Hey Arnold: After the Jungle

by originella

Leaving the jungle of San Lorenzo behind, Arnold and Helga begin 6th grade at P.S. 118 as an official couple. However, in the future, documented by a series of letters from a teenaged Helga to Arnold, we learn that their middle school life is in the past and the couple are living on opposite sides of the country. What happened to make them separate, and when, or if, will it change?

1. Stay With Me, Football Head

Chapter One: Stay With Me, Football Head

"Did I say you could touch me?" I snap as I yank my hand away from Arnold's, only to smile at the notion that he wanted to hold my hand at all. I manage to catch a glimpse of him smiling back; even though the whirlwind summer after saving his parents back in San Lorenzo had ended, we were official—finally! After over seven years of pining for him, I was finally, finally, finally the official girlfriend of Arnold Shortman.

I walk just behind Phoebe and Gerald—finally together as well—and sense Arnold is still behind me. When Mr. and Mrs. Shortman show up behind us, I am shocked yet again at this dedication from parental units. Knowing that, even after each and every thing I went through in Central America, I was still just "the girl" to my inept mother and overbearing father. Arnold's parents stayed with us until we arrived at P.S. 118, and I stood just inside the doors, waiting for him as he waved goodbye.

"You can't come in," he tells them gently.

"When are you getting out?" his dad asks.

"3:30," he replies.

"We'll be waiting here!" I hear from behind me as Arnold troops up the steps, and the doors close behind him.

"Must be nice," I say, allowing him to take my hand as we walk along the hallway together, no longer caring if we were spotted. Of course, my biggest fear remained —I mean, what if Lila suddenly wanted Arnold for herself, now that we were together. I knew it was silly to think about, but she was like Arnold's Cho Chang, and I was his Ginny Weasley.

Arnold smiles at me, squeezing my hand. "I guess so—all they want to do is spend time with me. I'm glad you were so cool about the double dates."

"It's a new experience for both of us, Football Head," I say, cracking a smile so as he will know I mean it as a term of endearment. "You know as well as I do that I have no idea what the term functional family means, but you have it now..."

"So, you do know what it means?" Gerald asks as we move towards our new lockers, having just heard the last bit of our conversation. "With Arnold's parents back and the two of you spending every waking moment with them since we got back from San Lorenzo... Mmm-mmm!" he says, grinning and nodding in approval before turning back to Phoebe.

I turn to look at Arnold, barely staring at my locker opener. "If you don't want me hanging out with you guys..."

"Of course I do," Arnold said, cutting across me quickly and smiling at me. "Hey, I mean, ever since we got together last summer, I know that we need to spend more time together. Communication is the key to every relationship."

"Now you sound like a psychologist," I say, shaking my head and hiding my smile as I manage to heave some particularly heavy books into my locker.

"How's things going with Dr. Bliss?" he asked, setting his books carefully onto the shelf the locker provided before gathering up the things he needed and slamming the door behind him. "Good sessions thing summer?"

I nod. "Yeah—real good," I tell him, slamming my locker myself and turning to follow him, feeling elated as he takes my hand again. "I think we really managed to hit a breakthrough these last couple of weeks..."

"Oh, yeah?" Arnold asks as we walked towards Mr. Simmons's class. "What did you manage to chat about?"

"How my feelings for you really got in the way of my being polite," I reply. "I mean, now that we're...you know, whatever we are...I think I know how to be polite in general society. I've even stopped hitting Brainy, because of..." I flush then and lower my eyes as we step into the classroom, going to the back row and sitting next to each other.

"Because of what?" Arnold asks, setting down his books and proceeding to organize his pencils and erasers. "What made you hit him?"

"I would take out the locket and say something epically romantic and spouting my love for you," I say, putting my nose in a book of poetry and absolutely and positively considering switching schools. "No big deal..."

Arnold, to my surprise, is smiling. "You know, I just wish you'd managed to fully say something earlier."

"When?" I asked him, turning to face him, forcing myself to keep my tone somewhat civil. "You were practically offering yourself up to Lila and then we saved the neighborhood and then I went blind and then you found your father's journal and then we went to San Lorenzo," I say, feeling myself coming dangerously close to what Dr. Bliss calls a "public overreaction". I sigh. "I'm sorry," I say after a moment, considering opening my old fake book with a stick figure of him inside.

Arnold just continues to smile at me. "You know, had I known completely about your home life, I think I would have understood where you were coming from on a daily basis."

I sigh. "Dr. Bliss thinks I transferred all my love to you," I tell him softly, keeping note of our fellow students filing into the classroom around us. "I know you think it's silly..."

"I don't," Arnold assures me, reaching across the divide and taking my hand firmly in his. "You know how I feel."

I smile back at him in a rueful manner, feeling absolute comfort as he squeezes my hand. "Well, you sure showed me as much," I reply.

"All right, class," says Mr. Simmons, strutting to the front of the classroom as Arnold and I immediately whip our hands back into our own vicinities. "Your essays on San Lorenzo are due today. Why don't you pass them up front now and I can have them graded by lunchtime?"

"You sure that's a good idea?" Phoebe whispers to Gerald as she manages to pull out a thick stack of papers with grace from her folder. "I mean, shouldn't one spend more time on the grading process?"

Gerald shrugs. "I don't know, but I do know that Simmons won't be too happy with what a lot of you say about him, and what he did with those monkeys at that prison camp..."

"That sounds wrong," I mutter to myself.

"Too bad we weren't there to see it," Arnold jokes, handing his paper up to the front of the classroom with mine. "If Simmons hadn't gone on the trip with us, he'd think it was all fake news..."

"Something like that," I say, smiling to myself as Mr. Simmons collects all of our essays and places them on a corner of his desk.

"Okay, class, right now we're going to do some fraction review work to see how much you remember about last year," Mr. Simmons says, gathering up a second stack of papers. "I'll be nice and let you use calculators for it, but try to exercise your brain a bit and let it do most of the work for you."

"Here we go again," Rhonda groaned, into her phone. "Day one of middle school and already, they have us doing grueling, undignified, manual labor, with mere sticks," she says, holding up her pencil, "as our tools. Tell me, o great world outside these prison walls, what is happening out there, as we use our brains to do insufficient math problems that won't even allow us to expand our knowledge in any practical way—"

"Rhonda, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times," Mr. Simmons says, swiping her phone as he walks by. "No vlogging in the classroom, especially right before a review worksheet."

"But, my followers have need of me to document every foreseeable thing of my life in an electronic fashion!" Rhonda wails. "I'll bet that phone is worth more than you make in a year."

"Two years, probably," Harold mutters under his breath.

"Now, class—no electronics!" Mr. Simmons says, growing exasperated. "If there's a family emergency, your family should call the front office and you can speak to them down there," he says, putting Rhonda's phone into his pocket and continuing to hand out the review worksheets.

I take a look at the worksheet myself and raise my eyebrows—to actually remember the material after a summer spent on the arm of Arnold Shortman was nothing short of a miracle. As I looked up, I saw Lila confidently writing down the answers in her perfect handwriting, I tried not to let her Dorothy Gale lookalike getup to get the better of me as I continued to write down various answers to these problems, barely even looking at my worksheet. Focus Pataki, I thought to myself, knowing that my father would notice a bad grade and never a good one. You've got this, I know you do...

We continued with the review worksheet for another fifteen minutes before Mr. Simmons collected them and then told us to write a poem in the method of our choice—haiku, limerick, ballad, or any other way we could think of. I had always been fond of haikus, as the structure seemed simple enough and it was a quick way of getting your point across. Thinking to myself, I knew that it had to be epic, and just crossed my fingers that Lila's didn't have a double meaning of some kind, mainly that she now liked-liked Arnold...

As the summer dies,

One must know autumn from it

As it comes too quick

For the leaves change, too

And the nights grow cold and dark

Waiting for the snow

And classes begin

They are all so very long

And for what purpose?

I thought that three stanzas would get the point across, and was relieved when I heard the informative sounds of various other pencils being lowered onto the desks of the other students around me. All I can hope for at this point is Mr. Simmons not mentioning how Olga could have written a better poem. I debate not even sharing it, for this form of rejection—although great—would be a great way to cope with the outside world. Now with Arnold in my life, not as my tormented, but as something more than a friend, I knew that I could handle this kind of rejection, if not the ultimate kind.

I merely handed in my poem with the others, not wanting to risk getting laughed at for the melancholy tone it brought. Of course, I had to be grateful, didn't I? Finally achieving my goal of seven years, attempting and succeeding in getting Arnold to love me back. As I peeked over at him, I felt warmth spread through me then as his eyes met mine and smiled back. Months ago, if that would have happened, I would have sneered at him and calling him a "Football Head" in that vehement tone I'd worked on getting rid of for so long.

As soon as Mr. Simmons gave the word an hour and a half later, I gathered my things to place in my locker, walking out of the classroom with Arnold, who took my hand again. We ventured to our lockers and opened them, placing our books on the respective shelves and slamming the doors behind us. I turned to Phoebe then, who whispered something to me.

"Shall I tell Harold that you'll be tearing his appendix out the old-fashioned way if he attempts to take your four-square area?" she asks.

I look over my shoulder at Gerald, who seems to want some one-on-one time with her, and then back to Arnold, who smiles at me. "No," I reply, taking Arnold's offered hand again. "You go and have fun—I think I'm pretty occupied myself with other arrangements at present."

"No problem," Phoebe replies, a look of understanding in her eyes as she takes Gerald's hand and walks off with him.

"You didn't have to do that," Arnold says as we move to follow the pair of them out to the playground.

"Do what?" I ask.

"Sacrifice your besting Harold for me," Arnold replies with a smile.

"Dr. Bliss says that I should channel my anger in more productive ways," I reply as we walk through the doors outside.

"What has she suggested?" he asks.

"She says I should write one letter every day to the person who makes me the angriest in my life..."

"Your dad?"

I sigh, going to sit on the bench against the brick wall with him, where we wave to the likes of Nadine, Patty, Stinky, Sid, and all the rest of them, who got Gerald's warning not to give us nonsense about now being in a relationship. "I think that's a given," I reply.

"Have you ever asked him?" Arnold asks. "Directly, I mean—when he's not trying to sell beepers to people..."

"Or distracted by my mom or Olga," I say, sneering when I utter her name, and mentally curse myself for doing so. Sanction later, Helga, I tell myself. "No, and he probably would think the letter was fake or demeaning towards him in character, which, arguably, it is, and then tear it up. Thankfully, I managed to find a way to copy them without him knowing it, just in case I want to show him the damaging affects someday..."

"I just hope that he sees reason—with you and with his business," Arnold replies, shaking his head. "What's the word on that?"

"Beats me—I'm trying to stay out of it," I tell him. "Next year we start middle school, and that's where the fun begins."

"You're not having fun now?" he asks.

I blink, immediately turning to look at him. "No, of course, I—" Immediately, I see that he is smiling. "You are such a Football Head," I mutter, and he leans in and kisses me on the cheek. "But I suppose I can get used to it..."

"Like I can get used to being your boyfriend," he says, placing a gently hand upon my shoulder.

Almost instantly, I feel my skin prickle all over and feel myself melting. "Ohhh!" I whisper to myself, and Arnold smiles.

"You know, they sent me the tape of the news reporting on us getting the trip to San Lorenzo," Arnold tells me.

"Really?" I ask. "How was that? Was the news reporter embellishing, as some of them often do?"

"No," he says, "but I did see you leaving my house."

I feel myself flushing then, and know that my face is as bright as a day-old tomato left in the heat. "What?" I ask.

"I saw you leaving my house," he repeats patiently.

I lower my eyes to the bench, the large nails beginning to gather rust around their respective edges, and the planks of wood severely water-damaged and splintering in some places. "Did you?" I say.

"I did," Arnold confirms. "Let's just say it was nothing short of a completely adorable experience."

My eyes shoot up to his, feeling as vulnerable as we did when we were suspended from the makeshift wooden bridge with Gerald. "Adorable?" I ask.

"Yes," Arnold replies. "You were dancing around and clutching your heart like the best thing in the world had happened to you. What did happen...?"

"You touched my shoulder," I reply, knowing that it sounds lame now. "I just felt like a turning point had been reached, you know? Like suddenly you didn't just see me as the bully Helga Pataki, but someone that you could, I don't know, actually care about on a different level..."

"That's all it took?" Arnold wants to know.

"Well, you know as well as I do that I would've done anything to make you notice me," I say, picking at some of the splintered wood on the bench. "All I wanted was you not to hate me..."

"I never hated you, Helga," Arnold replies, briefly covering his hand with mine. "I think it would've helped, had I known the entire story about what was going on in your personal life, but you were never one to open up with anyone. I mean, does Phoebe even know the entire story?"

"The abridged version," I tell him.

Arnold nods. "I get that—I mean, my family life has never been normal, and I doubt it ever will be. I mean, I have a pig named Abner who lives with us practically, even though my grandparents still don't fully grasp that. Even getting him up to my bedroom during the cold nights is difficult..."

"I mean, at least your parents like me..." I say quietly.

"You saved their lives," he says. "Of course they like you."

"That's comforting," I reply. I turn towards the school then, and count to ten in my head. "I like them, too," I say softly, my reply drowned out by the bell ringing, nearly splitting my eardrums in the process.

"Let's get back to class," Arnold says softly, offering his hand again.

. . .

Dear Arnold,

Ever since you moved away for high school, all I can think about is that you're going after your dreams. Miles and Stella bring me comfort, and we often meet up for lunch, dinner, or for a walk to pass the time. I know that you did what was right, and even though things ended between us the way they did, I am pleased that you still want to keep in touch.

With my emancipation status granted, it's easy for me to work part-time, and for me to live at the boarding house, the commute to school about the same. Now as I live in your old bedroom, it makes me feel closer to you, even though you're on the other coast. New students come and go at P.S. 118, and now that it is a multi-grade school, some aspects of the curriculum seem to get a little lost in translation, to say the least.

Miles and Stella's house is not that far, as I'm sure you remember, and they would want me to tell you that they're all right. They wouldn't want me to tell you that they are struggling, as I admittedly am as well, in our mandatory separation. I know, I know—it was for the best, but it all seems akin to The Way We Were. I know I am no Barbra Streisand, but you are every inch Robert Redford.

Junior prom season starts soon, but it doesn't matter to me. I know you will have met someone over there in Rhode Island, and I take comfort in that. I know you will have had to move on from me, as I will eventually from you. However, for the moment, you are, and will always be, my Football Head.

Your friend,

Helga Pataki

. . .

Arnold, Phoebe, Gerald, Miles, Stella, and I walk to the halfway point before Phoebe and I become a twosome again, the two of us goodbye to Gerald, Arnold, and his parents respectively until tomorrow. I listen to Phoebe's small talk about Gerald's attentiveness towards her, and I am happy that my being so overbearing over the years never managed to diminish her confidence. Mine had been smashed to pieces a number of times, yet now that I had Arnold by my side, nothing else seemed to matter as much.

We came to Phoebe's house first and I said goodbye before walking up the stairs to my own house close by. Letting myself in, I heard the Game Show Network blaring from the T.V. in the living room, and saw my mother passed out on the couch, snoring loudly. I passed the kitchen, seeing the blender on the counter, knowing that she had had a smoothie. Knowing that Dad wouldn't be home until at least six o'clock, I climbed the stairs towards my bedroom.

One of the doors opened upstairs, and there was a shriek before Olga darted out of her bedroom. "Baby sister!" she screamed, dashing towards me and throwing her arms around me.

"Olga—hey!" I cried out, forcing myself not to push her away from me. "Kindly release me and allow me to breathe properly..."

"Sorry," she said, standing back. "I just can't believe my baby sister is finally in the sixth grade, and dating the boy she keeps a shrine to!"

My eyes snap to hers. "How did you know about that?" I demand.

"I've been cleaning your room during my school vacations for years," she replies in an offhanded tone. "Don't worry—I didn't mention it to Mom and Dad or touch or move anything. I would mainly gather your laundry, make your bed, or vacuum your floors..."

"Then how did you know about the shrine?" I say, having to force my voice to remain calm. "It's in my closet..."

"When I hung up your dresses," she replied simply.

I put my fingers to my temples and rub them. "Okay, okay, Helga old girl... Do not get mad... Breathe... Count to ten..."

"Is that something Dr. Bliss told you about keeping stress at bay?" she wants to know, and seems genuinely curious.

I nod, straightening myself back up and squaring my shoulders. "Yeah," I reply, putting a brave face on. "What are you doing home?"

"I decided to take some online classes this quarter," she tells me. "I wanted to be at home more for you. Let's face it—Daddy seriously needs to step up with you. Now that you're in the sixth grade, you're practically a woman."

"No, no, no," I say, cutting across her quickly. "Mom managed to have that talk with me when she was coherent and, believe me, nothing's happening."

"Oh," Olga replies, looking saddened by that statement. "Well," she says in a breezy tone, getting my backpack off my shoulders and handing it to me, "I did manage to go down to the corner grocers' and pick up a few things for dinner. I baked some cookies for your after-school snack. Why don't you start your homework and I'll bring some up to you, all right?"

I sigh. "Fine, Olga, thanks. Sounds great."

Olga let out a squeal of excitement before heading down the stairs two at a time and managing not to fall.

"Typical perfect sister," I mutter to myself, walking into my bedroom. After making sure my shrine was still in place, I went over to my desk and spread out my math worksheet, my book report, my history assignment, and my science lab write-up, all due the following day. "Oh, Simmons," I say, letting out a sigh and picking up my science lab assignment, knowing that it would probably prove to be the most difficult, despite being in a group with Phoebe, Gerald, and Arnold. "Let's get cracking," I say quietly.

"Is baby sister okay?" Olga says, stepping into my room with a tray, with the grace of a dancer. Upon the tray is a plate of piping hot cookies and a glass of milk. "Do you need any help with that?" she asks.

I sigh, forcing a smile for her. "Thanks," I say as she places the tray down beside me carefully. "No, I think I'm okay. We have instructions for everything and Mr. Simmons was pretty helpful."

"They're actually letting him keep teaching, after what happened with the monkeys in San Lorenzo?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.

"He was delusional," I say, waving it away as I find my essay in the bag, which had been severely edited town from the actual experience, as I hadn't wanted my fellow students to know about the depths of my feelings for Arnold. "But at least this managed to pass..." I say lamely.

Olga reaches out for the essay, gasping and clapping her hands. "Baby sister got an 'A'!" she squeals, pulling me into a hug again. "I am so happy, Helga, really! So, so happy!"

"Olga," I say, waiting for her to look at me, and when she does, I do my best to make my tone as civil as possible. "Could you not call me that anymore?" I ask her carefully. "Just 'Helga' is fine, really."

"Of course bab—Helga," Olga says with a smile. "I didn't know it bothered you. I shall strive not to say it any longer."

"Why don't you go and practice the piano or something?" I ask, picking up one of the cookies and dunking it in milk. "Maybe you'll wake up Mom enough so that she'll listen to you."

"That's a good idea," Olga says, walking towards my bedroom door. "Maybe I'll play The Minute Waltz by Chopin," she muses to herself as she leaves my room and traipses down the hall.

I shake my head, finding that I'm smiling as I chew my cookie, before I turn back to look at the science lab worksheet. "You are going to be the death of me, I know it," I say, picking up my pencil.

. . .

Dear Helga,

I also regret how we ended things, and yet this whole keeping the communication track open was a good idea—the mature thing to do. I'm glad that you're keeping in touch with my parents—you risked your life to save them, after all, and I know they are appreciative about your spending time with them. Of course, I won't tell them that you mentioned how much they missed me—they really don't need to hear that; even I can understand that.

This co-ed boarding school is definitely a new experience for me. Winning that contest at the end of eighth grade...it was quite a game-changer. Even though Gerald says you didn't, I swear that maybe you had something to do with it. Of course, I know you well enough that I couldn't ask you that question directly, unless we were face-to-face. Ever since San Lorenzo, it became easier and easier to read you like a book, which was one of the many things I loved about you. It's hard—this separation—but who knows? Maybe everyone's dreams will come true, and the outcome could be, maybe, real.

It's been two years since I moved to New York—man, almost two and a half. It's hard to believe that when we said goodbye at the airport when we were fourteen that it would be the last time. Your letters help, and I'd never ask you to stop writing them—maybe include one of your poems next time. I must admit, the one about me making your girlhood tremble had to have been my favorite. Were you really nine when you wrote that?

I want to go back to Hillwood and see everybody—not kidding; I miss everyone, Gerald, Patty, Phoebe, Harold...everyone. Especially you. When we said goodbye at fourteen, I thought that my parents would at least want to come out here, or that I could arrange a time to come and see home. It's not that easy; this program is so intense that even carving out some time to write this puts a dent in my day. But it's worth it, because this method of communication is one of my last links to home—to you—and I'm not ready to give that up either.

Your friend,

Arnold Shortman

P.S. To answer your question—even though it was hinted at, yet not posed—no. I have not found someone romantically to occupy my time. I think that ship has sailed. If you can, come to New York for Christmas—I think it would be great to talk face-to-face.

. . .

The second day of school begins as the first did, except I don't make Arnold feel badly for touching me in public. Rather, I take him proudly by the hand and walk with him towards the school. This morning, Miles and Stella do not walk with us, and Arnold tells me that they will be walking him home. He says that he told them last night that they could pick one.

"Why would you do that?" I ask, perplexed. "You went without them for so long. I mean... I know I shouldn't even have an opinion here, but... They're still your parents, who we all risked our lives for..."

Arnold smiles. "Yeah, I know," he replies, squeezing my hand as we head up the stairs of the school. "But I want some time for my friends...and for you."

I smile at that. "Well, that means a lot, but I don't want us taking you away from them..."

"There's no us vs. them," Arnold says gently. "You're my girlfriend, Gerald is my best friend, and they're my parents. You're all top-priority to me, Helga, and nothing will ever change that."

I find that we are hesitating just outside the double doors of the school, so I reach out to open them. "I know; I understand," I say quietly as we walk down the hallway. "Dr. Bliss says that I shouldn't attempt to prioritize myself, now that we're together. I don't want to come off as selfish and have you resent me, or your parents dislike me."

"Not gonna happen," Arnold tells me, squeezing my hand before he releases it and opens his locker before placing his heavy textbooks into it. "You would think that they would come up with an alternative method for these," he says, idly picking at one of the frayed covers.

"Rhonda's found one," I reply, peeking over at her. "Look—she's likely downloading all of our assigned books onto her Kindle right now. I'll bet her Dad has a feed into the company, and intelligence to figure out what Simmons may be thinking of teaching next..."

"Wouldn't be the first time a rich kid attempted to get ahead in life via electronic devices," Arnold says quietly. "Do you know if she's begun uploaded makeup tutorials yet?"

"I think her term for it is 'natural beauty'," I reply, putting on a deep voice and doing air quotes. "And I think that she finds those things terrible because they, according to her, exist only to personify one opinion of what beauty is."

"That's beautiful," Arnold says, grinning at me and slamming his locker shut. "I just know you're going to be a writer someday."

"Of laws, maybe," I say, smiling back at him. "I have a mind to be President of the United States, you know."

"Would I be 'First Husband'?" Arnold asks.

Immediately, I flush and look away. "Maybe," I reply, sounding like I had leather for a tongue. "That may or may not have come up somewhere in my subconscious in the distant, distant past..."

"Hope it's not too far," he says quietly, taking my hand again as we proceed to walk to Simmons's class. "I like where this is going, and I don't want there to be anything but honesty between us, Helga. I don't want you to feel like you need to hide anything from me anymore."

I turn back to face him, just before we round the corner to Simmons. "I would not attempt to do so deliberately," I say, smiling at him.

Arnold smiles. "I'm glad," he replies, and we slowly begin our trek to our classroom for the second day of sixth grade.