A/N: To Roman, for never giving up xx
"There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams - not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart."
On the last day of junior year, Helga sits at the back of the room and watches Arnold. She chews on the eraser end of a pencil and curses his perfect posture, still lips, and blond backside of his uncannily-shaped football head. His elbows are propped up on a desk a few feet away from her. If she wants, she can reach a hand out and touch him right there.
Helga frowns. Scratch that - she can't do that even if she wants to because at this moment, little miss goody two shoes Lila occupying the desk in front of him turns sideways to comment on something about the movie they're watching. Arnold answers with a hearty nod.
They've been watching the original Great Gatsby in English class all week, but it appears to Helga that only a handful of students are invested in the film. With the end of year excitement buzzing around, it makes sense that over half the class finds throwing paper airplanes and signing yearbooks to be more important than some black and white film. Arnold is not one of those people, which Helga normally would've deemed charming, but not when that means he can carry on a hushed conversation about it with Lila Sawyer.
Lila twists her red hair around her finger as she speaks animatedly to Arnold about the tragic love of Gatsby and Daisy. His eyes, however, never leave the overhead projection at the front of the room. Perhaps he's dissuaded by Lila's recently unavailable relationship status, and that's why Arnold doesn't concentrate all his energy on their conversation. Or maybe he's just really interested in the movie.
Regardless, Helga's chest can't help but ache as she ponders all that Arnold and Lila have in common - the way they both emphasize certain words, how they smile with their mouths closed, how kind and chaste and friendly they are without even trying. It makes Helga tick with envy; why can't she be nicer? She's sure that's what he likes.
Helga rolls her shoulders, slightly peeved. Sure, she may not be much of a bully anymore, but that still hasn't won Arnold's affection.
She musters up her sensibility and gazes lovingly at the finesse in his mannerisms. He shifts at an angle where Helga can catch a glimpse of the excited blush on his cheeks before it fades.
She's fantasized about being with him for so long, she resorts to fake memories and tries to convince herself they're real. She imagines the feel of his lips to be soft but strong, and his flaxen hair to be silky like a model's. She's memorized the artificial sound of her name spoken on his tongue. None of that matters, however, because not only is her idea of his love a fantasy, but a fallacy, at least in her mind, as well. She hides her face in her hands and groans.
"Is there something wrong with Nick Carraway?" Phoebe's delicate voice chimes like a quiet wind in Helga's ear.
"What?" Helga reacts, returning to reality. She regards her best friend with a peripheral gaze. "No, nothing. I'm barely paying attention to the dumb movie."
"But it's a love story," Phoebe reasons, attempting to persuade Helga's romantic side. "Besides, I've noticed your eyes glued to that screen...when they're not wandering elsewhere." She gestures with a knowing smile towards Arnold's desk.
Helga offers a defeated shrug. "What's the point, Pheebs?" she whispers harshly, partly to get the attention away from her obvious pining and partly to vent. "This Gatsby character, he's got it all cut out for him, right? The fortune, the luxury - but none of it matters a damn unless Daisy notices. He doesn't even have the guts to see her without Nick buffering them. Talk about a sad sack, Old Sport."
"On the contrary, Helga, I find it quite noble of him not to give up on what's most important to him."
"Yeah and look where it gets him," Helga scoffs, pointing to the screen where Gatsby stands, oblivious that the next few moments of his life will be his last. "All he goes out with is abang, and not the good kind either."
"He never would've been able to make it that far without the idea of her love to keep him going, don't you think?" Phoebe asks.
Helga sighs. "I guess. But even when it came to fruition, it was still just an idea in his head."
"Because his fantasies went beyond her. How could any aspect of reality ever match up?"
"Yeah, you're right, Phoebe," Helga admits, not talking to Phoebe anymore. Her eyes flicker to the back of Arnold's cornflower, ornery locks, which may not be silky like a model's at all.
For the first time in her life, Helga stifles her imaginings of Arnold.
When the movie credits start to roll, Helga counts each second on the clock to keep her mind from drifting to Arnold. Perhaps this will be easier over summer vacation, when she doesn't have to go to school with him every day. It makes her heart drop just thinking about not seeing him, especially when her new house is two blocks down from his.
The dismissal bell breaks Helga out of her stupor. The class reacts before she gets a chance to, displaying excited cheers and throwing stray objects or papers. She takes this as an opportunity to dart out of the room. Her feet work before her brain does, and as a result she clashes with the one person, above all others, that she's trying to avoid.
"Hey, Helga!" Arnold calls over the roar of summer-bound pupils, flashing her a polite smile. "Do you want a ride home?"
Her mind is saying no, her usual response to the absurdity of the idea, but her mouth says, "Sure, why not?"
"Great," Arnold responds. "Now let's get out of this mess."
Helga doesn't know why, but she laughs instead of scowling and lets Arnold lead the way. She looks back once to see Phoebe offering her an encouraging thumbs up. Helga waves before catching up to Arnold in the parking lot.
She's surprised by how easy it is to be around him when her guard isn't up higher than a satellite. Looking retrospectively, Helga can't recall a time she was completely herself around him - when she wasn't trying to impress him, challenge him, or provoke him. She looks at him as he opens the car door for her, devoid of expectation or inhibition, and notices one crooked tooth peeking through his parted lips and a subtle cluster of acne under his chin. The sight stimulates a flutter in her heart, not because it attracts her, but because she realizes that the boy she's in love with is imperfect in his own ways, just like anybody else.
She also realizes she's not too different from Jay Gatsby. Entering Hillwood High's spoken-word poetry contests, waxing her one eyebrow into two, causing fights, and ultimately becoming a wallflower were all elaborate ploys to get Arnold's attention. When was the last time she did something for herself?
Suddenly Helga makes sense of a hand waving in front of her face. "You just spaced out." Arnold raises a blond eyebrow in concern. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, fine, Football Head." Helga brushes Arnold aside to get in the passenger seat of his Packard. "Just wondering why you never got the memo about chivalry being dead."
Arnold chuckles as he puts his hands up in mock surrender. "Remind me not to open doors for you anymore."
Helga settles in the tan leather seat of his car, utterly ignoring the surge of tingles that spreads through her skin at the contact. He's been offering to drive her home since January, when she moved close to the Sunset Arms. Each time she would decline, then stay up nights wishing she hadn't. In her fantasies, the car's interior was a dark brown. She likes the lighter color better.
As Arnold pulls out of the parking lot, Helga decides to penetrate the silence with a question: "Why'd you offer to give me a ride?"
Arnold shrugs. "Why'd you say yes?"
"Don't you turn this around on me, Arnoldo." She swats playfully at his arm, something she's never done before. It makes him laugh. The sound is delicious.
"It's a nice thing to do, well, because," - take notes, Helga - "you live basically one or two blocks away from me. And I know you don't like taking the bus."
"How could you possibly know that?" Helga squints, ready to channel her defensiveness.
"Just a guess," Arnold says, unabashed by Helga's sudden hostility. "The way you hide out in class kinda tipped me off. It's probably hard to avoid people when you're shoulder-to-shoulder with them."
So he does notice her. Helga swallows the lump in her throat.
It's quiet in the car for a few minutes as Arnold drives and Helga looks out the window. She finds the idea of her schemes - which apparently worked - too overwhelming to digest, so she ceases her analyzations before they turn hyperactive. At this moment, settled in the forgiving, comfortable silence, Helga decides to be a little less like Gatsby.
"I'm lucky we crashed into each other today," Helga admits before she can stop herself. "Literally," she adds with a chuckle to keep the awkwardness at bay.
But there isn't any. "It's funny how that's always happened to us."
"What do you mean?"
"Bumping into each other?" For a second Arnold tears his green eyes away from the road to glance at Helga. "Ever since we were kids. It was, like, every turn I made, there you were - yelling at me to watch where I was going."
"Oh, yeah." Helga remembers times when she would follow him just so their paths would converge; how she would build up those moments and feed off the physical contact...even if they gave her bruises. "Those were the days."
"Tell me about it," Arnold agrees, leaning back to relax in his seat. Helga follows suit, eager to release some of her tension. "So, have you looked at any colleges yet?"
"Some in-state. I would want to get away, but there's really nowhere else I can see myself going, you know?" Helga asks rhetorically, but Arnold nods anyway. "I've been thinking of applying for Calvero's creative writing scholarship."
"That's my top school!" Arnold smiles broadly. "They have a great program for jazz improv and combo."
"You haven't changed much over the years, have you?" Helga says at the mention of jazz music, to distract herself from the idea of going to the same university as Arnold.
"I guess not really." Arnold pulls up to the curb by the Patakis' driveway, and Helga's simultaneously amazed and disappointed that their time together is already coming to a close. "Why, what were you expecting?"
"I don't know - for you to shed a little of the kindness, maybe acquire a better taste in music..." Helga teases, wiggling her eyebrows good-naturedly.
"Jazz is awesome. You just don't understand it!" Arnold laughs in a way that suggests he's had to defend this position before. "Anyway, why is it such a big deal to you that I'm nice?"
Helga presses her lips to a line, considering the potential ways answering his question can change his perspective of her. Most conversations they've shared together ended in turned heads or screaming matches (with the screaming mostly on her part).
"Well..." she drifts off and looks him straight in the face. He awaits for a response, but she can't think of one. His strikingly chaste and careful attitude always pissed her off and made her blush and swoon all at once. She could never handle it, handle him, and that's why she's been cavalier around him, or mean in situations she couldn't run away from, for years and only hoped he'd reach out instead of walk away like almost everyone else would.
Arnold smiles at her, as if to encourage her to speak out of her soul and not her defense mechanism. She smiles back because no one's ever done this before - smiling all bright and flawed and lovely and just for her. He's worth the risk of her being vulnerable, Helga decides, because after all this time he hasn't given up. She's sitting in the passenger seat of his grandfather's Packard with her feet up on the dashboard and her eyes searching his for clarity. He's turned toward her with his chin resting in his hand, just like in English class, only this time he smiles with his teeth showing for Helga rather than hidden from Lila.
If she acts like how she thinks, maybe he'll see her as she should be seen: not a menace, a wallflower, or a bully - instead, a girl with curiosity in her heart and passion in the tips of her fingers. She looks at them now; they're shaking slightly but Helga doesn't care. She ghosts a hand up to the hair at the back of his neck and grips it cautiously.
The strands are soft against her skin, and fine like the loose strands that suspend from comfy sweaters. The sensation is prickling and warm - something she couldn't have imagined in her fantasies. It's as real as the confusion that sprouts on Arnold's face at the contact, and Helga half-smirks at his reaction.
"What are you doing?" Arnold asks, slightly shocked and mostly amused. An excited chill rockets down Helga's spine when he speaks. She doesn't know what to do with her hand, so she keeps it resting awkwardly on his neck. He makes no motion to stop her, only waiting for her to answer him.
"Something I've wanted to do for years," Helga blurts.
Arnold seems satisfied with this answer and takes advantage of the one moment he's seen her with her guard down. "What took you so long?"
"I...was scared, I think."
Arnold shakes his head, because he couldn't have imagined that Helga G. Pataki would ever be scared of anything, let alone him. "Of what? Getting killed by my kindness?"
"Something like that," Helga chokes out when Arnold moves a little closer. She can feel his breath on her face - that's how close he is, and her hand freezes at the back of his neck. Her attention flickers to the front door of her house, then back at his tender face and she says, "I should probably get going."
The look of resignation that flashes across his face doesn't elude Helga, no, it astounds her. She wants to take back what she said, but her throat is suddenly parched and the sound of the passenger door unlocking makes her forget how to speak. She removes her feet from the dash, grasps her backpack and exits his car.
Arnold rolls the windows down so she can hear him call, "Have a good summer, Helga."
Her whole body is stiff in the middle of her driveway; her back is bidding him goodbye. She sets her gaze on her house number, listens intently to the purr of his car. He's not driving off just yet, she realizes. She still has a chance.
"Hey...Arnold?" She turns slowly on the heel of her converse, like a ballerina without the grace, and watches him from the corner of her eye. His countenance shows he got over the initial shock of whatever happened between them in his car. The toothy grin has returned to his face and he waves with his right hand while the other dangles outside.
The gesture compels Helga to run right back to him and finish what she started. This time, he doesn't show any sign of surprise.
When her lips pull away from his, Helga struggles to keep herself standing. Arnold's left hand holds her shoulder steady so she can't stumble or get away from him. She would smile gratefully at him if she could work her muscles properly, but she can't because no figment of her imagination ever sufficed for the beautiful exchange that corrupts the flow of her thoughts at this very moment.
"Helga," he whispers, low and comforting like a ballad. She perks up at the sound of it. "I always knew you were good."
"Thanks, uh, Football Head." Helga says, astonished only that her voice works, not by what he professes. It brings joy in the form of tears to her eyes.
Arnold chuckles at the sentiment laced in his childhood nickname. "I'll see you around," he promises, then drives off without another word.
Helga watches as the Packard becomes a speck at the end of the road, then rushes inside her house. She picks up the house phone and dials one of the two numbers she has memorized.
Two rings and the other line crinkles to life with a, "Hello?"
"I thought about what you said. The only problem I had with Nick Carraway was that I didn't have him in my own life to intervene and get things going with our relationship. So I took the responsibility on myself."
A long, drawn out pause conjured from epiphanic hope sprouts from the other line. Helga waits with baited breath for Phoebe to use her advanced intelligence and ask, "Does that mean..."
"Yes," Helga concludes in the form of a heavy exhale. "I kissed Arnold."
There's another empty space in their conversation, only briefer, for Phoebe breaks the silence with an incredulous laugh. "Congratulations," she says, and Helga can hear the smile in her voice. "Old Sport."
"And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer."
A/N: Thanks for reading. Quotes from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, which I disclaim, as well as Hey! Arnold.