Patience
Author's Note: Okay, I've been agonizing over Patience for the last couple of months. For all intents and purposes, I know this story will be somewhere in the neighborhood of 8,000-10,000 words, and I'm simultaneously writing another chapter for Set Me Free. Unfortunately, that and work/school obligations made it impossible for me to publish Patience all at once. That's why I'm going to amend my plans for it a little. Rest assured, though, Patience will remain a SHORT STORY surrounding ONE set of events, my reason for writing it in the first place. The only difference is that the three separate scenes I'd planned on lumping together as one story will be broken up into three brief chapters. I've already begun the second chapter, and it should be out by early next week. In the meantime, enjoy this chapter and please review to tell me what you think of it so far.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything Hey Arnold!, so what would be the point of suing me? I'm just a broke-ass college student who gets a little too creative with the cartoons she likes.
Patience: Part One
Patience is the key to all things.
- Iranian proverb
Have you ever noticed how high school dances always seem to come with a theme tacked to them? There's never just a big party in the gym with cool lights, a band, and some punch. Instead, you're subjected to the well-meaning but cheesy whim of a decorations committee. This was certainly the case for the theme of my senior prom: "An Evening in Paris."
Still, I had to give our decorations committee their due credit. It must've taken them hours to set everything up, I thought, letting my eyes sweep the entire length of West Hillwood High's spacious gym. White lights were strung along the walls and even on the ceiling. Tiny café tables, complete with wrought-iron chairs and votive candles, lined the room. On the walls hung huge student-done paintings of famous Paris sights. A papier-mâché sculpture of the Eiffel Tower crouched beneath one basketball goal. In the corner next to the main entrance was a DJ from Hillwood City's local rock station providing a mixture of old and new tunes for our musical pleasure. For the final touch, a refreshment table furnished with cookies and punch was parked directly across from the DJ.
From my current vantage point at the refreshment table, I could tell that many of my peers had succumbed to whatever festivity this "Parisian" world had to offer. Almost everyone was out on the dance floor and swaying to a slow song. Nothing was going to spoil their good time, not even the chaperones that were continually casing the joint for any signs of mischief.
My eyes came to rest on one couple on the packed dance floor. The guy was tall and lanky, with a hooked nose that gave his face an eagle-like appearance. He wore a black tux, and his light brown hair was slathered in enough gel to cause the follicles to stand straight up on end. I found the whole effect to be a bit too preppy for my taste. The guy's partner, on the other hand, was just stunning. She had silky auburn hair that was pulled back into a French twist. Several strands framed her expressive face. A flowing green gown clung tightly to the girl's voluptuous figure and perfectly complemented her deeply tanned skin.
As I continued to watch the two of them - their extreme closeness to each other, his hands sliding over the exposed skin of her back, her full, sensuous lips grazing his neck - I felt my stomach clench up. To think it's only been less than six months since I held Lila Sawyer in my arms like that, I mused. And now Stinky Petersen has that honor, if you can call it that. Shaking my head, I promptly turned away from the pair's suggestive embrace.
Just in time, too, because a couple of paper cups were being shoved at me by the server, a junior I recognized as belonging to Student Council. He'd probably been forced into refreshments duty because no self-respecting senior wanted to be caught dead doing such a dumb job at his or her own prom. "Here're your drinks," he announced briskly, looking as if he wanted to be anywhere but here.
Someone else stepped up behind me and asked for some punch like I'd just done. I fired off a quick, perfunctory "Thanks" before taking the containers and walking away, leaving the poor kid to continue to curse his rotten luck.
I headed to a café table toward the rear of the gym. At it sat a tall, slender blonde. This girl somewhat differed in appearance from the vast majority of females who'd showed up in the usual prom fashions of elaborate updos and flashy, trailing formals. Her hair was allowed to float freely around her shoulders in soft waves. She was currently attired in a simple, lavender-colored dress, which flared out slightly before ending at mid-calf. Best of all, her feet were encased in low-heeled sandals, not the ridiculously high, clunky things I often encountered in the opposite sex. I'm glad I'm just a guy so I don't have to worry about that kind of stuff, I thought. All I had to get for this event was a tux, and then I was good to go.
While I was still nearing her, the blonde smiled and called out, "Hey, Arnold, what took you so long? I'm practically dying of thirst here."
Grinning as broadly as her, I put both cups on the table and flopped down into the seat beside my companion. "Save it, Helga. You just get your kicks off of telling people what to do. If you were really thirsty, you would've taken on the task yourself like the big girl I know you are and gotten the punch with your own two hands."
"Well, if that's the case, why did you let me dupe you?"
"Oh, I don't know, Pataki, maybe to get away from your overbearing and bossy self, if only for a moment?"
Helga snorted and rolled her eyes, her face vibrant with mischief. "C'mon, Football Head, you know you wouldn't have me any other way."
Yes, where would I be without Helga G. Pataki constantly egging me on? I wondered, pausing for a second. Probably a whole lot saner, but who wants to be like that? It's not as much fun as being driven out of your mind.
Ever since preschool, Helga's main goal in life seemed to have been geared toward torturing me in every possible way. I spent several unsuccessful years alternating between trying to ignore her or reason with her. At times I'd get so fed up that I would attempt to lash back by giving Helga a taste of her own nasty medicine. Unfortunately, these schemes almost always experienced a messy crash-and-burn in the face of Helga's expertise as a bully who could take the shit she dealt out and then some.
Somewhere along the line, though, the fighting suddenly took on a friendlier, albeit still snappy, nature. Anymore I didn't even mind being called "Football Head," Helga's worst name for me that was intended to make fun of the distinctive shape of my head (well, as long as it wasn't all the time). Maybe part of this transformation had to do with learning how to tolerate each other's presence once our respective best friends starting dating. And perhaps there was an even more telling reason, one that was in the form of a certain couple I'd spotted only minutes earlier…
"Okay, this is becoming way too quaint for our own good," I protested hoarsely. I hoped Helga wouldn't be able to discern the hollowness present in my laughter.
Shrugging, she seized a cup and drained the punch out of it in one swig. "I completely agree. I hate getting all mushy. It can totally kill any moment, no matter what you got going on."
"Speaking of mushy…" I quickly glanced around me.
"You mean, have Phoebe and Gerald made an effort to quit sucking face right in the middle of the dance floor and return to the table since you left?" I nodded expectantly, and Helga shook her head, pointing toward one area of the gym. Our best friends were indeed taking advantage of the semi-darkness and lack of chaperones there.
As you can see, catching people in the act of making out wasn't anything new to us. After all, we were in high school. Just walk down a crowded hallway between class periods, and in the corners were the "face suckers" themselves, usually too wrapped up into their physical exertions to pay much attention to anything else going on around them.
Obviously, Phoebe and Gerald were no exception to this trend. What made them different, though, was the fact it'd taken them years to reach that oblivious stage while engaged in public displays of affection. From grade school on, Gerald, my best friend, and Phoebe, Helga's best friend, had always been interested in each other. However, they seemed to be quite happy with taking things slowly. Then, about three years ago, the two finally declared their couplehood status to be official, and they'd been going out ever since.
When you took into account the relatively brief lifespan of the average high school relationship, I had to admire Gerald and Phoebe's efforts for sticking it out as long as they had. This was even more of an accomplishment when you realized what complete opposites the pair was. Phoebe was a soft-spoken, quiet intellectual who often surprised people with her latent competitive streak in achieving high academic honors. A petite brunette of Japanese and Irish descent, she presently wore a conservative dress in classic black, her hair coifed in a short, smooth bob and her eyes outfitted with contacts instead of the usual glasses to correct her near-sightedness. Gerald had more of a smooth-talking, outgoing personality that made him quite popular and endeared him to almost everyone he met. With a huge afro that only accentuated his extensive height, Gerald at this moment sported a stylish white tux highlighting his dark skin and the long, lean frame he'd developed through massive participation in West Hillwood High's sports program.
Despite these lifestyle and disposition differences, though, Gerald and Phoebe seemed to genuinely fit each other in a way no one else was able to. Anybody with half a brain could see that. And anybody with half a brain would also be rightly envious of what they have together, I thought, smiling ruefully as I looked over at Helga.
She noticed my expression and turned to study me curiously. "Take a picture, Football Head. It'll last longer," she retorted softly.
Without thinking, I reached up with one hand behind me to rub the back of my neck. This is an old gesture of mine that visibly reveals to everyone around me the very second nervousness, discomfort, or mortification rear their ugly heads. I felt annoyed with myself for being so damn obvious.
Yanking my hand away, I grabbed my own cup of punch. "Remind me again of why we're here, Pataki?" I inquired dryly as I took a sip.
"To have fun, of course," Helga replied, smirking at me with a wry knowingness. "Then again, I'd be having a lot more fun if the DJ would quit playing all those damn tear-jerking movie theme songs."
A couple of weeks before prom, the both of us were still without dates, so Gerald and Phoebe had proposed we should go with each other. Their argument was that it was only a natural course of action. Helga and I were good friends, and some people have went "as friends" if they couldn't get dates. No shame in that, right?
While we had to admit the logic of Gerald and Phoebe's plan was sound enough, the idea was nonetheless still pretty embarrassing. Helga and I tried as hard as we could to worm our way out of it by citing our desire to go stag. That didn't deter our best friends from continuing to pester us about the matter. Pretty soon we had no choice but to relent.
Now here Helga and I were at prom. Even if we hadn't formally shown up together, we definitely would've hung out for a while and had as much fun as we were currently having. Nevertheless, the whole situation felt sort of weird. Considering the events of the past six months or so, it was quite ironic to see that I was technically on a date with Helga G. Pataki. Good thing she has enough of a sense of humor for the both of us, I thought, grinning at the sheer infectious quality of her deadpanning.
"What else can you expect after the king and queen are crowned? The same thing happened last year. In fact, I bet it happens every year." Tossing my head back, I swiftly finished off the rest of my punch and set the empty cup on the table. "I'm going to go get some air," I announced abruptly, rising. "Wanna come with?"
"Sure, why not? I could use a breather myself."
"Then I'd be honored to escort you outside, my fair lady." I held my arm out in an exaggerated pose of chivalry.
Helga's smirk widened. "When you put it that way, Arnold, how can any girl refuse your charms?"
You have no idea, I silently replied even as I recognized the irony of my words.