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"W-we've got to stop doing this, Helga…"
"Wh-what do you mean b-by 'this'—"
"You know exactly what I mean."
Arnold looked up at her, not so much because she was an inch or two taller but because she currently was standing precariously on the edge of the bleacher seat.
Gerald Field was losing daylight, and all of their friends had long left the game. The sky was orange with the haze of the city.
Arnold suddenly noticed the tightened expression around her closed eyes and realized he was still gripping her shoulders. His eyes traveled between his hands and her face, and he relaxed just enough to keep her there.
She was avoiding it again. He was tired of it.
It had all started as an argument. It usually did. Naturally, it wasn't about anything in particular. Maybe she poked fun one too many times at his batting stance as she crouched, glove ready, behind the home plate. Maybe he retaliated a little boldly, daring to push it as far as he might, by pointing out nobody else on the field was paying such fervent attention to the way he moved. While he spoke in the lowest register, the sound sinking down in a mumble meant only for her, Helga's temper only seemed to grow worse.
By the time the game was over, he had struck out every time he went to bat.
"Hey Helga!" it had started innocently enough.
"What do you want, Arnoldo?" She didn't turn around as she stuffed her glove into her bag. Stinky walked by and clapped Arnold heartily on the back—"Good game, better luck next time, Arnold!"—but Arnold didn't take his eyes off the back of Helga's head.
"I just want to talk to you for a second."
"Well—this just in, Hair-Boy—I got places to go, calculus homework to do…" She pulled her mask off and slung her long hair roughly over her shoulder before doing the same with her bag. "You better make it quick." She turned around abruptly and looked him straight in the face. It unnerved him. "I'm listening."
He didn't know how it had escalated so quickly. All he had tried to do was nicely ask her to tone down the insults, but like clockwork, here he was again with his hands clamped to her shoulders and her hands grasping his shirt front. She must have climbed up on the bleachers when she was stomping around—he vaguely remembered her prodding him sharply in the chest at one point—and there she remained.
He needed to think quickly while she was still catching her breath or the moment would be gone. Just say it.
"Helga. If we're going to keep…" he got a grip on himself, "kissing each other like this, can we at least do it when we're not fighting about something?"
Her eyes snapped open. Never had he not given her an out before. "I—I—Arnold, I—" she looked down at her hands, wound tightly in his pull-over, and quickly dropped them to her sides as if burned. Arnold had never seen her so lost for words. Any other time he'd have danced around it with her, following their unspoken agreement to avoid the topic at all costs, find some way to excuse their own crazy behavior and make a run for it. But after the third or fourth time, this was getting quite ridiculous… Apparently being direct with Helga about it had worked. She had run out of steam. It was a monumental turning point.
Arnold took the opportunity to gently pull Helga down next to him on the bleachers. A lingering ray of the sun caught a piece of her hair and he noticed how golden it was. "Look Helga… we've been… doing whatever this is for a while now. Before this—" he paused, "—whatever this is, I'd say we were pretty good friends, right?"
Helga crossed her arms and dragged her toe back and forth through the dirt. She sighed. "What's your angle?"
"Well, when friends become… more than friends, usually they have to tell each other how they feel first."
Helga shrunk into herself a little more. Arnold knew she was listening. He reached out and touched her arm. Helga froze.
"But, with our particular case… I think we've sort of…" he shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck, "jumped over that part. Unless…"
"Unless what?" She stretched up to her full height and leaned back on her hands. He had her now.
"Unless…" It was his turn to kick up a small cloud of dust on the ground, "Unless you want to make sure we're on the same page? You know, retroactively fill in the details?"
Helga looked at Arnold, blinked once. His hand was an inch from hers on the bleacher seat.
"But I—but I…"
He filled in the blank for her: "—think I'm okay." She knew from his overt tone he was really saying you love me.
"A-And y-you—"
"Well, I think you're pretty great too, Helga." Arnold nudged his shoulder into hers and gave her a small smile. Nevertheless, her face had sunk into a melancholy expression. He slid his hand over hers, finishing the movement he started at a small French restaurant over seven years ago. "I think it's only fair that you let us do the whole stupid dating thing so I can catch up to you."
Helga perked up immediately. Here was the out she was waiting for. "Oh. Well, I guess I could do ya a favor. But don't expect me to plan anything. It's your harebrained idea."
Her offhandedness failed to deter him. "Okay, you get the next one then. How's seven on Saturday sound?"
"My weekend's pretty slammed—but I suppose I can pencil you in." She was starting to smirk. Arnold's window was closing.
"Oh, and Helga?"
"Yeah, Arnold?"
"If you really care about me so much," he got to his feet and slung his own bag across his back, "why do you make it a point to distract me from playing my best game? Aren't girlfriends supposed to be supportive or something?"
"That tears it, nerd."
He was already running down the sidewalk, laughing.
"I know where you live, you idiot!" She chased him out of the field. Of course, after she had caught him, they had to make their way back to Gerald Field to procure her forgotten bag. But that was okay. Arnold had rather wanted to walk her home anyway.