressor’s emphasis on the boy’s name was venomous. “Neither is your big brother.”

“I don’t need his help with an idiot like you,” he spat back defiantly. “Even Fluttershy could take your ass without breaking a sweat.”

Like waving a red flag before a bull, the remark seemed to send Hat Trick over the edge. He charged at his victim and grabbed him by his charcoal grey t-shirt, jerked him to his feet, and slammed him back first into the far wall next to the handicapped toilet stall. He cocked his right arm back for a punch.

I don’t think so pal, Stoutheart thought to himself as he emerged and ran toward Hat-Trick. His footsteps must have caught to boy’s attention because Stoutheart could see his head turning to seek out the source of the noise.

Stoutheart was on him before he could turn fully. He wrapped his sweater clad arms around Hat-Trick’s neck sending a gasp of surprise from boy. Then, with every ounce of strength he could muster, he threw Hat Trick into the row of sinks to his right. Hat Trick struck the countertop back first, sending an angry, pained cry spurting from his lips. The impact also buckled his legs and sent him the tiled floor. Immediately, Stoutheart put himself between Hat-Trick and his victim.

Expecting retaliation, Stoutheart clenched his fists and glared hard at the bully, who rose up from the floor with a groan. Stoutheart mustered up his best death glare at Hat Trick, whose own emerald green eyes blazed with anger.

“Who the fuck are you?” he blurted with nostrils flaring.

Your worst nightmare. That’s what Stoutheart wanted to say, but he held his tongue. For one, it was clichéd as hell. Also, he lacked the intimidating voice to pull it off. Even so, Stoutheart tried the latter as he mustered up a “get lost”.

Judging from Hat Trick’s scoffing, Stoutheart knew he failed. “You gonna make me hero?” sneered Hat-Trick condescendingly while looking the interloper over. “This ain’t any of your business.”

“Tough shit,” replied Stoutheart coldly. “Whatever beef you have with this kid is over,” he jerked a thumb to the grey-skinned boy who was using the interruption to get back on his feet. “Now, in case you’re hard of hearing, I said get lost.”

Hat Trick let out a low chuckle—and then lunged. Stoutheart cursed himself for letting his guard down as Hat Trick gave a hard tackle into Stoutheart’s abdomen, driving the wind from his lungs and sending him crashing to the ground. No sooner did he land than Hat Trick began flailing his arms, trying to land punch after punch on Stoutheart’s head.

Stoutheart had figured what would come next with that tackle and brought his arms up to block any blows threatening to land on his face, but Hat Trick also saw this and began striking the side of his head, his neck, and his ears. To Stoutheart, the latter were the most painful—he felt as if his eardrums would rupture from such an onslaught.

Though wincing from the pummeling, Stoutheart looked through the gaps between in his arms and saw a chance; his knees seemed to be below Hat Trick’s own gut. He did not hesitate. He thrust his right knee up as if his life depended on it—because it did.

The gamble paid off. Hat Trick let out a guttural cry and the blows lessened. Stoutheart wanted to massage his head from the punches, but he worked through the pain and began administering his own blows to Hat Trick’s face in an effort to get him off. He aimed for his cheeks, jaw line, and temples. The mauling was unskilled but as far as Stoutheart could tell, it worked. Hat-Trick backed off, holding his head with grunts and words that were unintelligible, but which Stoutheart guessed were curses. He used the opportunity to scramble to his feet. A flash of grey made him look to the left; the boy he had helped was standing near the steel wall toilet stall. “You alright?” he asked while catching his breath.

The youngster nodded before looking ahead. “Watch it! He’s getting back up.”

Stoutheart turned back to see Hat Trick making his own recovery. His face was reddened and his chest heaved with exertion. He ran toward Stoutheart again, fists ready. This time, Stoutheart was ready.

As his aggressor closed the distance, he whipped his right arm into one of the few fighting moves he knew; a haymaker. The knuckles of his hand caught Hat-Trick right on the mouth. The force jerked his head back like a whip and caused him to stumble and fall to floor on his buttocks. He gave another groan of pain and cupped a hand underneath his mouth.

From Hat Trick’s lips, a white tooth emerged and was spat out into the bully’s palm, along with a few drops of blood and saliva. More saliva hung from his lower lip in a thin string. His eyes looked back up at Stoutheart, incandescent with rage.

Great,sighed Stoutheart internally, his heart feeling like it had been dunked in ice water. Just great.

“You motherfucker!” roared Hat Trick, sending out more gobs of bloody drool. He was back on his feet in seconds and began to charge his attacker with renewed fury.

“HOLD IT!” hollered a male voice, older and very authoritative. Stoutheart snapped away from Hat Trick, who also paused in mid-charge and turned to where the voice originated.

Standing before them was a middle-aged man with tan skin and a thick mop of hair almost a black as coal. He was dressed in a brown sweater and his pale blue eyes narrowed at the sight of the three boys. Stoutheart instantly recognized him as Mr. Cranky Doodle.

“What’s going on here?” asked Mr. Doodle, the annoyance in his voice on display for all to hear.

For what seemed like an eternity—but was probably only a few seconds—no one in that bathroom spoke, prompting Mr. Doodle to bark out a “well?” that made Stoutheart feel like he was going to leap out of his skin.

“I-I saw him,” he pointed to Hat Trick, “beating this kid up,” he began gesturing to the teen behind him, “so I uh…”

“He’s lying!” snapped Hat Trick indignantly.

“It’s true!” the boy behind Stoutheart shot back before pointing at Hat-Trick. “This idiot jumped me while I was washing my hands and-“

“Shut up!”

“Enough!” yelled Mr. Doodle. He looked down at the floor, massaged his temples, let out a sigh and then looked back at the three boys. “All of you. Office. Now.” He then pointed to the restroom entrance. The tone in the teacher’s voice told Stoutheart that further discussion was futile. Hat Trick, his eyes still projecting hate, left first, grabbing some paper towels on the way out to pick up his tooth. Stoutheart and the boy behind him followed, with Mr. Doodle bringing up the rear in case they tried anything.

This is gonna be fun, mused Stoutheart, his thoughts dripping in sarcasm.

* * * *

For what seemed like the tenth time since arriving in the reception room, Stoutheart gave a quiet sigh. If his watch was any indication, he had been sitting in the upholstered chair for a good five minutes, but his brain cruelly made it feel like an hour. He wished he had a book to read, but made do with eying the surroundings of the room. The walls were the same light green as the hallways; the floor the same teal-like color.

A clock above the door silently ticked away the hours, and the only noise heard was the clacking as Celestia and Luna’s personal secretary, Raven Inkwell, pounded away at her keyboard, her eyes locked firmly on the monitor atop her desk. A healthy looking potted plant shared desk space with the monitor, and behind Raven’s back, a metal shelf held books, binders and other office paraphernalia. Completing the whole space were some steel filing cabinets, framed photos of the school in the past, and a couple of corny motivational posters.

Stoutheart fixed a quick glance at Hat Trick, who sat at the far wall on a metal framed chair upholstered in cheap leather. He held a wad of paper towels to the gap where one of his upper front teeth had once sat. Thanks to his hate-filled stare, Stoutheart averted his gaze lest he antagonize the kid further. He gave another sigh and bent downward. He rested his elbows on his knees, and wrung his hands. His eyes danced over the scuff marks and specks of dirt on the floor.

“You okay?” came a voice softly to his right. Stoutheart looked in its direction and met the gaze of the younger student he had helped out. He sat in a chair, arms folded across his abdomen. Stoutheart nodded.

“All things being equal, I’d rather be in Fillydelphia.”

“Huh?” the boy asked in a confused voice.

“Sorry, heard it on a movie years ago,” explained Stoutheart with a smile. “How about you?”

“I’ll live,” the boy answered. He held out a hand. “Name’s Rumble by the way.”

Stoutheart reached out and shook it. “I'm Stoutheart. I take it you're Thunderlane’s brother?”

Rumble’s eyes flashed in mild surprise. “How do you-”

“Lane's in my Phys Ed class. I’ve heard him mention your name a couple times before,” elaborated Stoutheart. “That’s how I put two and two together.”

“You two gonna’ exchange phone numbers now?” taunted Hat Trick from across the room, a smug look on his face.

Stoutheart had half-a-mind to tell him to piss off, but Raven Inkwell beat him to it, albeit in much less vulgar way. “If you don’t have anything productive to say young man, I suggest you keep your mouth shut,” she said while fixing a stern look at the boy. It seemed to work. Hat-Trick withered under the rebuke and went silent.

After a few more minutes of quiet, punctuated only by Raven’s keyboard skills, the inner door to the Principal’s office opened. Cranky Doodle emerged, walking through the anteroom and leaving without making eye contact with anyone there.

“Raven? You can send the boys in now,” an unseen female voice called out from the open door.

Stoutheart and Rumble needed no urging. The two of them rose from their seats immediately and headed for the doorway, with Hat Trick taking up the rear.

Stoutheart had never set foot in Principal Celestia’s office before, but it appeared exactly as he had imagined it. Nice looking desk, bookshelves, photos and diplomas preserved in frames, a few plants here and there. Celestia sat behind the desk, elbows resting on it and her fingers steepled. A tablet, protected by a purple cover, sat off to her right. Behind her, arms folded across her chest, stood Vice-Principal Luna. Though both their demeanor seemed calm, Stoutheart couldn’t help but liken himself to being in a coliseum, about to be the main course for a starving tiger.

“Please,” said Celestia firmly. “Sit.” She gestured to the three chairs before her desk and the boys took a seat; Rumble to the right, Hat Trick to the left, and Stoutheart in the middle.

“Now then,” the Principal began. “Mr. Doodle has informed me of what he walked in on earlier, but I would like to know what exactly happened before he showed up.”

The silence was deafening, but in the end Rumble stepped up to the plate and broke it. “Yesterday, I saw Hat Trick trying to look off my Geography test. I kept whispering him to get lost, but he kept at it. Eventually Miss Cheerilee heard us and when I told her what happened, she gave Hat-Trick detention right then and there.”

Hat Trick gave Rumble an angry look as the teen continued his story. “Then today after lunch, he came across me getting all up in my face as if the detention was my fault! I tried to leave, but he wouldn’t let me. Then he started hitting me.”

“That’s crap and you know it!” snapped Hat Trick, he voice breaking in indignation.

“Hat-Trick, calm yourself,” said Luna reproachfully.

“It’s not true!” said the teen with a shake of his head. “I-I was just in there cleaning myself up after lunch, minding my own business when this clown flew off the handle.” He pointed an accusing finger at Rumble, who shared a look with Stoutheart before looking back at his attacker.

“Seriously? That’s the excuse you’re going with for trying to attack me?”

“Hey you struck me too!” complained Hat Trick.

“Only to defend myself dumbass.”

“Enough,” said Celestia harshly. She didn’t even need to raise her voice to end the bickering. She then looked ahead to the middle chair. “Stoutheart is it?”

The teen nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

“How exactly are you involved in this incident Stoutheart?” The authority in her voice was still there, but it had softened a little.

Stoutheart took a deep breath, cleared his throat and explained what he had seen and did. He left nothing out, feeling that doing so would only be detrimental to his case. Despite his nervousness, he kept eye contact with Celestia and Luna as he talked. Finally after a few minutes, he sat back in his chair and sighed. “That’s what happened ma’am.”

“I see,” Celestia said quietly while nodding her head. She turned to the left. “Rumble, can you confirm what Stoutheart just told Miss Luna and myself?”

Now it was Rumble’s turn to nod. “Absolutely. Stoutheart jumped in to help me and as far as I could tell, he defended himself when Hat Trick started going after him.”

“Defending himself?” exploded Hat Trick as he sat forward and leveled a finger at Stoutheart’s head. “That son-of-a-bitch knocked out one of my teeth!”

“Mind your tongue young man!” snapped Luna, her eyes narrowed and her voice frosty. She leaned over, putting her palms on the desk. “You may get away with that outside these walls, but not here. Understand?” Hat Trick acknowledged her rebuke with a weak nod.

“Before you three entered my office, I had Miss Inkwell take the liberty of pulling up each your student files and sending them to my tablet,” explained Celestia as she patted the purple cover protecting the device. “You two,”—she gestured to Rumble and Stoutheart—“are largely clean. A few cases of tardiness, but nothing severe.”

She then fixed Hat Trick with an icy glare. “You on the other hand, are different. I seem to recall last week a student reporting you and some of your friends for playing keep away with Button Mash’s phone in the cafeteria.”

“Not to mention stealing Featherweight’s camera and hiding it in the gymnasium storage room,” added Luna, her tone still harsh. “If I too recall, when you were confronted about it, your excuse was, and I quote ‘it was just a joke!’ You seem to have an interest in picking on students a grade lower than you.” Stoutheart shot Hat Trick a look, but the boy didn’t say a word. He looked straight ahead at the principal and sat stock still as if he had been turned into a department store mannequin.

“And now, you’ve decided to inflict harm on a third student because he refused to give you a free ride on a test? To say I’m disappointed in your behavior Hat-Trick would be a gross understatement.” Stoutheart could almost sense Celestia’s anger rising with that remark. In all the time he had attended CHS so far, he couldn’t even count the moments the principal lost her cool on one hand.

She would not lose it today either. Instead, Celestia took a deep breath before continuing. “Since detention after school obviously is not a deterrent for your actions, I believe a three day suspension and a notification of your parents on what you did here today is the best course.”

For a few moments, Hat Trick couldn’t speak. His eyes however widened and gradually so did his mouth. “Are…are you serious?” he spluttered in incredulity.

“Very,” said Celestia acidly.

“But its Friday,” said Hat Trick, expecting that that would somehow make the principal see the error of her ways.

“I’m aware of that,” replied Celestia. “That’s why your suspension will start on Monday.”

“But…but what about him?” Hat Trick pointed to Stoutheart again. “You see what he did to my teeth?” he then pointed at the gap in his mouth. “What’s he gonna’ get?” he asked with an air of indignance.

“How we discipline students here is our business!” snapped Luna. “Not yours.”

As if to emphasize that statement, the bell outside the office rang. Opening a drawer, Celestia produced three slips of paper and quickly scribbled on them. She then slid all three over to the end of her desk.

“Here are some passes so neither of you are marked as late for your next class.” She looked at Rumble, still massaging his abdomen, and Hat Trick. “I suggest you two visit Nurse Redheart after leaving here, but it’s your choice. That’ll be all.”

The three boys rose from their seats without a word, turned and headed toward the door. This time Stoutheart brought up the rear.

“Stoutheart?” asked Celestia. “A moment please if you will.”

Turning to look back at the principal and vice-principal, Stoutheart felt an icy hand of uneasiness clench around him. He gulped, nodded, and turned to face them. As soon as the other two boys left, Luna moved behind Stoutheart and closed the door. The student meanwhile had re-approached the desk.

Despite standing up for Rumble, pangs of shame and worry tore through his mind. He averted his eyes from Celestia and looked at the floor, wishing at that moment he could melt into it.

“Stout,” said Celestia calmly. “Please look at me.”

Stoutheart took a breath and did what he was told. “I-I’m sorry ma’am,” he stammered. “I-I didn’t intend to hurt Hat Trick like that. He was coming at me again an—”

Celestia sighed and gave a nod. “I know, I know.” She once again steepled her fingers. “Look, I don’t condone the action you took earlier in that bathroom Stoutheart, but I do understand it.”

“It’s an admirable move, sticking up for yourself and another person against a bully.” came Luna’s voice from behind.

“I just hope it doesn’t come back and bite me in the future,” groused Stoutheart. The thought of Hat Trick hounding him for the rest of the school year sent made his jaw clench tight.

“I’m sure it won’t,” assured Celestia, her lips taught. “After what happened today, I plan to nip Hat Trick’s antics in the bud. I won’t have him terrorizing students as Sunset Shimmer did before.”

The memories of Sunset before her reformation sent a chill through Stoutheart’s body. In those days he made sure to give the girl a berth wide enough to hold an aircraft carrier, but he silently reminded himself that those days were long gone now. The fact that she was first to his side after Flitter bloodied his nose yesterday proved she had come a very long way from her days as the “Queen Bitch of Canterlot High”.

Stoutheart nodded at the principal’s vow, before speaking again. “What about me?” he asked with some hesitancy. Detention here I come, he thought.

Celestia eyed the teen carefully, as if he were a specimen in a tube. “I won’t mince words young man, what you did could easily have earned you a detention or perhaps even a suspension like Hat Trick, but given that you defended yourself, that Rumble corroborated your actions, and that up to this point your record at CHS has been spotless, I’m willing to let this slide.”

What, thought Stoutheart dumbly.

“Make no mistake though,” came Luna’s voice, sounding as if it were set in steel. Stoutheart turned his head to face her.

“If you pull a stunt like this again Stoutheart, my sister and I will drop the hammer on you so hard, the next time you emerge from the ground, you’ll be on the other side of the world in Austallia. Are we clear?”

Stoutheart took a breath and nodded slowly. “Crystal clear ma’am.”

“Good,” said Luna as she opened the door for him. “Do not make us regret our decision.”

* * * *

To Stoutheart, the ringing of the final bell of the day felt like a tremendous weight being lifted off his shoulders. Arriving at his locker, he swung the door open and pulled on his jacket—a bomber style affair in brown leather with a collar of white faux fur—slung his satchel over his shoulders, picked up his gym bag, and threaded his way through the growing lines of students to the main entrance like a man with a purpose.

Emerging outside, he paused on the steps of the school to zip up his jacket farther in an attempt to ward off the cold air. Across the sky scudded numerous tufts of clouds, pushed along by the bitter winds that blew leaves across the school lawn or sent them twirling up into the air. When it wasn’t blocked by a cloud, the sun shone brightly, making Stoutheart squint in mild discomfort.

Shifting his focus ahead, Stoutheart descended the steps and hurried past the Wondercolt statue to the curb. Once there, he began pacing the grass between it and the sidewalk, his free left hand in a jacket pocket and waited patiently for Aunt Redheart to appear. Though relieved at his fortune, he still felt uneasy at what he had done. Maybe he should have just found some help.

And what? Leave Rumble to get tuned up by that jerk? his thoughts chided him. You have nothing to be ashamed of. He came at you!

After a few moments of contemplation, Stoutheart shook away the nagging thoughts and continued his pacing; sometimes stopping to glance at his watch and sometimes looking over the knots of students streaming out of the school and across its grounds. On the opposite street sat a string of vehicles, no doubt filled with parents waiting patiently to pick up their children.

He looked back behind the school in time to see another knot of students emerge from the entrance. Hat Trick was one of them. His backpack was slung, and his head hung low as he strutted across the grounds with a sour look on his face. In that moment, Stoutheart turned away from the boy, not in contempt, but to limit the possibility of him making any eye contact that may provoke the bully’s anger. If he had bothered to look, he would have seen Hat Trick get into a blue-grey pickup truck, which pulled away moments later.

Then, a familiar voice filled Stoutheart's ears. “Hey! Stoutheart!” shouted Thunderlane.

The cry spun Stoutheart back around to face the school. He saw his Phys Ed classmate approaching, clad in a hoodie that nearly matched his skin color and khaki cargo pants. Rumble was just behind him and off to the left. Close to Thunderlane’s right side was Cloudchaser, sporting ripped jeans and a denim blue jacket covering a T-shirt emblazoned with a shooting star.

Then there was Flitter, who brought up the rear, her long hair blowing serenely in the breeze, one hand gripping the strap of her schoolbag, with a blue and white striped dragonfly pinned to the flap.

“Uh, hey guys,” said Stoutheart as he flashed a quick wave.

“Heard about what happened this afternoon,” replied Thunderlane as he extended his arm in a fist bump. “Thanks for helping Rumble out against that idiot.”

“No problem,” acknowledged Stoutheart with a shrug before accepting the fist bump. He then looked at Rumble. “Any serious injuries?”

Rumble shook his head. “Nah, I’m good. The nurse checked me over and didn’t find anything bad. I’ll probably end up with a bruise or two though.”

“It’ll take more than a few punches to put this little punk out of action,” chuckled Cloudchaser as he tousled Rumble’s hair, causing the younger boy to groan in embarrassment.

“Clouuud!” he whined as he tried to reconfigure his hair. Flitter put her hand to a mouth to stifle a laugh.

“You know you love it,” said Cloudchaser with a grin.

“Are you okay?” queried Flitter as her eyes locked with Stoutheart’s.

The lovestruck teen took a breath. “Uh y-yeah! Yeah,” he replied. “I had a mild headache in English class. Not surprising considering the hits I took, but Aunt Redheart set me up with some ibuprofen afterward. I’m alright now.” He then looked down at the ground and scuffed some dirt with his shoes. A sigh escaped.

“Is…is something wrong Stout?” Flitter asked with a hint of concern.

Aside from having romantic feelings for you and being too chicken shit to act on them, I’m fine. He thought with some annoyance before meeting her gaze and answering her. “I just got that stupid fight replaying in my head is all,” he explained with dejection in his voice.

“Did you get in trouble?” the question came from Cloudchaser this time.

Stoutheart turned to her. “No,” he answered with a shake of his head. “Celestia and Luna let me off with a warning.” Then he scowled. “Still don’t feel too happy about it.”

“About what? Standing up for my brother and yourself?” challenged Thunderlane.

“I don’t know,” muttered Stoutheart wringing his hands once again. “I just…I just feel like crap is all. I can’t explain it.”

The next thing the teen felt was a pair of arms wrapping around his back and pulling him forward. The sudden movement made him look up, in time to see Flitter grab him in a tight, but comforting hug. The speed and spontaneousness of it caused Stoutheart to gasp in surprise. He felt his eyes bulge in shock and his body felt paralyzed, as if electricity had passed through it. His eyes looked down to see Flitter’s face, but it was hidden by her mass of hair and her bow. Almost mechanically, he brought his arms up and returned the hug in appreciation.

Flitter broke the embrace and stepped back, her bluish gray cheeks tinged in red. Thunderlane cracked a smile, Rumble looked on in mild surprise, and a snicker escaped Cloudchaser’s lips.

“Sorry,” squeaked Flitter. “I-I didn’t mean to make things weird! You looked upset and I just wanted t-to…”

“What I think my sister is trying to say,” interrupted Cloudchaser with a sly grin, “is that she wanted to cheer you up and show her gratitude for helping Rumble out today. We’re both kinda’ fond of the kid. All four of us live in the same neighborhood you see so we’re a bit…close.”

“Oh! I…uh see,” Stoutheart stammered in realization. “Well, always happy to help I guess,” he replied with a lopsided smile.

“Well, that was…something,” said Thunderlane, breaking the ice. He turned to Cloudchaser. “We should get going babe, got some serious gaming ahead of us tonight!”

“Don’t you mean me whooping your butt again?” teased Cloudchaser seductively.

“Oh it is so on,” vowed Thunderlane as he took Cloudchaser’s hand in his own. He looked back at Stoutheart and waved. “See you on Monday dude!” Then the two of them began walking he looked at Flitter and Rumble. “You two slowpokes coming?”

Flitter rolled her eyes. “Right behind you,” she called back dryly. Rumble ran ahead of her to catch up with his brother and Cloudchaser. Flitter turned to follow but hesitated. She looked over her shoulder. “See you on Monday Stout!”

Stoutheart said nothing. He merely acknowledged Flitter’s farewell with wave and a smile of his own. “Not the time, not the place,” he repeated to himself softly, remembering his earlier thought in Phys Ed. At first he felt some relief at the fact that Thunderlane and Cloudchaser were an item, but it was fleeting. For all he knew, Flitter also had a special someone out there. Maybe she’s shyer about it, he hypothesized.

He continued to look at her as she, Thunderlane, Rumble, and Cloudchaser wandered a few more yards up the sidewalk before piling into a black sports car and taking their leave of the school, the group offering another wave to Stoutheart as they turned around and passed him.

Five minutes later, the distinctive red car belonging to Nurse Redheart rounded the corner and pulled up beside him. “Where to sir?” she asked with a grin.

Stoutheart grinned back as he put his bags in the backseat and slid into the passenger seat beside her. “2855 Woodbine Avenue,” he said in a pompous tone. “There’s an extra twenty in it for you if you hurry.”

She rolled her eyes at the joke as Stoutheart closed the door, buckled up, and settled in for the short journey.