Author's Note: Yup! A full-length, chapter-filled story from me! I envision this tale being between six and ten chapters. YAY! xD It's starting out in a fairly common place (the kids are 17 years old - Junior year in High School, I should add) and draws somewhat from The Patakis and The Jungle Movie (You'll see soon enough that my TJM wouldn't have the whole class in San Lorenzo). So, read through this and tell me what you think! Feedback makes me smile!
Chapter One: Promises and Postage Stamps
"Miss Pataki."
Helga snapped her gum, not even bothering to look up. She was fully aware of what Mrs. Tullens would say.
"Helga! You're still wearing that hat! How many times must we go through this? Hats are not to be worn on school grounds and most certainly not in my class!"
"Mrs. Tullens… I happen to have a very serious scalp condition," stated Helga monotonously, "and I'm certain that neither you nor my classmates would want to look at my flaky, oozy head."
The English teacher groaned. "You'll have to bring a doctor's note explaining this. Can you do that Helga?"
"Can do! I'll most certainly remember tomorrow!" The sarcastic sweetness that dripped from her voice caused an assortment of quiet laughs around her.
"See that you do." Mrs. Tullens returned to her seat by the desk, deciding to drop the issue for the day. The bell would be ringing anyway.
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Helga slammed the door behind her and slunk up to her bedroom, leaving a pile of books and folders on top of a low bookshelf.
In the safety of her comfortably soft-pink room, she flung off her plaid pink cabbie hat and pulled her hair free from its loose pigtails. She reached up and felt for the old pink bow that she wore daily, always concealed by that faithful cabbie. There was no way that she could keep from smiling, and there was certainly no way that she'd go so much as a day without that precious, frayed little ribbon.
A slip of paper under her pillow caught her attention and she pulled it out, softening out the creases affectionately. It was her last note from Arnold, a full six months old. The boy had left for South America before his Freshman year. But what had hurt was that he had simply disappeared. Not even his grandparents would divulge where he had gone, and no one received a word from him for nearly a year. It was hard to believe that it took him an entire year to say that he had gotten news from his parents; that he wanted to know; that an old family friend, Eduardo had come to take him to them. But Arnold had written fifteen letters to her since then, and sweet words made everything forgivable, understandable even. Helga stacked up as many pillows as she could find and curled up with the most recent letter.
It explained, fondly, the wild beauty of the jungle and how he was studying under the head medicine man of the village. He was fascinated by the natural remedies and noted that there were herbs in the jungle that had yet to be discovered by 'outsiders'. He hoped to apply these to Western medicine one day. People could really be helped. And he had found a young, abandoned fruit bat and was raising it until it could fly. He had never seen the larger bats anywhere in San Lorenzo and was amazed to find the little guy all alone. It had been dubbed Ghale, which Helga found, to her immense (and in all honesty, a tad repulsed) surprise, anagrammed to her name.
Helga closed her eyes for a moment, holding the letter to her chest as she tried to picture the primordial trees that all but managed to block out sunlight, and the one spot in the jungle where one could see the vast stretch of stars, far brighter than imaginable for a girl who lived under the city lights.
She sighed softly and grabbed a notebook and pencil from her nightstand. It was time to write to her beloved.
Dear Arnold,
She paused, tapping the eraser-end to her chin. Dear? Sure, they were acceptably close, and 'dear' was a customary greeting, but it sounded so hoity-toity. She had never sincerely called anyone 'dear' in her life… at least not out loud, in public. No. 'Dear' was definitely out. The words were quickly erased.
Footballhead,
How long has it been since we've actually spoken? Almost three years! You must have changed so much! I still picture you as that middle school boy who ate lunch with me every day when Pheebs and I ate separate periods. Yeesh! Doesn't that sound all silly and sentimental? I think it does. Oh well.
All your letters mean so much to me, and before I smack myself for sounding all gushy, I need to emphasize that I really do mean it. God, South America sounds gorgeous. I can barely picture a place where parrots fly around— no cages, no bird seed—with monkeys and snakes and whatever else lives out there. I mean, you're able to go to an ancient temple every day and just walk around. All I have here are a few abandoned buildings scattered around town. And they all smell awful.
Sorry it's taken me so long to reply to your letter, but I just haven't had anything amazingly spectacular to write about. Miriam's twelve-stepping. Have I told you about that? And she's forcing Bob to take some sort of spiritual-betterment type class. It's like anger-management, but with uber-hippies.
Your descriptions of the jungle have really inspired my short stories. I'll have to send you one sometime. I bet you'd get a kick out of the goody-goody lead in my best lil' tale.
Let's see… What else do I need to say? This letter feels too short, like I should have more to tell you. Just please… come home soon. Everyone still misses you, and we all get so excited when you write us (your grandmother throws little celebrations. She's a lot of fun, actually!). But if you can't come home, send a plane ticket. Come on! You know you want me out there! I'm hoping to hear from you again soon.
Your Loving Tormenter,
Helga.
Reading through the letter aloud, Helga straightened up and sighed. It hardly sounded like her, but at least it was sincere. And although the closing made her flinch, she left it as it was. The words were sarcastic, yet very true. They described her wonderfully.
A soft thud pulled Helga out of her thoughts. She hopped to her feet and moved cautiously to the closet, from where the sound had come. Peeking in the door, she found that a pink book had fallen from….
"Hmm…?" Helga frowned. She didn't keep any of her poetry books on the shelves. Strange, but whatever. She pushed the hanging shirts to one side and tossed the book into one of many cardboard boxes that were stacked where her Arnold Shrine was once kept. She had long since abandoned the more cultish aspects of her obsession; a change she willingly admitted was for the better. Of course, it would take a hoard of rabid, giant rats to keep her from writing poems about that gorgeous boy. And those rats would have to do quite a number on her!
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The mysterious falling book fading from her mind, Helga stood by the mailbox, a letter with proper postage to make its way to San Lorenzo clasped in one hand. With a nervous sigh, she opened the mailbox door, deposited the letter, and raised the little flag.
"Five…."
You can do this, Helga ole girl…
"Four."
Just turn around and go back inside…
"Three."
Helga! Go inside!
"Two…."
Don't be a moron! Criminey! GO INSIDE!
"One."
Helga groaned and removed the letter from the mailbox. It would soon be hidden away in a shoebox with the rest of her replies. Not one had made it to Arnold's hands. Not a single one.
"Next time," she promised to herself, tucking the letter into her jeans pocket.