Stout Hearts and Dragonflies

by Lightoller

Chapter 8

Though he would later chalk it up to his mind playing tricks on him, Stoutheart thought the unwelcome guest’s scowl deepened as he neared his table. Whatever was to come, he tensed and in an effort to stave off his encroaching nervousness, he snatched up an unused napkin with his right hand and began forming it into a ball. On the other side of the table, Flitter and Cloudchaser had twisted in their seats to get a better look at the boy. Once he reached the table, they turned back around but still kept their eyes on him, this time from the side.

Their reaction to the newcomer’s appearance was like night and day; Flitter’s face bore the same kind of wariness as Stoutheart. Cloudchaser’s face on the other hand was one of annoyance, like she had just tried to whack a fly with a swatter only to see it escape at the last second.

The boy ignored them as if they weren’t even there; his eyes were locked firmly and menacingly on Stoutheart, who struggled to return the look with a neutral expression. He tightened his grip on the balled up napkin until his knuckles went white.

After a tense and interminable time, Stoutheart decided to break the ice. As much as he tried to keep his voice calm, his nerves got the best of him. “Can I help you?” he asked, with an upraised eyebrow.

“Your name Stoutheart?” queried the stranger in a tone that was unmistakably caustic.

Stoutheart looked at Flitter and Cloudchaser before returning the boy’s gaze and nodded. “Yeah,” he replied before sucking in a breath.

“I figured so,” the redhead spat back. “My brother described you perfectly.”

This time it was Flitter who spoke. “Brother?” The bafflement in her voice was obvious to everyone around her.

“Yeah,” said the teen, eyeing her before looking back at Stoutheart with a know-it-all smirk. “You know, the one you punched in the face yesterday?”

The floodgates opened and for a fleeting moment Stoutheart’s mind played for him the sight of Hat-Trick spitting out his tooth in that restroom. Damn it, he thought in despair. He leaned back in his chair deflated. His eyes avoided his antagonist’s withering gaze and stared down meekly at the tray holding the remnants of his lunch. He felt like he was about to bring it back up.

“Ah, so you do remember him,” the boy’s voice came again, this time with a hint of smugness.

“What do you want creep?” asked a still irritated Cloudchaser. The smirk vanished and the teen turned to face her.

“Oh it’s you,” he acknowledged with obvious condescension. “The cutie from the music store right? Gotta’ say you’re even nicer looking up close.” He then winked at her lecherously. “The name’s Firebrand by the way.” Cloudchaser did not answer him verbally but showed her disgust by raising her up her left hand slightly and showing the interloper her middle finger. The gesture only made Firebrand chuckle in amusement.

“Like my sister said,” Flitter broke in tersely, “what do you want?”

“Nothing from you two,” answered Firebrand dismissively. He looked back at the still hunched form of Stoutheart. “This punk ass bastard on the other hand owes me an apology for tuning up my little brother.” The fake jocularity was gone now, and the statement was made with a contemptuous sneer that made brought Stoutheart out of his languor. He stared daggers at the teen.

The girls were taken aback at the demand and stared at each other as if they hadn’t heard the ridiculous demand. Flitter looked back at the boy. “This the same brother who tried to use my friend Rumble as a punching bag yesterday?” she asked sarcastically. “That brother?”

“I don’t care,” Firebrand shot back acidly. “Nobody lays a hand on Hat-Trick like that and walks away.” He turned back to Stoutheart and glared at him but it was short lived. The suspicion and animosity in Stoutheart’s face morphed into bemusement. He snickered, and this caused Firebrand’s face to flush with anger.

“Something funny tough guy?”

“Yeah,” snapped Stoutheart, his posture more relaxed, “you.” He readjusted himself in his chair, pulled his hand away revealing the white ball that had once been a napkin, and flicked it in Firebrand’s direction. It made soft contact with the teen at groin level. Firebrand’s eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a scowl.

“I wish I had a mirror to show how stupid you look right now kid” said Stoutheart, even though he had a feeling Firebrand was the same age as him—maybe even older. He took some satisfaction at noticing Firebrand’s scowl deepen a bit before going on. “Your brother’s a bullying jackass who thought his shit didn’t stink and decided to beat up another person all because he couldn’t be bothered to study and decided that cheating was an easier solution. Might I also add, he tried to beat up me,” Stoutheart jerked a thumb into his chest for emphasis. “He charged at me, I defended myself, and it cost him. If you’re expecting me to apologize, or beg for forgiveness or some other garbage, you’ll be going home disappointed. It’ll be a cold day in hell before that ever happens.”

Stoutheart then rose up from his seat, left the table, and approached Firebrand until they were almost nose to nose. “I may have just barely met you,” he concluded, fire in his amber eyes and his voice set in granite, “but I can already tell you’re just as much an asshole as Hat-Trick is, and to put it mildly, you can go fuck yourself.”

For a long moment, no one at the table spoke. The only noise was the background babble of the food court and some incomprehensible noises emitting from Firebrand’s mouth. His nostrils flared like maddened bull, and his left eye twitched but Stoutheart’s gaze shifted over to Flitter, whose mouth was slightly agape in awe, and Cloudchaser, who was looking at Firebrand with a shit-eating grin.

The glance would cost him. Suddenly the look of the girls became one of alarm and Stoutheart caught on. He turned his head back just in time to see the knuckles of a clenched fist speeding toward him. He had no time to throw his hands up to block and the blow landed smack dab into the area of his right eye.

The stab of pain that shot through Stoutheart’s head was like Flitter’s dodgeball hit times five and was accompanied simultaneously by a bright flash, as if a camera had gone off just inches from his face. Stoutheart let out a loud, pained grunt and shut his eyes tight. Fireworks lit up the accompanying darkness. His ears picked up a pair of gasps from the table—he didn’t know which gasp belonged to whom—and more distant gasps and indistinct yells from somewhere unseen.

Unlike Flitter’s dodgeball hit, Firebrand’s punch also had enough heft to send Stoutheart reeling. His knees buckled. He could feel himself falling and Stoutheart, his eyes still shut in pain, flailed in an attempt to clutch anything solid. His fingers grasped only air and soon he thudded onto the hard, unyielding floor buttocks first, followed by his back. Sucking in a breath, Stoutheart tried to open his eyes. The left was fine, but the right throbbed with agony and opened only slightly, as if the eyelids were drooping with fatigue.

He didn’t have time to react to what happened next. Amidst yells of panic and anger, he saw the form of Firebrand leap into his view and land hard on his body, sending another wave of pain washing over Stoutheart as well as a harsh gasp. He feebly tried to put his hands up to ward off further blows and made a choking noise as the fingers of Firebrand’s left hand clutched around his throat. The hand squeezed like a vice, sending gasps of shock burbling from Stoutheart’s mouth. Then Firebrand, his teeth bared in a mix of rage and contempt, brought his fist down on Stoutheart’s face in rapid succession.

In desperation, Stoutheart’s hands went on the defensive. One hand tried to wrest free the grip on his throat while the other hand and attached arm hovered in front of his face in an effort to ward off Firebrand’s assault. The blows came like hammers and each one sent pain rocketing through his head. His ears picked up a bevy of voices; curses from Sunset Shimmer that could have made a sailor blush, Rarity calling Firebrand a “filthy ruffian” and, in the distance, a few people cheering as if they were watching a wrestling match.

He also heard Firebrand’s voice. “Hope you enjoyed your lunch prick,” it sneered viciously between blows. “Cause after today you’re gonna look pretty funny trying to eat a burger with no fucking teeth!”

Suddenly the pressure on Stoutheart’s throat weakened and he gratefully sucked in lungful after lungful of air and coughed. The punches mercifully stopped too and he heard grunts from Firebrand. Stoutheart opened his eyes and rolled onto his hands and knees, chest heaving.

He saw Firebrand on his knees clawing furiously at Flitter, who had wrapped a hoodie clad arm around his neck in her own chokehold. The bully’s eyes blinked and bulged. His arms were pinned behind his back by Cloudchaser, whose face showed obvious strain as she put all of her strength into restraining Firebrand. His mouth opened and closed like a fish caught and hauled up onto a boat. Flitter gritted her teeth in anger and her body trembled.

“Leave him alone you jackass!” she screeched.

It was a valiant effort on the part of the siblings, but Firebrand summoned some unknown strength from the recesses of his body and slowly broke his arms free of Cloudchaser’s grip. He elbowed her so hard in the gut that she crumpled to the floor inhaling sharply. Then he easily pried Flitter’s hand off his neck and twisted it at the wrist, causing her to yelp. Then, still clutching Flitter in the hold, he rose to his feet, turned and shoved her back first into a table, where she crumpled to the floor like a sack of potatoes. She had little time to recover from this new blow when Firebrand backhanded her across the face.

The harsh sound of the slap, coupled with Flitter’s pained cry, made Stoutheart look up and he locked eyes with her. She lay seated on the floor, one hand massaging the red mark on her cheek. Her eyes were shut tight. He also saw Cloudchaser on her knees massaging her abdomen with a grimace. Then he saw Firebrand towering over Flitter, hatred in his own eyes, and his breath coming in huffs and puffs.

“You little bitch,” he gasped, rubbing his throat.

The spectacle sent pure unadulterated rage boiling within Stoutheart’s body. Not since his elementary school days, when a class bully ruined a book he had been reading, had Stoutheart wanted to pound someone into the ground until they were a greasy smear. Now, in that very moment, in that food court, that desire had returned. With great willpower he ignored the limited vision of his swollen right eye as well as the pain rippling the rest of his face and got back on his feet. As he did so, he took sadistic satisfaction that Firebrand still looked down at Flitter and didn’t see him recover.

Inhaling through his nose, he took off running, his legs pumping like the pistons of a steam locomotive. He gave no dramatic war cry as he closed the short distance with Firebrand, who heard his footsteps and turned in their direction. He was too late to avoid what was coming.

Channeling every ounce of his body weight behind his dash, Stoutheart thrust one of his shoulders into Firebrand’s lower body like a ram about the butt horns with its opponent. The strike doubled him over at the waist like a folding law chair. His legs left the ground. His arms rose up as if praising some ancient deity. His eyes grew wide like saucers and a guttural gasp erupted from his lips as the wind was driven from his lungs. For a millisecond, Stoutheart’s own feet left the ground as he speared his target and slammed him violently into the floor back first. Firebrand’s head bounced off the floor too.

Before he could even give out a groan and massage his head, Stoutheart repaid Firebrand’s brutality in full. His arms swung sloppily but furiously, both fists slamming into the other boy’s face. He savored the meaty sounds his knuckles made as they contacted flesh. Blood rushed through his ears like the rapids in Ghastly Gorge and his breath came in heavy, furious gasps punctuated every now and then by strings of curses.

Then, as he raised his right hand to land another blow, the soft touch of hand wrapped around his wrist and held it fast.

“Stoutheart, enough! Stop it!” commanded Flitter’s voice firmly.

It worked. Stoutheart halted in his offensive, and took a series of deep breaths. Slowly, almost mechanically, he lowered his hand and looked up into those raspberry eyes which showed obvious concern. Shame and regret quickly replaced wrath as he looked back down at Firebrand’s face which was starting to swell in some places. Then he met Flitter’s gaze again and nodded weakly.

“I-I…” he stammered before pausing and taking a gulp. “I’m sorry.” Flitter made no reply. Instead she helped him to a standing position despite the fact that his legs felt like they were made of Jello.

“Are you alright?” he croaked.

Flitter nodded reassuringly as Cloudchaser, also back on her feet, walked over to her side. “Yeah, I’m fine too,” she shot back sarcastically while flashing a lopsided grin and still massaging herself. Flitter rolled her eyes but Stoutheart said nothing. He brought a hand up to his right eye and softly probed the flesh, sending tiny jolts of pain through his face. He silently cursed himself for doing such a thing. His head already felt like there was a rivet gang working away inside his skull and the last thing he needed to do was exacerbate it. Then he looked back down at Firebrand, who had turned onto his side and curled up into a fetal position, breathing heavily and muttering incoherently. Stoutheart cursed himself again, this time for what he had just done.

Then a gruff male voice broke up the reverie. “Hold it right there!”

It came from behind so Stoutheart, along with Flitter and Cloudchaser, turned around and came face-to-face with three people. One of them was Fluttershy, hands cupped to her mouth and her eyes wide with worry. Flanking her were two security guards clad in white shirt, black pants and vest. One was a rose-skinned male with forest green hair whose body looked like it was carved from a mountain. The other was a female with pearl gray skin, navy blue hair tied into a bun, and a neutral expression on her face. She was shorter—the top of her head reached the man’s shoulders—but athletic. The male guard’s eyes danced over the scene before giving Stoutheart and the two girls with him the stern look perfected over the years by schoolteachers.

“I’m afraid you three are going to have to come with me,” the male guard told them firmly. While Flitter and Cloudchaser looked at the guard as if he just sprouted a second head from his shoulders, Stoutheart sagged his shoulders, averted his eyes from the guard and gave a quiet sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, this time in a whisper no one had heard.

* * * *

The game of counting scuff marks marring the glossy beige floor got boring and he could feel his back starting to ache so Stoutheart leaned back into the hard plastic chair all the while keeping the ice pack firmly against his eye. It was little more than a plastic bag filled with ice cubes and secured with a knot, but to Stoutheart it worked just as good. The meeting of frigid cold and warm, swollen skin made him give another quiet sight of relief.

Then, for the umpteenth time, his head swiveled and he took in his surroundings. The walls of the security office were whitewashed but showed some signs of dinginess and seemed to magnify the harshness of the florescent white lights set into the foam ceiling tiles. Then there was the gray steel door, the red fire extinguisher hanging next to it, and the large cork board on a far wall from which were pinned sheets of paper and a few photos of people. They resembled police mugshots and Stoutheart suspected that the board served as a “wall of shame” so-to-speak; folks who had gotten the boot for shoplifting or some other kind of mischief. Many of them looked young. Stoutheart dryly wondered if his photo would grace that board today before mall security showed him the door.

Judging from the ice pack given to him by the female guard after she ushered him, Flitter, and Cloudchaser into the office, along with the sympathetic smile she gave, Stoutheart doubted it. He looked over to the far right wall at the guard, who was seated at a desk covered with papers, a couple magazines, and, mounted to the wall above it, a series of flat TV screens that showed in real time what the electronic eyes of the Crystal Heights Mall saw. The desk also had a phone and Stoutheart could plainly see the guard hunched over it, speaking quietly into the receiver.

To his right, he heard a soft clacking sound and turned his head away to find it. There, in the chair closest to the desk, he quickly found the source: a Smartphone in Cloudchaser’s hand, her fingers dancing across the screen keyboard with the dexterity of a concert pianist. Probably texting her parents or Thunderlane, guessed Stoutheart.

Then he shifted his gaze to Flitter, who sat between her sister and him. She was hunched over and wringing her hands in obvious nervousness. Her eyes seemed to be looking over her shopping bag, which sat between her feet. Suddenly, she had the feeling she was being watched and turned to look at him. Still embarrassed by his outburst in the food court, he averted his eyes from her and once again looked down at his own bag, which sat in a empty patch of floor between his chair and the wall.

Oh come on, Stoutheart chided himself. Don’t pull that same crap like in the cafeteria on Friday. Within his head, a mental tug of war began.

She’s disgusted with me.

Disgusted? You saw her eyes after she stopped you right? She just didn’t want you doing anything you’d regret. You rang that idiot’s bell pretty good after all. You’re just overreacting.

No, I acted like a brute. He frowned slightly. Great, now I sound like Rarity.

Bullshit. You’re no brute. Firebrand is. He hurt her just like his brother hurt Rumble. Enough with the damn pity party! You stuck your neck out for both of them. End of Story.

His thoughts were cut off by a hand wrapping itself around his own. The softness of the touch made him stiffen, as if an electrical current had shot up through his body. Slowly, as if his neck muscles were made of clay, Stoutheart turned to meet Flitter’s gaze with his unobstructed eye.

“How are you holding up Stout?”

Stoutheart’s mouth formed a slight smile. The sincerity and warmth in her words touched him. “I’m…I’m alright.” He pulled the ice pack from his eye and blinked it a few times and sighed. “Feels like half my vision is in widescreen.”

Flitter giggled. “I’m sure it’ll heal up fine.”

“You’ll probably get yourself a nice shiner to boot too,” added Cloudchaser looking up from her phone. She cracked a grin. “Who knows? Maybe next week you’ll have some admirers to fawn over it.” She finished her prediction with a wink that made Flitter scrunch her face in disapproval and caused Stoutheart’s cheeks to get warmer than they already were. Flitter responded to the teasing by playfully punching her sister in the shoulder.

“Ow,” Cloudchaser shot back in a deadpan tone.

The sound of the phone being placed back into its cradle made the three teens look in the direction of the security guard, who turned around in her rolling office chair to face them. “Your mom’s on her way to pick you up,” she said looking at Stoutheart. He said nothing and acknowledged her statement with just a nod. That ought to be fun, he thought sarcastically. He imagined the look on her face when she entered the door and saw him battered as he was. He also imagined her finding out where Firebrand lived and giving him and his parents a piece of her mind, her eyes smoldering with indignation.

Then, unbelievably, his mental focus shifted to Firebrand; or more specifically the sight of him lying on the floor. He mused on what injuries he had courtesy of that tackle. He figured he would end up with the same collection of bruises but anything was possible. Internal injuries? Concussion? He must’ve landed pretty hard. He tried to dismiss the concern gnawing at him, only for his mind to cruelly play for him the sight of Firebrand’s parents hitting him and his mom with a financially crippling lawsuit. It seemed absurd, yet he couldn’t dismiss that either.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to contact your folks too?” The guard’s question was leveled at Flitter and Cloudchaser but it snapped Stoutheart out of his latest rumination.

“Nah,” said Cloudchaser dismissively while holding up her phone. “I let them know already. We both came here in my car, so there’s no need to call up a ride for us.”

“Ah the wonders of technology,” muttered the guard as she turned back to the screens.

Just then, the door to the office swung open and in walked the other security guard who took off his hat and scratched the back of his head with the bill.

“How’s the other kid?” asked his partner.

“He’s got a goose egg on the back of his head and a few bruises, but he seems alright.” He then puffed his cheeks and put his cap back on. “He’s gone now thankfully.” He turned to Stoutheart. “Kept going on and on about how he was going to get you.”

“Well, it’s always nice to make new friends,” Stoutheart muttered acidly with a sigh. Flitter on the other hand scoffed. “Idiot.”

Cloudchaser heard her. “Got that right,” she added with a nod.

“Did one of his parents come pick him up?” the female guard asked inquisitively.

Her partner nodded. “His father.” He spat the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Real piece of work that one. Wanted to tear in here and give him a blast,” he gestured to Stoutheart, “but that sure as hell wasn’t going to happen. Not on my watch.”

“Thanks mister—” Stoutheart began.

“Brisk,” finished the guard. “Brisk Bolt.” He offered and hand and Stoutheart shook it. Then Brisk turned to the other guard, still seated at her desk but now reading a magazine. “Your babysitter here is Dew Blossom,” he added with a grin.

“Cute Brisk,” said Dew in an annoyed tone while looking up from her magazine, “real cute.” Brisk Bolt laughed at his remark before bending down to get a closer look at Stoutheart’s face. “How you holding up kid?” The harshness in his voice was gone now, replaced by a mix of friendliness and concern that seemed out of place for guy who looked like he could bench press Stoutheart’s body weight.

Stoutheart felt like a rare insect under a magnifying glass, but mustered up a shrug to hide his discomfort. “I’ll live,” he began before exhaling tiredly. “If what you said about Firebrand is true though, I Probably won’t be for long.”

“Don’t worry about that clown,” Flitter said encouragingly before putting a hand on his shoulder which sent his heart skipping a few beats. “He’s probably just butthurt you got the better of him. ‘Full of piss and vinegar’, as my dad says sometimes.”

“Exactly,” offered Cloudchaser with a chuckle. “That guy deserved to get knocked down a peg, just like his brother.”

Stoutheart gave an appreciative smile. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“And if he tries to deny it, all I can say is ‘good luck’.” This from Brisk Bolt, who pointed over to the TV screens. “Our cameras almost certainly caught what he did. Hell, someone in that food court probably filmed it too.”

The thought of the fight being recorded on some rubbernecker’s phone filled Stoutheart with more dread, but there was precious little he could do. The time old saying played in his mind: It is what it is.

“Between you and me,” admitted Brisk, “that was one hell of a tackle you pulled off. You play football?”

Stoutheart shook his head. “Nope. I’m more of an egghead,” he replied, borrowing one of Rainbow Dash’s terms. “Besides my mom wouldn’t stand for it. She’d nag me constantly about concussions and brain damage.”

“Well he's right. It was one hell of a tackle,” admitted Cloudchaser.

“Adrenaline is a strange thing,” offered Stoutheart with a shrug. Seeing someone you’re sweet on getting hurt will do it too, he then thought bitterly. “I hadn’t been that pissed off since the seventh grade.”

“What happened?” asked a curious Flitter.

“One day during recess,” Stoutheart began “this big kid who had a reputation of being a bully thought it would be fun to snatch a book I was reading out of my hands. It had rained the previous day, so there were puddles everywhere in the schoolyard. After a short game of ‘keep away’, he flung my book into one of those puddles. Then he just stood there and laughed at me.” His mouth formed into a devilish grin. “He paid for it dearly.”

“How so?”

“While he was still cackling like a hyena,” explained Stoutheart, “I ran up and kicked him as hard as I could in the nuts. He walked funny for a week.”

Cloudchaser and Flitter sputtered with laughter and much to everyone else’s surprise, so did Brisk Bolt. Even Dew Blossom looked up from her magazine and smiled. “That’s a good way to make a statement."

“I’d have to agree,” said Stoutheart. “The jerk got the message and never bothered me again.”

Eventually the laughter died away and for the next fifteen minutes silence reigned, with the three teens killing time by browsing on their phones while Brisk studied the camera footage on the TV screens and Dew Blossom continued reading her magazine. Stoutheart became so engrossed with his phone that when a sharp knock sounded on the door, it startled him.

Brisk Bolt reached for the door and opened it, revealing Snowheart, still wearing the same clothes Stoutheart had seen her that morning, but with her purse slung over her shoulder. The second she saw her son sitting before her, with that makeshift ice pack on his face, her eyes went wide in alarm.

“Hi mom,” greeted Stoutheart. He forced a smile, but all it did was make him look like a kid who had been caught scribbling on the walls with a marker or with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

She dropped her purse to the floor and rushed over to him. “Let me see,” she ordered as her hands reached up and grasped the ice pack.

“Mom,” he complained.

“Don’t ‘mom’ me,” she warned. “I want to see.” It was a losing battle and Stoutheart knew it. He relented and allowed his mother to remove the bag.

“Oh for the love of—” she gasped and trailed off as she examined the swollen eye. Reaching down into her purse, she pulled out a penlight, and pried open Stoutheart’s right eyelid.

“Mooom!” he whined. “I’m fine!”

“Hush,” Snowheart commanded firmly as she played the beam over his iris and pupil. The glare made spots form in his vision. Then she repeated same procedure for his left eye. “What day is it?”

“Huh?” Stoutheart asked.

“What day is it?”

“October 29,” he groaned, finally realizing what she was doing.

“Where do you live?”

“2855 Woodbine Avenue,” said Stoutheart, his annoyance rising. He could hear snickering off to his left but kept looking at his mother.

“When did the Neighponese bomb Trinity Harbor?”

“Seriously?” he blurted. “I don’t have a concussion.”

“Just humor me Stout,” she pleaded.

Stoutheart sighed and began reciting as if he were up in front of a classroom. “December 7, 1941. First wave struck at 7:55 a.m., the second wave at 8:50.” He put the ice pack back on his eye. “Happy?”

Snowheart sighed with relief. “I am now,” she said before clicking off the penlight and dropping it back in her purse and rising to her feet. She still looked down at him but the concern was replaced with irritation. “What the hell happened Stout? Who did this?”

“Well, you see—” Stoutheart began but trailed off. He wanted to look away but the hands gripping the sides of his head refused to let him.

“I wasn’t his fault!” Flitter cut in. The excited tone in her voice made Snowheart turn her head and study her, causing Flitter to throw in a hasty “ma’am” for good measure.

“Yeah!” threw in Cloudchaser. “It was that jerkoff Firebrand! He wanted payback for what Stoutheart did to his brother. He decked Stoutheart and my sis and I jumped in to help!”

Stoutheart turned and gave Cloudchaser a frosty look before once again meeting his mother’s gaze. “What does she mean by ‘brother’? What’s going on Stout?”

Stoutheart looked down at the floor and grimaced. Flitter leaned in and whispered, “you didn’t tell her?”

Snowheart heard her. “Tell me what?” she asked impatiently.

As if he were about to meditate, Stoutheart closed his eyes and sucked in some air through his nostrils. Then he looked up at his mother before speaking. “Yesterday I walked in on a friend of theirs getting beat up by some kid named Hat-Trick,” he paused to jerk a thumb over at Flitter and Cloudchaser. “This kid and I fought and I…I knocked out one of his teeth.”

“Oh for God’s sake Stout,” Snowheart moaned before closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose.

“He charged me!” he snapped while throwing his hands up defensively. “I wasn’t going to let him beat me up too!”

After a few moments, Snowheart sighed and looked up at the girls. “You say this Hat-Trick, or whatever his name is, has a brother?”

Flitter and Cloudchaser nodded rapidly and simultaneously. “Firebrand. His name was Firebrand,” said the latter. “He saw us eating with your son at the food court and he tried to pick a fight with him.” She and Flitter then gave a recap of the brawl, sometimes using hand gestures to illustrate the story. Snowheart said nothing but nodded from time to time.

“We caught it on camera too,” Brisk Bolt once the story ended, pointing to the TV screens. “It corroborates what the girls just said.” He ushered Snowheart over to one of the screens. Dew Blossom had the foresight to ready the footage for playback and showed it to her. For a few tense minutes, the only nose in the room was some soft murmuring as Brisk Bolt indicated who was who in the footage.

“Where’s this other boy?” Snowheart finally asked the security guards as the footage was paused.

“For obvious reasons we kept him in our break room down the hall ma’am,” explained Brisk with folded arms. “He’s gone now. His father stopped by and picked him up before you arrived.”

“I see,” said Snowheart before turning back to her son. Stoutheart immediately looked back down at the floor, wishing at that moment it would open up into a hole and swallow him. The best he could offer was another verbal apology.

He then felt a hand land gently on his left shoulder and squeeze it. Looking up, he saw his mother towering over him, the same kind of sympathy on her face as Flitter or Dew Blossom. “It’s alright Stout,” she said calmly. “It’s alright.” She then looked back at the girls. “Thank you both for helping my son. Forgive me but I never got your names.”

Flitter gestured to herself. “I’m Flitter, and that’s Cloudchaser over there.” She pointed to her sister who waved casually.

“I take it you two also go to Canterlot High?”

“Mmm, hmm,” answered Flitter with a nod. “We’re both in Phys Ed with Stout and I share an English class with him too.”

“Well, I’m glad my son has surrounded himself with such good people. Once again I’m grateful.” Then she noticed the bag at Stoutheart’s feet. “Well,” she began smugly, “in addition to meeting up with two good looking ladies, I see you also snagged a hat.” She tousled his hair affectionately.

“Mom stop,” he grumbled with blushing cheeks. “Not in front of them please.” He looked over at Flitter and Cloudchaser, their faces contorted in giggles.

“That’s the least you deserve for scaring me like that,” said Snowheart in mock reproach. “Now then, get your stuff and let’s head home so I can get you a new ice pack.” Suddenly she refocused on the siblings. “Can I offer you two a ride home?”

“We brought our own,” Cloudchaser assured her. “Thanks anyway though Mrs.—”

“Snowheart dear, my name is Snowheart.”

As his mother turned around and offered thanks to Brisk Bolt and Dew Blossom, Stoutheart rose from his chair, stretched, and picked up his bomber jacket draped over the backrest.

“T-thanks you two,” he said with a smile before slipping the jacket on.

“No biggie,” replied Cloudchaser with a cheeky grin.

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright?” asked Flitter concernedly.

Stoutheart nodded with conviction before nodding in the direction of his mother. “She’ll make sure of that,” he answered with an eye roll.

For a few moments he looked into Flitter’s face. The red mark left by Firebrand's hand had faded a bit, but it did not mar her beauty, nor those gorgeous raspberry eyes and her infectious smile. From the deepest recesses of his mind, the desire to give her a hug like the one she wrapped him in yesterday surged up. So did a desire to finally tell her how he really felt about her.

But Stoutheart was a realist, and the sight of him of admitting his love for Flitter in a mall security office, in front of her sister, his mother, and two security guards was too abhorrent to even think about. He couldn’t do that to himself—or her.

The opening of the door helped jolt Stoutheart back to the real world. “Come on Stout,” he heard his mother’s voice from the threshold. “You’ve had a busy day.”

“On the way,” he called out to her. With some final, quick, and awkward waves to the remaining four in the office, he departed. In that moment, a familiar phrase reverberated in his head.

Not the time, not the place.