Refuge, Chapter One: Unusual
Author's Notes: Hey, all! After watching a few episodes, reading some fan fiction, and thinking about possibilities, I was inspired to write a multi-chaptered story for the fandom. This is my first trek into this fandom in particular, so please don't hesitate to hassle me for any mistakes I may make while playing with these characters (that definitely do not belong to me).
I don't know how long this story will turn out to be, but I'm thinking it'll fall within the range of 10-15 chapters. Still, we'll see!
I've got the second chapter in the works, so look out for that to come out within the next day or so. Read on, review if you deem it worthy, and enjoy!
—Alyssa (Choice)
Things started out as they normally would, from homeroom announcements to history lessons, lunch to recess. Everything went smoothly. Actually… come to think of it, the day seemed to go by without a hitch. Arnold furrowed his brow. Huh. Weird.
"Hey Gerald," he said, turning to his friend who was currently preoccupied with tying his shoe. "Did you notice anything… I don't know, different about today?"
Gerald frowned at him from his slightly bent-over stance, thinking for a moment. He slowly righted himself and as they continued their trek back to Sunset Arms for some video games, Gerald vocalized his thought processes. "Well, Patty and Harold are on the offs again, Stinky tripped and spilled his lunch on Rhonda, one of Nadine's weird bug things got loose in biology again… I think that's it? Yeah," Gerald nodded to himself. "Why?"
Arnold wore a puzzled frown on his face, but shook his head. "No reason, Gerald. Just wondering. Hey, do you wanna grab some baklava from the falafel stand before we head to my place?"
"Heeeell yeah!" he cheered, and both of them laughed as they were on their way.
Meanwhile, just across town, it was as if Opposite Day had blown chunks everywhere.
Helga sat curled up in her bed, vacantly staring at the wall as the house practically rattled with yells and screams. Not an unusual occurrence, when Big Bob happened to share the same space as you, but the higher-pitched, nearly crazed voice interspersed with Bob's was.
Since she was old enough to remember, Helga could never recall a time when Miriam raised her voice… at anyone in anger. Hell, half—nay, three quarters of the time, the woman was usually too far out of it to even focus on anything going on right under her nose. Helga remembered coming home from school one day to find the woman icing a boot—a boot—utterly convinced she was frosting a cake. And yet, from the moment Helga woke up this morning, she could sense a change in the atmosphere of the Pataki residence. It felt like the thick, tension-filled air right before a major thunderstorm, and it made the hairs on her arms stand on end.
Then again, that might be the chills talking. She'd gotten some crappy cold from one of the snot-bucket morons at school, but for once, she didn't feel brave enough to make the journey all the way downstairs to get some cold medicine. Not with all of the yelling and occasional noises of breakable things meeting their demise against a wall, the floor, her parents' heads—she didn't know, and she told herself, she didn't care.
Not when neither of her crappy parents even deigned to check up on her when Helga failed to come downstairs for school this morning.
She rolled over onto her back, listening as Miriam barked something back at Bob on banshee levels of noise-making frequency. Hell, she thought dully to herself, It's not like they notice me anyway.
The next day, Arnold sighed as he leaned back in his chair in the midst of Mr. DeSilva's rambling lecture on Shakespeare. The guy was practically fangirling over the Bard, and it was getting weird.
He still couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Something was missing…
He covertly observed the room around him: the laminated posters that shone almost wetly in the fluorescent lighting, the whisper of notepaper being shuffled behind him, Gerald's rolled eyes and subtle nod at the gushing teacher up at the front of the room…
What was wrong?
Arnold frowned to himself, and was about to shake the feeling off and try to actually get some notes down for this Bardfest, when he noticed it: an empty desk.
His brow furrowed as he went over attendance from this morning's homeroom. Usually, the kids you had in homeroom wouldn't be in many of your periods for the day—a sad fact they all had to deal with in the transition into high school—but a great deal of his friends, save Sid, Harold, and a few others, were in the same AP classes.
It was a little fuzzy, since he'd been laboriously trying to finish a Sudoku puzzle that morning, but he recalled two names that had been repeated twice by the homeroom instructor. One had been that slacker-kid who pretty much always cut classes to hang out and smoke with his older girlfriend out behind the dumpsters, but the other name… The other name…
His eyes darted back to the desk, and he noticed a few dried-up wads of spitballs resting on the chalkboard's ledge right beside the desk.
"Helga Pataki," the elderly teacher had grumbled, pausing and glancing up over the rim of her dusky tortoiseshell glasses to survey the room. "Helga Pataki?" a short stretch of silence, and the name was left hanging in the air, unclaimed. "Marcus Pawloski…"
Arnold frowned. Helga never was absent, really, unless she was cutting to sneak into the movies or something. Information like that, however, she usually broadcasted during lunch to see get the usual lecture from Phoebe about GPA's and college admissions processes. He couldn't remember her doing any of that boasting crap yesterday, so—
The buzzer signaling the end of class went off, but Arnold barely had the thought to bemoan the fact that he'd failed to take any notes on today's class. Instead, he turned to Phoebe, probably the only girl who'd know anything about what was going on with the girl whose appearance might've changed since they were in Mr. Simmons' class, but whose acerbic character had remained consistently the same.
The petite girl was diligently packing her bookbag up when Arnold approached Phoebe after the second-to-last class of the day, and she jumped when he greeted her with a casual, "Hi Phoebe."
"Oh!" A mechanical pencil rolled onto the floor a ways away from them. Pheobe frowned before fixing a cordial smile his way. "Hey Arnold. What's up?"
"I… actually, I was going to ask you the same thing about Helga," he ventured. Her seat had remained vacant for the remainder of the day, and yet no one else seemed to pick up on this.
Phoebe's eyes darted from Arnold to Helga's empty desk back to Arnold again. A flush colored her pale cheeks and she dug the heel of her palm into her forehead in consternation. "Oh my gosh! I didn't even—I feel horrible," she groused. "Between applications for Harvard and—and drafting my project for Morris, I didn't even notice Helga was absent today. I must look like the worst friend ever," she bemoaned softly.
Arnold bent over to pick up her pencil, laughing. "Don't sweat it, Phoebe. It's been crazy busy this year." She took her pencil back with a grateful but wan smile, tucking a lock of inky black hair behind one ear. He noticed the light shadows cast beneath her glassy eyes and made a note to tell Gerald to keep Phoebe from completely burning herself out.
He wished her luck on her admissions essays and made his way out to computer design, not caring that he'd be late. His mind was preoccupied with a girl who'd always been on his case since he could remember.
It was after he sat down and booted up his computer that Arnold let his thoughts drift back to the missing-in-action girl who'd made it her mission to make his life a living nightmare since as early as he could recall. (Whether she'd succeeded in all of her attempts was besides the point.) Where would he be without his personal reality check every now and again, after all? He smirked a bit to himself, logging onto the server before pulling up the necessary software for class.
It was five minutes into working on some coding that he finally realized what had been so off about yesterday: Helga hadn't been in class then, either. He couldn't think of hearing anything from Helga yesterday, which was weird… she always did something that either happened around him or to him. Yesterday, however, there was no name-calling, no spitballing, no… anything! She had to have been absent then, too.
Frowning in concern, Arnold vowed to walk the longer way back home, a route that conveniently passed Helga's townhouse residence. Even if she'd always treated him like crap, even if things had never changed since that one weird yet fateful day on the roof of that building, he still felt obligated to check in on her.
After all, everyone needed at least someone to care that they existed every now and again.
It was like a dream… a horrible, horrendous dream that she couldn't pinch herself awake from. Sometime around dinner last night, the combating voices had petered themselves out. Either that, or she'd drifted off into a feverish sleep at that point. She couldn't be certain. One thing she was sure of, however, was that when she got up to go get something to eat that morning, every single room in the house was eerily quiet.
Gone were the mechanical whirs of Miriam's beloved blender, forever cranking out smoothie after smoothie. Gone was the constant din of voices from the television set, before which sat Big Bob's indented, vacant recliner chair. The house was empty, in every sense of the word.
Picking up a sleeve of half-eaten saltines that had definitely seen better days from the poorly stocked cupboard, Helga drifted out of the living area to see if maybe Miriam was still asleep. The couch looked like it hadn't been slept on, so maybe the woman finally made it to her actual bed for the night.
Her investigations drew no conclusions whatsoever, besides the obvious fact that she was most definitely home alone.
Nibbling on the end of a cracker, Helga sighed shakily and ventured back into the kitchen area for a glass of water.
It was when she was waiting for her cup to fill from the fridge dispenser that she noticed a badly torn piece of notebook paper posted to the fridge with one of the magnets Bob had from Big Bob's Beepers. She slid the obnoxiously grinning, crowned head of her father to the side and took the note. Leaning against the kitchen island, taking cautious sips of shockingly cold water, Helga read the note.
Bob… sorry… can't… hard… gone… too much… love… Miriam.
Her heart rate had increased with each hastily scrawled word, and by the end of the missive, Helga felt tears drip from her wide, terrified eyes. The cup in her hand, thankfully plastic, slipped to the linoleum floor. She watched, in detached horror, as the note blurred right before her eyes.
Gone.
So her mother was gone, and all she had left was a letter, a letter that wasn't even meant for her own daughter.
She sank down to the floor, back pressed against the fridge as her socks sopped up some of the spilled water. Not for the first time in her life, Helga felt no better than trash: worthless, abandoned.
"And then I said to the loser…"
Arnold was walking home with Gerald, but too preoccupied with his internal musings to really pay much mind to whatever story his best friend was regaling him with. Gerald must've noticed the lack of attention from his audience, because he paused mid-story—a near-impossible feat for a talker like him—and bumped Arnold's shoulder with his own. "Hey man, what's up? You've been all zombie ever since I left you after lunch."
Arnold shook his head slightly. "Sorry, Gerald…" He was about to bring up Helga, but decided against it at the last moment. "I was just… worried about Phoebe," he made up.
His friend, more like a brother after all these years, looked at him with his eyebrows all the way up to his extensive hairline. "Should I be worried that you're thinkin' about my girl?" he asked, but his voice resonated with warm mirth rather than jealousy.
Arnold snorted, shaking his head. "Being attracted to Phoebe is like having a crush on a kitten. No offense or anything," he assured.
Gerald rolled his eyes. "What's wrong with Phoebe, then?"
"She looked a little drained is all," Arnold shrugged. "I think you need to tell her to cool it or something, she looks like she's not sleeping or anything."
Gerald bit his bottom lip, looking slightly worried. "I keep telling her to chill out, but the girl's like a machine." The way he said it, paired with the faraway look in his eyes, was warm and fond. His eyes glanced over to a side street coming up ahead that would lead to his girlfriend's home.
Without anything needed to be said by his friend, Arnold nodded, pushing Gerald in the direction of Phoebe's. "Tell her I said hi, okay?"
Gerald smiled, relieved, and stuck around long enough to do their signature handshake. "See ya tomorrow!"
Arnold waved and grinned as his best friend practically ran the rest of the way to his girlfriend's. He couldn't help but feel slightly bereft, left out: it wasn't like he had a girl to chase after.
He'd been initially shocked when Lila had approached him, a sorrowful yet saccharine expression on her pretty-as-a-doll face as she informed him that during their casual dating period she'd found her perfect match.
Everyone had been absolutely floored when Lila had sashayed into lunch later on that day with her hand clasped around the resident goth girl's. He wasn't sure which was weirder: the fact that Lila was dating a girl, or the fact that she was dating someone who looked to be her exact opposite. Still, despite the blatantly obvious conflicts in their appearances and demeanors, Lila and Tina had become the golden couple of their year, perfect for each other in every way.
Arnold readjusted his backpack as he turned the corner. Despite the loss of romantic interest in their relationship, he still considered Lila a dear friend he'd be stupid to be without. Besides Lila, there were a few girls he'd had a passing interest in, but he'd never really found someone who captivated his attention like Lila with Tina, or Gerald with Phoebe.
It sucked sometimes, but Arnold, ever the determined optimist, figured he'd meet the love of his life when the time was right.
He was just rounding the last block before he'd inevitably see Helga's home when he noticed something was wrong. Arnold furrowed his brow at the sight of a cluster of cars parked haphazardly in front of the townhouse, one of which appearing to be an undercover police vehicle.
Speeding up his gait, Arnold walked up to a tall, willowy-looking woman with short, dark hair. "Excuse me, ma'am," he piped up politely, "But what's going on?"
The woman looked down at him, brow raised in interest. "I'm sorry?"
Arnold flushed slightly. "I was just—my, er, friend lives here," he said hastily, stumbling over the word 'friend' as he gestured behind him at the townhouse. "Is something the matter?"
She seemed to size him up for a moment, before her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "What's your friend's name?" she asked, not unkindly.
"Helga," he offered. "Helga Pataki. I'm Arnold."
"I see," she hummed, almost to herself. "I'm a friend of Helga's, too," she volunteered. Arnold inwardly doubted that. The woman looked old enough to be their mother, how could she be Helga's friend? "Mrs. Bliss. I was just stopping by because Helga and I were supposed to meet up this afternoon, and it's unlike her to not show up without letting me know."
Arnold didn't know what to say in reply. He went for an empathic nod of his head. "Did you try knocking on the door or something?" he asked.
"No answer," Mrs. Bliss replied. "I couldn't get a hold of her parents either, and I'm a little worried is all."
"Yeah," Arnold murmured quietly, turning to look up at the building before them. "Me too." At her amused but questioning look, he blushed and hurried to add, "She hasn't been in class the past couple of days, and her best friend didn't know what was up with her. I just wanted to check up on her is all, make sure she's alright."
She didn't look like she bought his excuse, but she didn't comment on the fact. "I called the police," she said, "Since I didn't want to break in myself."
They silently stood together, off to the side as the police officer and a short, bespectacled man who Arnold assumed was the landlord unlocked the door to Helga's home.
He didn't know what to expect when the door opened, but he felt a stir of unsettled worry in his gut at the absolute quiet.
"Hillwood PD," The officer boomed, striding through the doorway with an inflated sense of purpose. "Anybody home?"
At the lack of response, they all slowly trailed in after the officer, looking around for any signs of life. Arnold looked around, vaguely remembering the layout of the house from the last time he'd been here, all those years ago when he'd accidentally hit Helga in the head with a baseball. "Her room's up here," he piped up, pointing over at the staircase.
He let all of the adults go on ahead of him, not really comfortable with going first in case there was something to find, and just as he was about to head on up himself, something caught his eye from the kitchen.
A pink, striped sock.
Suddenly feeling mute, Arnold quietly tiptoed over. He felt his heart squeeze painfully in his chest at the sight that greeted him.
There she was, dressed in a pair of black stretchy pants and an oversized t-shirt, sprawled out on her back on the kitchen floor. He fleetingly panicked, thinking she was hurt or dead or something, but then, as if aware of his thoughts, Helga murmured softly in her sleep.
Arnold took the sight of her in, noting the way her closed eyes seemed pinker and puffy. A grimace tugged her lips down, and her eyebrows, thick but no longer the unibrow from her childhood days, were furrowed.
He knelt down in front of her, nearly stepping in a puddle of water as he did so. She had a piece of paper half-crumpled in one hand, her other hand clenched over her heart.
"Helga?" he murmured softly, feeling wave after wave of unexpected sorrow for his… friend? The word didn't seem to fit, but neither did enemy. He internally smiled; their relationship had always been a weird, hard-to-pinpoint one.
She scrunched her face up in her sleep, abruptly letting go of the paper and rolling over onto her side until she'd curled herself around the base of the fridge. Scooting over to her side, Arnold sat cross-legged next to her and pulled the paper towards him.
The pencil lines were faint and smudged by water, but he was able to decipher what it read.
Bob: I'm not sorry… I can't put up with this anymore, it's too hard. I miss him too much… the Bob I fell in love with, the man I married. Don't try to find me. Miriam.
It felt like a stone settled in the pit of his stomach. He involuntarily reached out to rest a gentle hand on the curve of Helga's shoulder, reeling in the sorrow he felt for her.
That was how Mrs. Bliss found the two of them. Wordlessly, Arnold passed her the note, never moving his hand from where it rested on Helga's back, rubbing endless circles over the warm fabric of her shirt.
The cop asked Mrs. Bliss to wake Helga up, but Arnold instead took it upon himself, scooting closer and gently shaking her shoulders with both hands until Helga rolled over and opened her eyes. She was unfocused and confused, snuffling a bit like her nose was stuffy. As her eyes roamed the ceiling, Arnold could gradually see the awareness seeping into her being.
She slowly sat up, twitching in surprise when she noticed she wasn't alone. Her eyes roamed over the cop's and the landlord's, and they welled up with tears when they landed on Mrs. Bliss. "Liz," she whimpered brokenly.
Wordlessly, Mrs. Bliss hurried forward and wrapped Helga up into an embrace. "Helga, I am so sorry," she whispered softly. They parted and the older woman passed a tissue over to Helga, who made a noise of appreciation as she dabbed at her watery eyes. It was then that her gaze finally rolled over to where Arnold sat beside her, frozen in uncertainty. She visibly stiffened. "Arnold? What are you…" She looked to Mrs. Bliss in bewilderment.
"I bumped into Arnold outside," the woman volunteered, a sparkle of something in her eyes.
"I—uh," he flushed with embarrassment when the two of them stared at him. "You were absent, and we were all worried about you," he lied.
Mrs. Bliss looked at him with an unreadable expression. Helga was staring like he'd grown five heads and asked her to go to Candyland with him or something. He felt like melting into the cabinetry he was leaning up against.
"Do you know where Bob is?" Mrs. Bliss piped up.
Helga shook her head, deflating as she toyed with the tissue in her hand.
"Well, I'm not leaving you here by yourself," the woman said with steely determination. "You're coming to my place until everything is straightened out."
Helga looked like she wanted to protest that, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. She frowned and shrugged in defeat.
"Arnold," Mrs. Bliss said, turning to him. "Would you be a dear and help Helga up to her room so she can pack some of her things up? I need to make a phone call," she murmured. The landlord had exited the home, along with the cop, and the two were conversing softly out on the porch. Mrs. Bliss walked past them, eyes down on her cell phone as she dialed a number.
He slowly turned back to look at Helga, who was looking at him with equal parts befuddlement and alarm. Her knees were drawn to her chest, and she'd self-consciously wrapped her arms around herself. "You can go," she murmured. "I can take care of myself."
Knowing this fiery, independent young woman for the better part of his short life, Arnold didn't doubt that. Still, something kept him tethered here. He got up, and when he turned to face Helga he caught a glimpse of… something in her expression before it went carefully blank. "Here," he offered his hand to her, pulling her up from the floor. She made a noise of discomfort as she paused to stretch out her knee.
"Leg fell asleep," she muttered with a blush. Arnold shot her a lopsided smile.
They made their way up to her room, and Arnold found Helga's track duffel bag leaning against her closet door. He checked to make sure it was empty, and put it up on her unmade bed. She barely acknowledged him as she gathered a couple of clothes, and he felt himself flush when he caught a glimpse of something pink and… lacy.
"I'll go get your toothbrush," he choked, escaping to the adjoining bathroom.
It took him a couple of minutes to find her toothbrush, and he paused before grabbing a hair brush as well, just in case. "Wait a minute," she called out feebly from behind her now-closed bedroom door. "Getting dressed."
He reddened further, wondering if she was wearing that weird, lacy… thing he'd seen, only to wonder why he was wondering that about Helga.
"Okay, come in."
He cautiously cracked the door open, peering around before internally sighing with relief. She wore a pair of close-fitting jeans and a fuzzy white sweater that looked incredibly soft. She turned to him and, catching sight of her hair brush, smiled in thanks as she came over and grabbed her things from him.
Arnold watched as she sat on the edge of her now-made bed, brushing the snarls out of her hair. "Are you…" He realized how stupid it would be to ask if she was okay right now, because obviously she wasn't. Who would be? "Is there anything else you need?"
"No." Twisting her hair into a ponytail, she tossed the brush into her bag. "Thanks though."
He was in Helga's room. She thanked him. He briefly wondered if he was dreaming, which would be nearly as weird as this.
"I've got it," he said when she went to pick up her bag. She raised a brow at him in annoyance and, as if reading her thoughts, he assured her, "I know you're not an invalid or something. I just wanna help."
"I can take care of myself," she repeated, but she crossed her arms and let him get her bag for her anyway.
They made their way back downstairs, where Mrs. Bliss was waiting for them. "Ready to go?"
Helga glanced around at her surroundings, swallowing. "Yeah. I guess."
Arnold helped lock up the house and packed Helga's solitary bag into the trunk of Mrs. Bliss' little Honda, waving meekly as the pair drove away. The landlord had presumably gone back to his own home, and the cop was long gone.
Arnold stood there for a moment, feeling oddly bereft, before turning to walk home.