AN: Teenagers!


Helga walked slowly up the stairs towards her room, trying not to drop the pile of junk food she held in her arms. Her bedroom door was slightly ajar, so she pushed it open with her foot, dropping the pile onto her dresser.

"We're in luck, Arnold. Miriam remembered to stock up before going on her 5th honeymoon with Bob! Wait, is it the 5th or 6th? Well, whatever. Food! What do you want to eat first?" She turned towards him and her heart dropped into her stomach. Arnold was sitting on her bed, reading a book.

A pink book.

"Hey-hey-hey-hey!" She ran towards him and snatched the book out of his hands, tossing it towards her closet. "Where did you get that?"

He looked up at her. "I found it under your pillow."

Helga groaned. "Arnold," she whined, "you know you're not supposed to read my pink books! Those are works in progress! Just story ideas. Very rough stuff."

He stood up. "That one didn't have any story ideas. It was filled with poems."

Helga turned around abruptly and walked stiffly towards her dresser. She started organizing the junk food packets into neat lines. "Oh?" she said, calmly. On the inside, she was freaking out. She totally forgot that she busted out her old poetry journal last night. She didn't write much poetry these days, after discovering her love for the short story format way back in 8th grade, but every once in a while she'd get inspired and write a sappy poem about Arnold. Cause that's who all her poems were about, still. Arnold. Sure, her short stories could be about anything, but Helga G. Pataki could not write a poem about anyone or anything else but Arnold. She cursed the green jellybeans she ate last night for inspiring her to write in that notebook.

She heard him walk towards her. He rested his hands on her shoulders.

"You wrote about our first time," he whispered in her ear.

Oh God, could this night get any more mortifying? Of all the poems in that fucking book, he read the one about the first time they had sex? That flowery monstrosity? Oh God-oh God-oh God—

Arnold whirled her around and kissed her. Helga stood there, shocked, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Her lips moved against his only out of habit. Arnold's hands slid underneath her t-shirt. He coaxed her arms up, pulling away from her lips for a split second to pull her shirt over her head before diving back into the kiss.

He was working on her bra when she pushed him away slightly. "What?" he panted, disappointed.

"I just want to get something straight here. So all this—" she gestured between them—"is because you liked my sex poem?"

His hands slid down her back, resting on her hips. "Well…yeah." His cheeks were tinged pink.

She smiled brightly, and walked him backwards toward her bed, pushing him down on it. She climbed on top of him. "Well then," she said, leaning over him. "Keep going."

He smiled and leaned up, kissing her again. And as his hands went back to work on taking off her bra, ideas for hundreds of racy poems raced through Helga's mind.