He had Lila, he had Ruth, and he even had that little bimbo down by the beach, heck that Football Head had the freedom to crush on any wholesome looking peach that he could set his eyes on. She was lucky enough that none had requited his love, although she sympathized with the familiar caustic un-fulfillment. She admired his ability to trust; anyone and everyone. To find the best and latch on will all his might, riding on that star that might lead him to the true love he deserved. She'd felt a guilty pride in eroding away at that, spying a second nature on dates like the April Fools' dance. She had felt a sort of resentment towards the boy with the little blue cap that parted his hair not quite down the middle. He had freedom. She, on the other hand, had a crushing fixation that consumed her waking and sleeping hours. At any time of day his calm, sweet, morale-driven voice would echo off the walls of her cranium, "I like your bow." It wasn't from the childish lips that had first uttered the phrase that would destroy her autonomy. No, it was from his sublime teenage visage, his head now the same distance from the floor as hers with a rough, unadulterated adolescence that sent her spiraling into her usual whimper.
A solid, warm figure knocked into her back, sent her rocketing towards reality.
"Sorry, Helga." Of course it was him, it was always him. And no, he wouldn't be whispering that way in her ear. Ever.
"You must have memorized the phrase by now."
"I know, I know, 'Move it Football Head.'"
She was caught off guard by his quip and her fevered response drew a small and slightly sly smile to his face. Some day she hoped to elicit the tooth-filled one that spread ear to ear. She nearly had to slap herself to avoid melting before his eyes. She had resulted to the more reserved tactic of pinching herself.
"You got that right, bucko." She corrected her guarded demeanor.
His smile grew as he shook his head and Gerald let out his usual noise of disapproval.
She fell back against the lockers when the flax haired boy of her dreams was out of sight. She had tried to be nice, but he just couldn't accept that as her personality. Perhaps she couldn't either. Now she was stuck in an in between relationship, not knowing whether the boy viewed her as a friend or enemy. Truth be told, she didn't know if she wanted to be either. She had always, would always, want so much more. She was tired but didn't know how to define herself outside of Arnold, the name she repeated several times a day; Arnold the statue she worshiped in her closet metaphorically and physically. It was about time, as she reluctantly recalled a letter from her shining example of a sibling teaching abroad.
'What you want isn't always what you need, little sister. The best things come when you aren't looking for them' and blah blah yaddah yaddah let's hold hands and sing kum ba ya. What was she apart from him? She shuttered to think of the family life she had endured. She had worked part time at the Beeper, excuse her, 'communication device' emporium and that business was disappearing like hot breath on a cold window. Along with Bob's patience and Mariam's sobriety. She'd vowed to herself that she'd move out by eighteen, but she was feeling on her own much earlier. She had her independence, she'd give herself that. She sighed once again on her way to an advanced English class.
"You should think about publication, Helga." Good ol' Phebs knew how to cheer her up.
The smart, beautiful girl with the jock tall-hair boyfriend, it was hard not to be jealous. She had just been accepted to NYU as well. Helga hadn't applied. She hadn't even thought about it. Of course green-eyed boy was heading to the west coast where he could hang with all the harpes that would prey on his innocence, University of California, Davis. After graduation, where would the faces she had come to know and loathe go? Reinforcing her strength, she knew she had to let go. Maybe of everyone. If she dropped off the face of the earth would anyone notice let alone care? She could rebuild, after all, she had one hell of an imagination and knew how to dream big. Presidential big, once upon a time.
"Yea, yea." Helga replied, returning her attention to extending the spirals within her notebook.
"I'm serious, Helga. Phoebe pleaded, "If I become an editor after I get my degree, would you allow me to publish your work?
"Eh, I dunno…" She winced at the rejection she felt standing behind her whole life through. No wait; that was the kid with glasses and heavy breathing problem. How many times had she broken his nose now? Where was that kid going in life?
"I don't want anything showy."
"It could be in a little column off to the side."
"Tell you what Phebs, you become an editor and I'll write. All I ask is a little compensation, got it?"
Her friend smiled at her coyly. "No taking it back?"
"It's a promise."
"Well, I'm already an editor, of the PHS Times"
Helga stopped doodling, "You want my journal entries in a school paper?"
The teacher briefly stopped the lesson to look in their direction, his mustache twitching in discontent.
Phoebe broke the silence announcing, "Anyone who would like their writing in the paper can submit samples to me, Mr. Schwartz. Sorry for the interruption."
He winked at his star pupil and returned to the board. Helga's stern look remained.
"We can do it anonymously, come on, I know you have a bunch of thoughts you want to express before graduation." Her heart wretched at the thought of everyone she knew flying off to different ends of the earth. Maybe this was what she needed, a way to let it all go with a weekly column.
"Alright, if it'll make you quit your yapping."
"Quitting." Phoebe responded with a broad closed smile on her lips.
###
Helga went home that night, not bothering to announce her arrival to the sound of Bob yelling at the TV and the blender whirring for Mariam in the kitchen. Home, sweet home. She climbed the stairs and flopped onto her childhood bed, glancing around at the dolls that never really reflected her personality. She flipped over onto her stomach and withdrew a pen a spiral notebook from the dresser drawer. They always seemed more personable than a laptop. Then she wrote; about the boy she based her life around, the one that would have been an apostle in another time, the emptiness of existence when returning to the reality of abuse by abandonment without him. A drop on the line paper made the purple ink bleed into a pink color. The mantra repeated, "I like your bow." She shut her eyes tightly accepting the feeling of loss as she curled into herself, every muscle tight with focus until she relaxed and let it go. "I like your blue hat." She exhaled the reply she had always wanted to say.
###
She returned to school the next day with a crumpled sheet of paper in her hand, once again dodging the Shortman that had a locker near hers.
"Morning, Helga." His distant cheeriness lingered. Her greeting was no different than the one he would give his least favorite teacher.
She sighed, "Morning, Arnoldo." He paused for a second, watching her take out her books.
"Is something wrong?" Curse his good natured intuition.
"No sir-y, life is just peachy." She stuck out a stiff upper lip.
"Your eyes, they look kind of swollen."
"Yea, well, staying up all night watching monster truck madness will do that to you, what can I say."
"Helga..." He looked up at her from furrowed brows as he placed a hand on her bicep. Don't say my name like that. Her insides were quivering and she felt a stinging at the corners of her eyes. His touch was burning into her. "If you ever want to talk..." She wanted to stay in that moment forever with his attention and hands on her, but she knew nothing gold could stay.
She slammed her locker to change the mood and the breeze caught the crumpled paper, sending it drifting to the middle of the hallway.
"I'll get it." He prompted. As he reached the paper her hand was swiftly on top of his. For such a rough girl, it was surprisingly soft with a delicate bone structure. He looked at her flushed complexion. Something was definitely wrong.
"Didn't your grandpa ever tell you not to touch what isn't yours?" Her voice was struggling to be strong.
He thought back to a time when he told her subconsciously, 'I know you're not as bad as all this.' Why was she trying so hard to make everyone hate her? He thought back to her feminine hand and decided that Ol' Betsy had actually never been put into practice.
"You're right." He agreed, placing his hands in the air. Maybe his touching had set her off. She stuffed the faintly pink crumpled slip into her jean pocket as he could faintly smell something like fresh linen. A surprisingly homey aroma from someone he wouldn't expect to do womanly chores. He chastised himself for building assumptions. He watched as she stood up and turned to go to class. When did she stop looking like a fifth grader? He paused and reflected on himself, feeling odd at examining Helga G. Pataki.
She turned, "Hey, Arnold, t-thanks." She spoke quietly through gritted teeth. Perhaps he only knew her on a surface level after all.
###
'Quit beating so loud, it's time to let go!' She scolded her heart internally as she walked into her first period English class five minutes after the bell.
Mr. Schwartz turned towards her and announced the obvious, "You're late."
She had never been good with authority, perhaps due to the lack of a proper role model. Besides, this teacher like many others only paid attention to the way kids sat and spoke and behaved. He didn't care about cultivating creativity, he wanted obedience. If Wordsworth were in his classroom he'd be in the corner with a dunce cap. She'd never waste her time or ability on such a-
"Mr. Schwartz, she was just helping me print copies of the PHS Times. I could get you a note, if you like." She could never lie like good ol' Phoebe.
He addressed the raven-haired, petite girl, "That's fine, dear." Then the warmth disappeared as he returned to Helga, "Take your seat."
Take it where? She wanted to continue the banter based off of her English teacher's improper choice of grammar, but she resigned with the screech of metal on linoleum. When he was busy yammering on, she shoved the crumpled paper onto her friend's desk. Phoebe began to unfold it in her lap, pausing at the stains.
"Couldn't help it; was eating a burger as I wrote." She shrugged. When Phoebe nodded, she remembered how transparent she was and she felt like a screen door. She shivered at the breeze of realization. It was okay, she told herself, she was letting go. Then another stain appeared on the faintly pink page. "Phebs-"Helga whispered as her easily stirred friend was falling apart in the middle of class. She'd never been in a position to comfort someone before, what should she do with her hands?
"It's beautiful, Helga." She looked over with a genuine smile and stood up with her arm raised. The teacher looked startled and confused. "I just wanted to announce that today's paper will have a piece from one of the greatest poets of our generation." The class turned to stare. "And I hope that this will continue until the end of our time here and beyond." Helga fought against the constricted muscles in her throat to swallow. She could feel the air around her heating up. As she put her head down to feign napping, she basked in the praise that had been absent her whole seventeen years.
###
"You heard about the freaky poem in today's paper?" Gerald asked his long term friend at lunch.
"Freaky as in creepy?" Arnold raised an eyebrow along with a vegetable burger. He found that he saw his pets' faces whenever he tried to eat meat, so he quit trying.
"I don't know man, it brought my girlfriend to tears!"
"Really?" He felt a bit of intrigue, not that he was that into writing. He was more of a history man, himself. However, he was interested in what was able to move people. "Let me see!" The plaid shirted boy leaned over to seek the excerpt under his friend's elbow.
"Alright, alright." Gerald shuffled over.
As Arnold read over the lines he felt like a person was talking to him, specifically. Did everyone feel that way? That person in the paper was trapped and asking for help. But when people came up to the cage, they left without unlocking the door, and never came back. It made him feel kind of hollow and nostalgic somehow.
"Need a tissue?" Gerald nudged his buddy.
"Huh?" When Arnold glanced up he could feel a stinging in his eyes. Was it that easy? "Nah, it's just dry in here." He swallowed feeling bereft. Before, it wasn't like he was feeling anything. He had strived to show the world the best in people, like his parents would have wanted him to. Where did this confliction come from? Was it because the person in the paper was saying humanity didn't have it in them? He felt a familiar agitation.