Disclaimer: I own nothing. Inspired by the lyric "keep me warm/let me wear your coat" in "Behind Blue Eyes" by the Who. I thought it'd be fun to try something that went along with a piece of it if not the whole song. Thanks for reading. :)
The girls' locker room was mostly empty. Gym class wasn't over yet, but the sound of two teenage girls' voices echoed off the walls.
Phoebe cajoled and pleaded and stamped her foot but nothing would come of it.
Helga refused to come out.
"Go away, Pheebs." Her voice had lost its snappy vigor.
Phoebe didn't respond. Instead, her feet disappeared from view. Helga could hear her push open the outer door.
"Great," Helga whispered. "Just… great." Her head drooped to rest on the cold wall of the stall.
Minutes passed. Helga wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her gym mates were cruel. Morons. Half an hour ago, Sid had pointed gleefully at Helga as she bent to tie her shoe. Most of the guys laughed, except Gerald, surprisingly. Well, on second thought, he did have a little sister. She hadn't had much time to chat about it with him today, however, she thought wryly.
She remembered Coach Wittenberg's voice call out to Phoebe as she ran as fast as she could for the swinging door. "Heyerdahl! Handle it."
"Yes, ma'am!" If she'd snapped to attention and saluted, Helga wouldn't have been surprised.
Sid and the rest of those goons would pay for this later—she particularly savored the thought of chasing down and pulverizing those little twerps Mickey and Gino. But for now, Helga didn't care to emerge. She didn't care if Phoebe had gone to retrieve the principal herself. It wouldn't matter. Even if they called her house, Miriam would probably not be awake to answer the phone. And if she did answer it, she probably shouldn't be driving anyway, let alone break out the Hummer.
And Bob would make the mortifying situation even worse. She could picture him, irritable from having to drive all the way from the Emporium, yelling at the top of his voice for all the school to hear: "Olga would have been better prepared than this!" She imagined a look of horrified pity on the principal's face inspired by a furious-looking girl being led in an agonizing walk of shame to her father's town car. "For cryin' out loud…." Helga pressed her fists to her eyes to try to block out the image. Yes, she'd rather stay in this disgusting cramped stall all day—maybe sneak out once everyone headed for the bus—than endure whatever fresh torment awaited her outside.
The door opened and shut again—Helga could hear the shouting from the sidelines blare in and out of focus. Two pairs of legs were now standing outside the stall.
With horror, she recognized the beat up sneakers next to Phoebe's tiny cross-trainers. There was no telling what Phoebe told his teacher to get him out of class—Helga didn't want to know. She probably didn't have to make up a huge story anyway—this was Phoebe. Teachers loved Phoebe.
"Helga?" His voice was gentle.
She didn't dare reply. What the heck, Phoebe!? She perched on the edge of the questionable toilet seat and hoped with all her might he wouldn't look through the crack in the door. She hugged her knees to her and held her breath.
"You're sure she's still in there?"
"Positive."
Arnold sighed. Phoebe was whispering something.
"Good idea, Phoebe."
Arnold made a weird muffled noise and his feet slid around a little on the gray tiled floor.
A hand appeared under the stall door. In it was a balled-up, bright red plaid shirt. Helga flinched and tried to move further back onto the seat without hitting the flush valve.
The first bell rang.
"Come on, Helga," Phoebe was saying in her best no-nonsense tone.
Any minute the other girls would be crowding through the door. Helga bit her lip.
"Please take it, Helga." Arnold's hand was still, unwavering. "Please?"
She groaned. "All right—criminy!"
Arnold's hand reflexively tensed, prepared for Helga to snatch the shirt out of his grip. Instead Helga reached down and tentatively wrapped both her hands around his. She held them there for a few seconds before lifting the shirt carefully away.
Phoebe was already ushering him out the door. "Quick, Arnold!"
Helga hugged the shirt to her and almost cried into it. It smelled just like him.
"Come on, Ol' Girl. Get a grip on yourself..."
Girls were pouring into the locker room now, laughing and gossiping and not completely unsympathetic. Helga may have been a bully, but she was a woman first.
Later, Helga stood in the doorway to her English class, a note from Coach Wittenberg crumpled in her fist. She was relieved for the excuse, but she could have done without the embarrassing hugs and sentimental tears. Figures. Another thing I crave that I've managed to push away.
She held her head high and tried to ignore the snickers in the back corner of the room. Arnold, clad in a simple white tee, looked up quickly from his desk, his face a picture of do-goody concern, the faintest of blushes on his cheeks. She was wearing his shirt after all.
Helga brushed past him to her empty seat, and despite the teacher he turned to watch her settle into it. Though she was tall, his oversized button-down draped almost to her knees. He raised an eyebrow as if to ask, "You okay?" She responded with a noncommittal shrug. He smiled.
Arnold walked her home that afternoon, even if she insisted (more than once) that she was fine. He got away with it with his standard "I know I don't have to—I want to" line, but Helga didn't hesitate to tell him it was getting old. He'd grinned at her in that maddeningly superior way and said that if it was still working, there was no reason to fix it.
"This conversation—this day—this whole fiasco—let's just pretend it never happened."
"Does that mean you won't be killing anyone tomorrow?"
"Hm. You have a point. Guess I'll kill them first. Then after that, it never happened."
"Okay, good. Just so we're clear." Arnold rolled his eyes.
"Don't worry, I'll spare Geraldo." Helga nudged him with her elbow.
"You'd spare him just for me?"
"No, Einstein—for Phoebe."
Arnold laughed. "Right—good thing he finally asked her out then."
"But honestly, he's… okay."
"Yeah," Arnold shrugged. "Timberly…."
"Yep. You're okay too, I guess."
"Oh good. I was getting worried."
"Any more of that lip and I might change my mind."
"Keep it," he said, as they neared her stoop. He pointed vaguely towards her, avoiding looking anywhere too closely for long.
"Don't tell me you still believe in cooties, Arnoldo."
"I-I don't—"
"I'll wash it—twice if you're that concerned."
"No—I meant… maybe you should have it just in case. You know, for emergencies." He rocked back onto his heels.
She looked at their feet. "O-okay, I guess…. Hey Arnold?"
"Mmhm?"
"You're a… you're a good friend." She rubbed her arm. The fabric at her elbow was worn soft.
"I think you should tell that to Phoebe."
"Hey-hey-hey-hey!" She snapped her head up. "I didn't say you were my best friend."
"Oh. Right."
Helga had a feeling Arnold hadn't expected her to hug him. He was the one who typically sprang a hug out of nowhere. Before he had time to respond, she was running up the steps and then halfway through the front door.
"See you tomorrow, Helga."
"See you. And Arnold?"
"Yeah?"
She gave him the most sincere smile she could muster. "Thanks."
He shook his head and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Any time."