Summary: A clever little look into the future of Arnold and Helga; fast forward seven years into the future, to high school, to the continuing torment of the girl with the pink bow. Arnold's now her best friend, which has, obviously, added to the prolific inner torment of the poor girl. She's sixteen now, and determined to keep her chin up even though she's lost nearly all hope that Arnold will ever notice her; perhaps she's more delusional than ever, but Helga G. Pataki simply cannot give up.
Bereft of Hope, the Pink Bow Prevails
prologue
Today, I am sixteen years old, and Arnold is going to love me back.
Sometimes it's hard to believe that thirteen years have gone past since I first met this football head. That for thirteen goddamn years I've held some kind of secret and furious infatuation for his greenish eyes and golden hair and strange little baseball cap that he still wears to this day. My childhood self adored the blue sweater and strange red shirt beneath it, even if it did look like a skirt half the time. The way I figure it, once you get past the football-shaped head, you can get used to anything. Then again, I was also barely three years old and already completely smitten. I never stopped wearing that stupid pink bow.
Today, I am sixteen years old, and though I'm running low on hope, I haven't totally given up. Though, as far as situations go, mine has probably gone from bad to worse. Now, instead of being in love with an obvious nemesis, I'm in love with my best friend.
And by all indications, being his best friend hasn't taken me any closer to my goal. If anything, I'm only torturing myself to death by being all chummy with him. Granted, I get the occasional ecstatic hug, the frequent laugh or chuckle, the nights spent doing homework, the various holidays shared where significant others were lacking. Little fragments of the things I want so badly – the things I've wanted so badly for so long, but not enough, never enough.
Despite our respective absences of significant others, despite the Valentine's Days spent on fake dates, despite the words "I love you" spoken oh-so-platonically, it has been thirteen years and he has continuously failed to notice me, no matter how horribly or wonderfully I behave.
Yes, my name is Helga G. Pataki. Today, I am sixteen years old, and I may be at the end of my rope, but Arnold is going to love me back.