Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is a sort of "extension" for the Helga-as-a-slam-poet idea in one of the "Pink" drabbles. All you crazy cats and chicks out there with your awesome and humbling feedback, this is for you! Thanks for reading! :)
Arnold lay on his bed and thought about the school week, puzzling over the odd feeling welling up inside him.
The music. It wouldn't stop.
He remembered once in fourth grade he tried to explain to Gerald what happened whenever he saw the then-mysterious Ruth P. McDougal—this unearthly music swelled into a crescendo and blocked all cognizant thought from his mind.
He was worried. It was happening again, but this time the circumstances were totally unexpected. Sometimes it was a solitary violin or a saxophone. Other times it was the heavy rise and fall of timpani or the romantic droning of an accordion. Sometimes he sat idly at his keyboard and before he knew it, his fingers evoked this haunting melody all by themselves.
Deep down, he knew what it meant, and usually it wasn't a good thing. Whenever he heard the music, it was a sign that he was slipping into a trance over some girl, and if he told Gerald about it, it probably wouldn't go over too well. Gerald had a lot of practice snapping his buddy out of these trances and always told him to block it out because, "It's not worth it man, she's shallow. Everybody knows that." Or, "She doesn't like you—quit kidding yourself!" Or even, "She's a big time Hollywood actress, Arnold. Please, for dignity's sake, don't go embarrassing yourself mailing that sappy love poem." Gerald had stealthily pulled the letter from his friend's hands before it disappeared into the mailbox. Arnold remembered the next day's mortified relief and his silent thanks to a higher power that Gerald was a good friend.
But this time was different. He hadn't told Gerald yet because there was something… private about this particular theme that he didn't know how to put into words, and it scared him. This melody felt much older than the others. It threaded delicately into the past, winding into echoes of variations he already thought he knew. It haunted his dreams. It haunted his waking life. It was somewhat sad in its beauty, and so he walked around in a semi-painful dream, feeling a helpless longing for something he couldn't quite place.
At first, it didn't seem much different from the usual times he saw her walking alone in the city. Those days the music wasn't necessarily absent—it was just quieter, more subdued, lurking underneath the surface. Occasionally it blared sharply into focus when he crashed into her around a blind corner, but just as sharply it faded into the background as she stalked irritably away.
As the summer progressed, now and then he spotted her on the little footbridge or near the bench next to the fountain—somewhere close to water. Water—the ocean, the stream under the bridge, the harbor—he'd met her (and spoke with her) near them all. The music was sustained by those moments, and he would feel its presence long after she disappeared.
And then, at the edge of when the leaves just started to turn, rarest but richest of all, there were the days with rain. Somehow the rain drumming down on the sidewalk pavement gave even more meaning to the flowing sounds in his head. The puddles reflected the lining of sadness in the music. That singular time when he stood still under the gray sky and watched her skim stones across the water—something about the emerging symphony changed. It had been released and was free to fill up the space around him at full volume. She was aiming at Elk Island. He struck up a contest with her for old times' sake, and (a little covertly) for the chance to see what was bothering her. He marveled at her life behind closed doors—it gave him valuable perspective he didn't know he'd needed until after he'd already walked home in the dusk, still not fully dried from standing so long, exposed, on the pier.
He knew why he hadn't told Gerald, but he refused to vocalize it just yet. Yes, it haunted him. No, he couldn't sleep because of it. One day he would probably have to transcribe a fully realized version of it in order to vacate his mind. But until then this new nebulous guilty feeling would remain: he wanted to hold on to it.
He wanted to keep it close because he thought that once Gerald found out, the bubble would burst and it would all be over. He wanted to hide it because he knew that it was irrational, laughable. Maybe his hormones were going crazy and therefore he was too. Or maybe he knew the truth… that this time it was real.
So he endured it. On Tuesday, he watched her casually slam her locker in the dusty hallway and admired the warm smile she saved for her best friend as they shuffled to class. The music ebbed with her steps. On Wednesday, he sat behind her in math class and forgot to take notes. The music washed through his mind and narrowed his vision to the fine wisps of hair escaping from her elastic scrunchie. On Thursday, he thought in vain about how to write her a note or a poem or anything that would hint to her how he felt. Signing it "anonymous" wouldn't cut it this time—but he never managed to go through with it anyway. The music taunted him as he glanced across the room, and he flinched when she looked up and stage-whispered a hostile, "What?!" This afternoon he didn't bother trying to suppress it as he watched her in her element, slinging dodgeballs left and right at their classmates. Tomorrow night was their friends' weekly gathering at the Coco Hut, sharing pizza and laughing at or applauding each other's acts heartily—she'd be there in all her glory as usual.
Arnold blinked and sat up, dazed from the light streaming down from the pattern of windows above him, his eyes adjusting to his relatively dark room. Maybe this would be a Grandpa-advice moment instead of a Gerald one. It couldn't hurt. His Grandpa had been making fun of him for ages for what he already suspected to be true. Perhaps it was time to get it out in the open.