"Pst!" came the voice again, loud and insistent. Helga swished her eyes around behind her, scanning the area for any interlopers. She knew that voice. It was him. Her odd, little, demented friend.
Helga gave one last look around the streets of Hillwood. There was no lurking around the front side of Sally's Chocolates and so she stopped, hands fisted at her side and posture slumped forward, for the one she anticipated to show himself. Sure enough, as she waited patiently, a bowl-cropped shock of black hair was lifted above its hiding place behind the dumpster at the entrance to the alley. Thaddeus Curly Gammelthorpe known in their class as Curly for short, crept halfway out from behind the dumpster to hiss insistently again.
"Psst!" the boy said before holding a crooked finger out. He wiggled it with the motion to come nearer. With her eyes wide with a grave expression, Helga wandered nearer.
"I've got the goods," Curly hissed. "I've procured the 'item' you asked for. At no insignificant risk. So, do you have, 'the garment'?"
"Yup," Helga said to her odd, little, twisted freak friend. "We trade off at class, 2 o'clock sharp. Deal?"
"Deal!" said Curly with an insane grin before disappearing behind the dumpster again. Helga lifted her eyes up to the heavens and shrugged. "Sheesh. Man, Curly is even stranger than I am. Sometimes I feel guilty for encouraging him. But who am I to judge?" Helga asked herself as she strolled down the street towards Vine Street to go pester Arnold.
Saturday was ballet practice for Helga. But no one was supposed to know that. Ever. Or else they'd have to die. Or at least have the stuffing beat out of them for exposing her secret. No, no one was ever supposed to know that Helga had a soft and delicate feminine side that actually enjoyed dancing despite the tutus that revealed her legs and stuck out at bizarre angles and forced her to wear tights that made her skin a strange shade of pink. No one was supposed to know that Curly took ballet lessons, either, or that the two classes sometimes mixed to put on actual productions. No one especially was to know that Curly sometimes lifted up Helga to do flying spins to the sound of Versailles music. So it was that the two disparate individuals, Curly and Helga, had sworn and kept to an absolute sacred pact. Never should the two speak much when outside ballet class. Never should the two be seen going together to ballet class. Never should the two reveal that either of them attended ballet class. This was their sacred oath.
Over the years their secret had leaked out by centimeters. Sid had taken photographs of Helga in her ballet uniform, unbeknownst to her. Phoebe had discovered this transgression and so Helga had stuffed Sid in a locker for punishment. Arnold had forced Curly to confess once to prove he wasn't the one guilty of kidnapping a stuffed alligator named Wally. Then there was Lila, that red-headed horribly goodie-two-shoes who moved into town much to Helga's dual delight and agony. Lila was in the introductory classes and had taken especial note that Curly and Helga were both in the more advanced classes of Madame Bovary's Dance Academy. But she hadn't spread that knowledge wide and far.
No, even, if some of their classmates had already found out, Helga and Curly continued to keep their dance class attendances a closely guarded secret. As was habit, Helga went to great lengths NOT to be seen with Curly. So on this day, she put on a pair of wide sunglasses and walked four blocks over to take a bus past Madame Bovary's Dance Academy for Boys and Girls. Then she took a bus back in the opposite direction. Helga shifted her sunglasses down from her face a wee bit and glanced in either direction to make sure no one was watching from across the street before entering the building.
"Whew!" said Helga making her way to the locker room. She donned a ballet costume for practice and secured her dance slippers to her toes by their long lacings. Then she tested them out a bit, lifting herself to her toes and staying there for a few moments before lowering the whole flat of her feet to the floor again. Then, her eyebrow lowered, she went to find Curly.
""Helga. Babe!" said Curly greeting her with a maniac grin. Helga rolled her eyes upward. Still hunched forward, she shoved a nightdress in his direction.
"Oooo," said Curly drooling over the garment. "Perfection! Almost as savory as my darling, Rhonda!" He stroked the gown with longing.
"Yeah, yeah," said Helga bored. "So do you have what I asked for? Months ago?"
"Here!" said Curly pausing long enough in his admiration to slap a stinky white T-shirt in Helga's direction. Helga gathered it up in her arms almost as if there was a boy in it. Then with a dreamy sigh, she lifted the shirt up to her nose to take a deep whiff of it. A euphoric expression passed across her face.
"What?!" she demanded of Curly as the boy wordlessly watched her deep wuff. "So I have a sweat fetish. So what of it?!"
"Nothing, friend. No need to raise your voice," said Curly bowing gracefully. "I was just wondering what job you would like me to do. For our next trade that is."
"Well," said Helga looking awkward suddenly. "About that. You know how, Curly, for years I've been cutting the labels off Rhonda's clothes or pinching her hairbrushes for you?" said Helga curling a hand around Curly's shoulder. "Well, it's always been for something in trade. Something of Arnold's. A gym sock. An old piece of geography homework. A brown paper bag made into a book cover with multiplication written inside the front cover. A very hard to reach T-shirt," said Helga lifting up the shirt. "You've helped me, loads Curly. We've helped each other lots. But I just don't think I want to- need to- collect things to build my shrines with much anymore. Curly, he saw my shrine. Arnold SAW my shrine I built to him."
"What?!" Curly gasped before biting his lip. Transfixed, he waited for Helga to continue her story.
"I thought it was the end of the world. I mean, a shrine in a closet?!" said Helga waving her arms around. "I'm a total fruit basket! I've always needed those things to comfort me and make me feel nearer to him. But it's not the same anymore. Somehow the same things that have always felt comforting to me feel hollow. Empty. So I've decided not to build shrines anymore. Except little ones, maybe. I'm mostly doing picture collages now. But," said Helga, a dreamy expression growing across her face, "I'm not sad. I'm spending a lot of time with the real deal now. So for once, there isn't anything that I want you to collect on my behalf. But I've been thinking. Since you've been such a good, dear partner in crime of mine, our dear, demented Curly, I should help you out! I want to make it so you get a chance to get close to your crush so you won't need to sleep with a locket of hair under your pillow anymore, or glue dry macaroni on your bedroom wall in the shape of Rhonda's likeness. I'm talking about setting you up with a real date with Miss Rhonda Lloyd herself."
"A date?!" Curly exclaimed. Helga could practically see the heat coming out of his nostrils at the enticing thought. "Is such a thing possible? What's your angle?"
"Like I said, we're friends, aren't we?" Helga purred smugly. "Call it gratitude for keeping our mutual secrets, secret. I'll set things up real good. I'll bring Miss Rhonda Lloyd to the mall for an afternoon outing with you, so that you may taste a bit of bliss. But it isn't going to be cheap. If you want this thing to work, you're going to have to bring money. Lots of money for the 'princess' to spend. Like five hundred dollars," said Helga letting the number drop.
"Five hundred?" Curly repeated with distaste. "That's five months of allowance. But anything for Rhonda dear."
"Exactly," said Helga straightening her spine up to stand properly instead of hunching over Curly. "You've got to show Miss Rhonda Lloyd that you've got the money. That way, she'll be all over you. Even if not for the right reasons."
"But how will you get her to agree to such thing?" asked Curly, still perplexed. Helga smiled.
"Oh, I have some ideas about these things. Soon we'll have Miss Rhonda Lloyd eating candy off your hand," said Helga giving off an evil chuckle. After all, Rhonda loved shopping better than anything and Curly's family's business was a booming, lucrative empire. The perfect match for a girl driven by greed. Then, off in the distance, Helga heard the voice of their ballet instructor, Madame Bovary.
"'Elga? Curl-ee! Get over here! Exercise set, vite, vite, vite!"
"Yes, ma'am," Helga hollered back before Curly and she shuffled into the room filled with mostly early middle-schoolers.
"Okay, lift me," said Helga assuming a braced tiptoe in her ballerina slippers, her arms kept arched tall above her. "And keep your hands as much to yourself as you can, please."
"You got it, babe," said Curly with cheerful professionalism. He hoisted her up in the air.
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