Chapter Eleven: Mandatory Retreat

I gaze down at the ticket gripped in my hands, the date June 22, 2020 staring back at me—the ticket itself was nearly two years old, and yet it feels like yesterday. It was the first trip I took since entering Hillwood Academy, and the last one I took between that and getting emancipated. I run my hands over the destination—Los Angeles, California—where Olga had ultimately taken a job in the faculty division of UCLA, and how breakdowns had happened all around. The trip itself wasn't all palm trees and orange groves—no, it had been an eye-opening experience, one that I would not soon forget...

. . .

"Ladies and gentleman, please fasten your seatbelts and put your tray tables in their traditional upright position. We are making our descent into Los Angeles International Airport, where the weather is beautiful, with an average temperature of seventy-five degrees and sunshine expected for the rest of the day and the remainder of the week. We hope you have enjoyed flying with Jet Blue Airlines today, and we hope you enjoy your trip."

I hasten to put up my tray table and fasten my seatbelt, clandestinely reaching into my carry-on bag to check my face. The fifteen-year-old I had become stared back at me; she had many months ago traded in her shimmering pink lip gloss for the mature red lipstick she sported now, and her eyelashes were a deep shade of black and professionally curled upwards with the help of mascara and a curling wand. It was hardly a shock to her now, seeing herself like this, her cheeks naturally pink in excitement, and her nails matching her lips, which could be seen as she pursed her lips and clicked her compact mirror shut.

I slipped my bag halfway under the seat, lest a flight attendant walk by and scold me, and turned to stare out the window as the ground approached. I could see the numerous backyards sported pools—with their water the perfect shade of blue reflected from their tiled bases—and a slight twinge of envy flowed through me. I straightened in my seat as we arrived at the edge of the airport, landing smoothly and skidding slightly on the runway. We approached our gate in no time and soon the first-class passengers—me among them—got to our feet and made grabs for our belongings before waiting for the doors to open. When they did, we made for them quickly, nearly stumbling over one another in an effort to exit this plane, which had become hot and stuffy throughout the trip, and all we wanted to do was grab our luggage and move on.

I followed the signs to baggage claim and soon found it, the chrome carousel a few colors than just the standard gray, for some individuals had felt the need to stick their old, unwanted gum to it, and my mind momentarily flashed to the replica I'd made of Arnold out of that very same substance. Dashing the thought from my mind, I saw my suitcase come into view and grabbed it, adjusting my laptop case and my carry-on bag as I did so, making my way to where Olga had said she would be fetching me. It took no more than five minutes and when I saw her, her third bare finger upon her left hand did nothing to phase me, although little Eilis seemed very pleased to see her Aunt Helga. She was nearly a year old, and hardly seemed to know that she had a father and a twin brother in New York, who were likely missing her.

"Hey, baby sister," Olga said, embracing me and holding me for a moment, and I greeted her before I turned my attention to my niece.

"Hey, sweetheart," I said, leaning over and kissing her on the cheek, to which Eilis squealed and immediately held her arms out. I took her instantly, while Olga took my suitcase as we walked along. "How's she been?" I asked, nodding down to the playful child in my arms, already babbling with excitement.

"If you mean 'Does she miss her father and brother?' no, she doesn't," my sister replied, her tone nearly clipped as we hopped onto an escalator towards the parking garage. "In fact, she doesn't seem to remember them at all. I can't explain it, Helga, but I'm kind of glad."

"Are you?" I ask.

She nods, stepping off the escalator ahead of me and walking towards the exit. "I mean, sure—one day I hope to re-introduce them, but I don't want all the resentment of the separation. I mean, they're twins, Helga," she says, lowering her voice, although Eilis is distracted by all the strangers walking around us. "I just don't want her to be mad at me..."

"Well, hopefully when you explain to her your reasons for divorcing your husband, she won't have any resentment towards you," I say quietly.

"Hopefully," Olga puts in.

We reach the parking garage and continue onwards to Olga's car; my sister opens the trunk and places my suitcase into it, while I open the back door of the driver's side and manage to strap Eilis into her car seat. She giggles a bit as I make a grab for one of her toys, handing it over to her as I hasten out of the way, while Olga checks over how I've gotten her into her car seat. I make my way to the other side of the car, letting myself into the passenger side and placing my laptop case and carry-on bag at my feet before buckling myself in.

"I was thinking we'd head back to my place and relax for a while," Olga tells me as she gets into the driver's side and shuts her door. "I have a babysitter tonight for Eilis and I made us a reservation at this wonderful bistro, where we can get dinner and go see a movie afterwards. Sound okay?"

I nodded. "Sounds perfect," I reply, peeking in the backseat at Eilis. "Is she good with babysitters...?"

"This babysitter is more of a nanny," Olga explains as she sticks her keys into the ignition and starts her car. "Paulo has been a god-send—literally."

"Paulo, huh?" I say, my eyebrows rising and falling.

"It's not like that," Olga assures me as she pulls out of the parking space. "Paulo lives with his boyfriend, Seymour, about three miles from my house. And besides, the divorce doesn't go through until September, at least. And there's no way I'm ready to date yet..."

I nodded. "Understood," I reply as Olga finds a fast route out of the parking garage and onto the main stretch of road, palm trees dotting every surface. "I mean, do you think you'd ever be open to dating again?"

"Maybe, at some point in the distant future," Olga says quietly as the three of us approach the freeway. "If he was good with Eilis and with me and was kind and respectful and all my other boxes were checked... I might..." She turned and looked over at me for a moment. "How's the single life treating you? I mean, you were with Arnold for a good three years there..."

I shrug, really not needing my sister to tell me how long I had been dating the love of my life. "I know..."

"Not good, huh?" she asks. "The boys across the street at Hillwood Preparatory aren't good enough for you?"

I scoff. "Most of them are from P.S. 118—so I've known them forever. If I didn't like them before, I likely wouldn't now..."

"Well, this trip is just what you need to get out of the rut you're in," Olga said brightly as we get onto the freeway.

"I'm not in a—" I protest. "I didn't say I was in a—"

Olga smiles. "You didn't have to," she tells me gently. "We're sisters. I think I happen to know when something's bothering you," she explains. "What is bothering you, Helga? Was it something Arnold said?"

"No," I reply, shaking my head. "It's something I didn't."

. . .

The only word to properly describe Hillwood Academy was commonplace, and that was stretching things, especially with the student body. I did every project I could with Phoebe, and we would constantly match our schedules, although I did give her a reprieve at lunchtime when she went into the communal restaurant on campus, for both the academy and Hillwood Preparatory. There, she would talk to Gerald—who I knew was still in contact with Arnold and would likely inform him of my goings-on—but it's not like it mattered.

The word spread quickly that Arnold and I had called it quits from the moment I turned my back on him at the airport. My only opinion on the matter was the fact that I didn't have to say anything, and the kids at Hillwood Academy would almost immediately back off when threatened by Old Betsy and the Five Avengers. The worst of it came from the Academy Annual—which was printed three times a week, so the title itself didn't work—and the Preparatory Periodical, reaching out to me for a comment on how it felt to start high school single.

Once I was caught on camera threatening violence, however, did I have to inform the principal that my civil liberties were being threatened, and then I found myself threatened with anger management courses. Such a thing was quick to rub me the wrong way, so I very nearly threatened the authority figures, which, I knew, would throw me head-on into academic probation. It was easy to tell that they were playing favorites, so I simply said that I didn't wish to be bothered about my personal life, and left it at that. I had no further trouble on the matter, although I could have done without the evil stares from both newspapers.

"You really shouldn't trouble yourself about it, Helga," Phoebe said gently to me one afternoon before lunch, as I walked her towards the customary drop-off point, where she would meet Gerald. "Sure, freedom of speech is important and all that, but it shouldn't come at the price of wounding others."

I nodded. "You're right, but I'm sure you knew that," I replied, smiling at her as I stopped at the doors. "See you after lunch, I guess."

"Oh, no, Helga," Phoebe said, opening the door and hesitating. "Gerald and I would like you to join us this afternoon."

"Really, Phoebe, you don't have to be nice like this," I said quickly. "I'm sure that Gerald would like some alone time with you—"

"Of course he would, but we have our bi-weekly and weekend study sessions at alternating houses in the evenings," Phoebe replied sweetly. "Besides, he asked for you personally to come to lunch."

I sighed. "Really, Phoebe, I doubt that he—" I am suddenly silenced by Phoebe all but shoving her cell phone into my face, and the words, Bring Helga to lunch this afternoon, stamped upon the message from Gerald. "Fine—my hands are now tied, it seems," I replied ruefully, and followed her outside.

The communal restaurant for Hillwood Academy and Hillwood Preparatory was located via a sky bridge which could only be accessed by being on campus on one of the two schools. One of the sides of the sky bridge opened up to the restaurant itself and had a vast seating area, with the kitchen on the other side. To get inside, you had to scan your student card, and then the restaurant accepted many methods of payment. You could have a food card, or have the money added onto your student card itself, or you could pay with cash, check, or credit card. The only rule was you had to be a student of one of the two schools, an alumni, a faculty member—the faculty members had their own lounge close by the main dining room, and were not permitted to dine with students unless it was a parent/teacher conference arrangement or they were family—or a parent accompanied by your student child.

As Phoebe and I made our way over to the sky bridge, I found I was confident at the height, although the horns and the traffic echoing from below did unsettle me ever so slightly. I lowered my eyes towards the superficial cracks of the sky bridge at my feet, trying my best not to stumble over them as we approached the double doors of the restaurant. They were double-paned glass with long, golden holders to be pulled when someone was inclined to open them, which Phoebe did as we came towards them, scanning her card so as we could get inside.

"There's Gerald in the rounded booth by the window," Phoebe said, joy in her voice as we stepped inside the restaurant, making her way towards him and grinning as he got to his feet and kissed her on the cheek. "Hey," she said shyly as I stepped forward, and forced a smile.

"Hey, babe," he said to Phoebe, grinning at her and taking her coat and backpack and hanging them on the golden hooks attached to the sides of the booth. "Hey, Helga," Gerald went on, squeezing my shoulder briefly before returning to his seat and motioning for the two of us to join him, and Phoebe slipped into the middle of the curved seat. "Do you know how you order here, Helga?" Gerald asked.

I shook my head, hanging up my coat myself and slipping into the booth beside Phoebe, gazing down at the iPad-like screen that was placed on the table. "Is this how it's done?" I asked, indicating it with a wave of my hand.

Gerald nodded. "Yeah! It's really cool, really," he said, leaning in close to Phoebe to see it better. "You click on the kind of food you want—appetizers, soup, salad, entrées, pasta, pizza, dessert, or drinks, and then you put in your name, student number, and table number, and then the kitchen employees give you an estimated wait time. Thankfully, they give us forty-five minutes for lunch, and most things don't take much more than twenty to thirty minutes."

"Sounds like fun," I reply. "And if you put in your student number, do they just charge it to your student lunch account, like in the cafeteria?"

Gerald nods. "Yeah, at the end of you selecting what you want, you have that option, or the option of other payment methods, too."

I smiled. "Well, that's good—I just put some money in my student account, so I'll hopefully be able to afford some of this stuff."

"It's pretty reasonable," Gerald told me. "Since you're new here, you can go first and get acquainted with the system."

"Can I?" I asked, turning my attention to the iPad, which Phoebe mercifully turned towards me. Once I ordered—a chicken Caesar salad with cranberry juice on the rocks, a small fruit platter, and a slice of chocolate cake with ice cream for dessert, I was pleased with the total of twelve dollars and fifty cents, which I charged to my student account.

"Sorry about the Preparatory Periodical," Gerald said softly as Phoebe began to put in her order—shrimp ramen with all the trimmings, blueberry lemonade, with a nice slice of carrot cake for dessert. "It was a really low thing of them to do, and I'm sorry."

I lowered my eyes to the wood pattern of the table as Phoebe finished ordering, then slipped around Gerald to use the facilities. "And, are you part of the paper itself, or are you just feeling a moral obligation to apologize because you just so happen to go to school there?"

Gerald pressed a few buttons on the machine—pepperoni pizza with a coke and a brownie—and sighed. "I write for the paper," he admitted, sending his order in with a flourish.

I blink. "Oh. Really? I didn't know they accepted freshman onto the creative team," I said quietly. "I thought they typically only allowed sophomores the privilege of writing for them, just like Hillwood Academy."

Gerald sighs. "I sent in a couple of my essays from Simmons last year, and they liked my work enough to take me on as an apprentice."

"But apprentices don't write for it, do they?" I ask.

Gerald looks away. "They are given one feature every two months, and it can be about whatever they want, really..."

I sigh. "Gerald, what did you do?" I ask him.

"Arnold's in... Well, he was in such rough shape from how you ended things. I mean, how could you do it like that?" he demanded, never raising his voice. "It was three years that you were together, Helga—three!—and you just threw it all away because he went out to go after his dreams!"

I shake my head. "Gerald, there are certain things in life that you'll never even begin to understand," I told him quietly as our drinks arrived. I unwrapped my straw and stuck it in between some of the mountainous ice cubes and sipped my drink. "In life, Gerald, there are certain things that are privileged, and this information is just that."

"Your break-up with Arnold? I don't think so," Gerald replied, crossing his arms in an annoyed manner.

. . .

Once Eilis has gotten settled with Paulo later that evening, Olga and I got all dolled up and headed into Downtown L.A. to go to that bistro she suggested, plus a new chick flick about girls traipsing around town wanting to be original in finding themselves. I told Olga that as long as if it was written by a halfway intelligent woman, and if Amy Schumer or Melissa McCarthy weren't in it, then I would of course be game to see it. Olga just smiled and said that something that small could easily be arranged.

The bistro was called Enliven Éclair, although they served other things besides desserts, but specialized in French cuisine. We were shown in to a dining room that boasted smooth mahogany beams, with burnt cream-colored walls between them. There was a white marble fireplace against the wall, which was lit for dinner, and thankfully did not make the dining room overtly warm. Above the white marble fireplace was an oil painting by John William Waterhouse, with the small plaque at the base declaring it Miranda—The Tempest. The tables were various round sizes, and had matching napkins, with silverware and various crystal-cut bud vases in the middle, with single roses of various colors, all entwined with baby's breath.

We were each handed a black leather menu, with the name of the restaurant stamped in gold upon its cover. Each section was short and to the point, their titles in a curled font and very important-looking. Only a handful of dishes were available beneath the curled fonts, but the maître d' assured us that our server would come by and inform us of the specials that evening. As I stared at the letters of the various French dishes before me—which were listed in French and then explained to the reader in English—and I did my best to understand this advanced form of English as I took in the words upon the expensive parchment.

"Helga?" Olga said gently.

"Yes?" I asked, lowering my menu too quickly and nearly collapsing my glass of water, which the new server quickly saved. "I'm so sorry," I said quickly, feeling my forehead pucker in embarrassment.

"Happens all the time," he said, shooting me a smile. "I was just wondering what you and your sister would like to drink."

"Merlot, please," Olga said quietly. "Thank you."

"Of course, ma'am," he said, turning back to me. "And for you, miss?"

I quickly go to the non-alcoholic section for the beverages. "Sparkling cider, please," I reply. "Thank you."

"Very good, miss," he said with a smile. "I shall return shortly with those and to take your orders," he said before slipping off towards the kitchens.

"Feeling all right?" Olga asked. "You barely said a word in the car on the way over here..."

"I talked," I said, my voice squeaking ever so slightly.

Olga smiled. "You said 'Yes' and 'No' and there may have been an 'Oh, really?' once or twice," she said. "Come on. What's eating you? I thought you were really excited about this trip. I know I was..."

I sighed. "It's not that. It's just..."

"What?"

"This year was really hard," I reply. "Arnold leaving for New York and leaving me to tackle high school all on my own..."

"But you weren't all alone," she put in. "You had Gerald and Phoebe—"

I sighed. "Gerald successfully ruined my reputation for the better part of the year, until Harold showed up to prank the boys at Hillwood Preparatory on behalf of Hillwood High," I reply.

"And why would Harold do something like that?"

"Rhonda made him," I reply offhandedly. "Ever since last summer, they've been a firm item, which means he has to do whatever she says."

Olga lowers her eyes. "Sounds a lot like my marriage," she replies, lowering her eyes to a massive, fading bruise, which was halfway covered by her wrap. "I know the feeling all too well..."

I gasp. "Olga!" I hissed, feeling sick all over. "Please, don't... Is that something he did to you? When you told him you were taking the job out here?"

She sighed. "Yes. Of course, I probably should have waited for a better time to say anything about it."

I blinked. "Excuse me?" I say in a whisper as the waiter comes with our drinks and places them on the table. We order a steak and chicken respectively before he makes himself scarce.

Olga bites her lip. "Well, one of the other partners—a new guy—stole this big account from him and he was just devastated. So, when he got home, he started in on the Jack Daniels and never put the glass down..."

"Olga..."

"No, it was my fault," she said, lowering her eyes. "I should have waited for a time where he wasn't drunk and depressed. He apologized the next morning, though," she said.

"As if that makes it okay," I told her. "It doesn't."

She sighed. "I don't know..."

"Did he... Did he give you a present?"

Olga's eyes snap to mine. "What?"

"The day after...that happened," I reply, nodding to the bruise. "Did Harrison give you a present to...properly apologize?" I ask, feeling as if I am chewing on glass as I force myself to say the words.

"Yes," Olga admitted.

"What did he give you?"

"A diamond necklace and earrings," she replied. "They matched my wedding ring, and I guess he was saving them for a special occasion. They were his great-grandmother's," she told me quietly.

I shake my head, wanting to slam my fist into the table. "Olga, just tell me one thing... Was this the first time?"

"No," she replied. "The only time he didn't hit me was when we were first dating, and it started once we got engaged," she replied. "And then it stopped only when I was pregnant—I guess he was kind enough to consider not to hurt the babies," she said bitterly.

"Oh, Olga," I said, rubbing my temples. "Why didn't you say anything? Or try to get out of there sooner?"

She raised her eyes to mine. "Because I was in love with him," she said simply, and spread her hands. "Couldn't help it. Just like with you and Arnold."

I shake my head. "I think the situations are different—"

"Not entirely," she replied. "Our loves are both in New York, and they both hurt us before we left them," she said softly.

I shrug. "You got me there," I say, tracing patterns in the cool condensation of my water glass.

"Do you ever speak with him?" she asked.

I blinked. "What?"

"Do you ever speak with him? With Arnold?"

I sighed, lowering my eyes. "Once."

"Just once? Since he left?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because Dr. Bliss died," I reply. "I just needed to hear his voice, just for a moment. I hoped that he wouldn't answer," I tell her quietly. "I hoped that I could just get to the voicemail, listen to his voice and hang up, then pretend that I was leaving him the message. I just wanted to get the words out..."

"But?"

"But when he picked up, I couldn't help myself," I tell her honestly. "I just wanted to tell him that I'd made a huge mistake and that I still loved him and that I wanted him back..."

"You couldn't say all that, could you?" Olga asked.

I shook my head. "No," I reply. "No, I couldn't..."

She nodded. "Did he ever say it? That he loved you?"

I lower my eyes. "Once. Just once..."

. . .

I blink. "Excuse me? But how is any of this your business?" I say, forcing myself to keep my voice down. "It was our relationship—mine and Arnold's, not yours, mine, and Arnold's. You had nothing to do with it!"

"It's my business because Arnold told me about it," Gerald replied.

I slump back then against the upholstered cushions of the booth, attempting to fathom why Arnold would do something like that. "He what?" I whispered, feeling utterly betrayed that Arnold would do such a thing.

"You don't believe me?" Gerald asked, whipping out his cell phone like a reporter or a detective in the movies and accessing his voicemail panel.

"Gerald—" I begin.

Ignoring me, Gerald presses a button and my heart drops as soon as I hear the voice emitting from the speaker. I grip the table before me, shaking, as the words that I used to hear every single day enter my ears for the first time in weeks, as the last I hard them was when I told him of Dr. Bliss's death, and before that had been the airport where we had... The heartbreak behind his voice positively broke me, and I could not even begin to fathom why I was feeling this way...

"Gerald... Hey, man, it's me. Man, New York is such a big trip to make. Can't believe I spent my fifteenth birthday myself. Listen, about that information I gave you about me and Helga ending things... I really don't think you should leak it anonymously to the papers. I know we thought it would hurt her, but this whole thing—it hurt both of us. And the separation we have from one another, I know it wasn't meant to happen this way. And the long and the short of it is, Gerald, I was going to tell her something that day at the airport—something I should have said a long time ago but didn't, for some stupid notion of pride, and I know I should have but I didn't—"

"No," I whispered, my eyes filling with tears.

"—but Helga didn't want me to say it then, though, Gerald, so maybe that means something. I don't know—we're teenagers, so maybe none of it is supposed to make sense in the grand scheme of things. What I can't understand is the fact that this whole big competition would pick me at all, when they had Helga's name in their stack of applicants. Sure, I said all the right things, and Helga said all the wrong things, but that's how we get through life—by saying the wrong things and risking everything that we have to give. I love her, Gerald," Arnold said, and I felt the tears escaping my eyes. "I love her, and people who love each other do not seek to hurt each other deliberately. Maybe this is how it was always supposed to be—me going to New York and Helga going to Hillwood Academy. Maybe we just weren't ready for all of this; maybe it was just too much too soon..."

"Stop," I whisper. "Please... Turn it off, Gerald."

"...and Helga, if you ever listen to this, please know that I love you, and that I wanted to stop all this in its tracks. If it's too late, then I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry, but if it's already been set in motion, or is already out there, please understand that my mindset was in a torment of emotions and I just could not help myself..."

Gerald cuts the call to the voicemail, and I look up then, seeing Phoebe standing there, a look of horror on her face. "Babe," Gerald said, "it was just something I had to do..."

"Gerald, how could you?!" she cried out.

"Don't," I said, raising my hand as Gerald moved to say something. "Now I'm going to tell you something—as my friends, not as a reporter," I said, turning my gaze onto Gerald, and forcing my voice not to shake. I sighed, knowing that this secret could not stay cooped up forever. "I just need your word, Gerald, that you don't run with this information."

"Yeah, but—" Gerald tried.

"Gerald!" Phoebe said, her voice firm. "If you want this relationship to work, you will give Helga your word," she said, and, as I turned to look at her, I saw that there were tears in her eyes as well.

Gerald sighed. "All right," he replied.

"Good," I said, placing my hands upon the table. "Arnold's suspicions were correct—he wasn't the first choice for the competition in New York. It was me," I said quietly, the words surrendering the weight upon my shoulders.

"It was you?" Gerald asked, shocked.

"But Helga, if they picked you, then why are you here?" Phoebe whispered, shock radiating through her voice.

"Because I gave it up," I reply, not meeting their eyes. "It was Arnold's dream, not mine, to study in New York. I couldn't take that away from him," I whisper. "So, when I had mono, I wrote to the judges and told them to give the grand prize—well, only prize, really—to Arnold, because he was the deserving one... Do you remember that essay that Mr. Simmons had us write, about a person we admired, and that it could be anonymous?"

Phoebe nodded. "Yes."

Gerald sighed. "Every day."

I shut my eyes. "I wrote mine about Arnold," I tell them. "So I essentially just took the good parts of my essay and turned them into a persuasive letter, telling the judges to pick good old Football Head, because he was the one who deserved to win it in the first place."

"Helga?" Gerald asked.

I opened my eyes and turned to look at him. "What?"

"That's the ultimate sacrifice right there," he said quietly, shaking his head. "Wow, I mean... I can't believe I let my loyalty to Arnold cloud my judgement as you. I've ruined your reputation," he said, almost as if he couldn't believe it himself. "If only you would let me print a retraction—then your repute could be saved, and then everyone would leave you alone—"

"No," I say firmly, and he looks shocked.

"Helga," Phoebe said gently, stepping forward. "You know as well as I do that, in high school, your reputation is everything."

"Not to me," I reply, shaking my head. "Not to me. My everything got on a plane to New York. I let my everything fly away."