They say if you want to tell a story, to start with the strongest beginning you can think of. I guess our history together is kind of one. Not exactly a Harlequin novel, like the way my sister read them, even though they were mature, and my mom and dad said nothing because, she was oh so perfect, and then I had to cling to him while at the same time pretending to hate him, and despise him and...looks can be deceiving.
Ok, I apologise, if I want to tell my history I must tell it quick and swift, like punches to the gut, I can't wrap everything around my feelings, my cruel, cruel wishes, and jerk people around, that's just something that isn't done.
Let's try again, shall we? They say that we in Hillwood are a bunch of grumpy old nasty people, that we scream, yell and shout at anyone who gets in our way. Not the most pleasant folks around. And sure, while all that would apply to me, that all fails to take in account the pleasant kid that was Arnold.
I use the past tense, because, well, now he grew, though some features do remain the same, what's to say that an anvil head, shaped like a melon indeed, would ever grow into a round face, or that his cute, amazing smile and eyes, would change for the worse? Obviously none of that applies. But this is where this starts.
I never cared much for History, I'll admit. Though our city had one of the biggest museums of Natural History, not to mention more than one library, and records of pretty much everyone who passed by the town, I didn't go to the effort of memorising facts. "Facts are for chumps", I would say, keeping my sister in mind, who had thousands of facts memorised, as well as abilities I would never get, and the way that made her loved yes, but naive to the cruelties of the world.
So yeah, I think my knowledge of the ancient history was "It's been done, it doesn't matter", I might catch something about it or other on tv, when they made up a false artifact that haunted people, but history was not really on my radar. At least not in the way Arnold was.
Now, with seemingly everything we shared, and all the love and care we provide each other, it might seem stupid that my obsession, nay, my love for him had to be hidden, but then, though I ruled fourth grade with an iron fist, mocking was just around the corner.
As confident as I was, and still am today, the laughter of my classmates, when directed at me or something I'd done was just something I couldn't take, and hence my restless bullying of my classmates, Arnold included. You don't make fun of those who scare you, do you?
Anyway, Arnold had a knack for finding those in need and helping them make the best out of their life. More than kind to his friends, he shared his vision and wishes of goodness and well being with the world. Hillwood people could tell you, that if you ever sported a kid with a shirt that fell down and made what appeared to be a skirt, your life was about to get better. He succeeded even against overwhelming odds. And, though I intervened once or twice to help him, to assure both the person, and by proxy his happiness, he normally did it alone. His determination and desire to make the world a better place were something I greatly admired in him...besides everything else.
I think I was being pretty innocuous, pretty unobjectionable in my attraction to him, that is, of course I acted tough around him, but I didn't really do anything too bad, and it was just to make sure that he didn't notice my feelings.
Should have figured the chip would fall one day, I guess.
Almost as if fate itself was toying with me, almost as if my voice was simultaneously heard (I craved the closeness), and not heard (I dreaded the closeness), a whole lot of group assignments paired us together. I still don't know whether to thank my teacher, or not, because it made a track of denial (in front of others) careen down a cliff.
Arnold was his normal, pleasant self, while I...what can I say, had to act like I had always acted. I hurt me as much as it hurt him, and like he had a freakin pain sonar in that anvil head of his (which would explain the shape now that I think about it), he chimed in.
"C'mon, Helga", he said, referring to me by name, and making my heart tremble with every word spoken. I had to fight hard to keep my composure, and I had to fight even harder to retort with venom, though it almost made me gag. It was a practiced ability.
"What do you want, football head?", I don't think Arnold ever gave time to worry about how he looked, I mean, just look at how he dressed! So my normal quip didn't quite have the effect I wished or not that it worked. I mean, it'd be good for me if it had worked, but at the same time I didn't want to hurt him and, oh! How did this make sense?
"I know you are pretty smart, just look at your grades at Math…", so it was known, I fluctuated widely, it wasn't as if I found it difficult, it was that sometimes I couldn't care less about what I wrote in the answer sheet. This "group project (with two people)", just so happened to be at a moment where I was half conscious of the answers I was putting to paper, instead of doodling like football heads and then tracing them with ink from my pen until they weren't recognisable.
"You know, I believe you have good in you, everyone does…", so it started, the usual "Everyone's good" preamble from Arnold, while I admired his optimism I was more cynical, I, myself wasn't exactly the greatest chick in the coop.
"That may be, football head. But I don't quite believe you", we were sitting in his room, the moonlight falling onto us in silvery rays, which would frankly wouldn't be enough to light us and our work, if it weren't due to the fact that he had the light on. I hadn't wanted him to go to my house, to see how my family was, or my inner pains. I mean Olga would definitively treat him well, but he'd be questioned by my father and mother. Then again I think Olga knew, little miss perfect could be very perceptive when she wanted to.
So we had gone into his house, and, despite the lights being on, I could swear that the moon left traces on him. Not in a werewolf, kind of way, no, but rather in a ethereal healthy glow kind of way, and, darn if I haven't started to sound like a cheap romance novel.
What I meant was, he looked good, he was being himself, and that made me being nasty incredibly hard. It wasn't as if he retorted to my nastiness with more nastiness either, he simply sighed, and tried another way to get to me.
"You know, History has a lot of fun moments in it...you should hear the tales my Grandpa tells...it's also a messy, complicated affair full of misunderstandings, if you're into the whole 300 thing, but I believe we as humans are getting better."
"Time out!", I yelled, because the goofy loveable boy in front of me, the one I admired, the one I believed to be the personification of an angel, and everything good with the world, and the movie "300" didn't quite mesh. It was like oil and water. The movie, full of warriors, and blood, and violence, had been seen by him? I mean, I had trouble seeing it, even though my parents didn't quite care, it had been hard to find somewhere to rent it. Now he? How did that ever slip by?
"You watched "300?", he had to have noticed my stunned looked as he shrugged his shoulders and smiled a guilty smile. "Don't tell my grandparents", he said.
Though I had dirt on him if I wanted to make his life more rotten, something I didn't want to do, and though I had treated him badly, he still blurted out things that could get him in trouble to me, it was proof that he believed the best of me, and every other human around. It made me sigh in appreciation, though I quickly covered that sigh with a yawn, he was right there.
"Though the movie isn't very accurate, and I think that I prefer the mesoamerican and central south america history, in fact my parents…"
He suddenly stopped, as if he was stunned, and that caught my attention, Arnold was always so open about everything, but now he had stopped. Of course rumors flew around why he lived with his grandparents and not his parents, and where they could be, but Arnold himself had never brought the elephant in the room into actual conversation, at least not to me. I did something very unlike what Helga Pataki would normally do, I pressed my hand across his. It made my heart swell and head rise in my cheeks, but this wasn't about me, it was about him.
He looked at the way my hand rested across his, and I swear his eyes bulged in place, I think the saying is like "plates"? It would be comical, were it not the fact that it was the way I was showing some kindness, instead of hurting him, that made him act surprised. I wished more than ever to hold his hand and smile at him, instead of simply resting it, but I could not.
"My parents, they, hum, they searched across those areas as well, they liked History too…", and I had too much disappointments and hopes dashed in my short life as to notice he wasn't doing ok. On instinct I pressed my lips to his cheek.
I think neither of us was expecting the act, not really, illuminated by the ceiling lights above us, and the silver rays of the moon, both of us blushed. I, more than him. It wasn't the first time he had been kissed on the cheek as he got it often, after all he helped people pretty much every day, and they thanked him profusely, but it was the first time I had shown any affection for the boy. I cursed my girlish instincts, seeing him hurt...it wasn't natural, it wasn't something I'd ever want to see, so I had acted. But what of the consequences?
He struggled to form a sentence, whether due to the circumstances, the peck of my lips to his cheek, or whether due to the fact that the things we were talking about were hard to him.
"They've been lost for years now, but one day, one day I'll find them.", he really meant it too, he was so certain of it that no doubt permeated his voice. And I had no doubt that he would accomplish it, this was my Arnold, when he set his mind to something he did it.
"Footb….Arnold, I'm sure you'll find them", I smiled at him, though it felt odd, weird to smile at Arnold. It wasn't that I wasn't used to smiling, it was that I never did it in front of him, it was an utterly foreign feeling and sensation.
"Thank you, you know I could use someone like you when I eventually travel there...for protection", was he inviting me on a date? A somewhere in the future, somewhere in the jungle date? What was this, Tarzan? Yet I couldn't help but keep that smile.
"That'd be nice, Arnold", it didn't pass unnoticed by either of us that I had referred to him by name, and not by a mocking nickname. Under the moonlight, one think I was certain of.
Things would never quite be the same again.