A/N: Special thanks to everyone who has reviewed for this story! I'm very grateful for your creative criticism and compliments! I hope that you enjoy this chapter, and I'm sorry if it isn't making too much sense.
Stella sighed, taking a peek at her watch every few seconds. It was six thirty now, and her legs were beginning to ache with each passing moment. The heels she wore suddenly seemed ridiculous, like she was a child in her mother's shoes. It was obvious. He wasn't going to show up.
The ring on her finger suddenly felt heavy, like it didn't belong. She slipped it off and stuffed it in her jacket pocket before taking one last look at her watch. Six thirty-one. She waved for a taxi and went home.
Helga took a sip of her giant Dr. Pepper and exited out of her document. The end of another chapter, meaning the beginning of writer's block, once again. In her lap was her cell phone, waiting to be dialed. Since her encounter with Phoebe, she was restless. Her phone was always close by, so if she were ready to make the call, she wouldn't have to think twice.
That moment hadn't come yet. Her old friend seemed so cold, so distant from everything. She probably didn't even want Helga to call.
But still, Helga was curious, for lack of a better word. Phoebe looked ragged; her limbs had hung carelessly at her sides. Her voice wasn't chipper and alert like it used to be, it seemed to drag on like a rhino in the mud. Throwing caution to the wind, Helga picked the phone out of her lap and dialed Phoebe's number.
It rang once, twice, three times before she finally picked up.
"Hello?" she answered. Helga's throat went dry, she felt as if she had nothing to say.
"Hey, Phoebe, it's Helga," she replied, standing from her desk chair. Being on the phone caused her to pace restlessly.
"Oh, hello," Phoebe greeted her. There was murmuring in the background, just like before. Helga wondered who was always there with her when she was on the phone. "Do you need something?"
"Um, no…" Helga trailed off, not exactly sure why she called. Gnawing on her lip uncontrollably, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "How have you been?"
"I've been fine," she retorted. "How have you been?"
Helga, clearly surprised by the sudden gentleness of her voice, replied, "Could be better, could be worse. I've just been writing a lot.
"Are you going to publish again?" Phoebe asked hopefully. Helga smiled sadly to herself.
"Possibly," she said, suddenly feeling a bit despondent. She felt as though she had so many things to tell Phoebe about her old life, and she wanted to ask so many questions about Phoebe's. But she just couldn't bring herself to do it.
"How's your new house?" Phoebe asked after a second of silence.
"Better than I expected… kind of dusty, though," she replied, remembering saying the same thing to her parents just a week ago. Phoebe laughed without humor.
"You're right by Geral- um, that vacant lot, right?" Phoebe asked; her voice had gone up an octave.
"Yeah, actually, I'm about a block away. I'm surprised you remember it," Helga said, not meaning to sound so bitter. Phoebe cleared her throat.
"I remember a lot of things, Helga," Phoebe mumbled rather ominously. There was a voice in the background, and Phoebe cleared her hoarse throat once again. "I should go now."
Helga heard the click before she could say a thing. What did she mean by that? And why did it seem so cryptic? She threw her phone forcefully on her dusty bed and closed her eyes. It was practically impossible to get Phoebe to say more than three words at a time, and when she did, it usually had Helga even more confused than before.
"I'm not dealing with this bullshit," she said to herself as she shook her head. If Phoebe was going to be like that, then Helga wasn't going to bother.
Almost instantly, her phone rang. Helga picked it up, half-expecting to see Phoebe's number on the screen, but she was surprised to see it was her mother's. After a few moments of contemplating whether or not she should answer it, she flipped open her phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi Helga, it's your mother," Miriam replied, as if Helga didn't already know. "How's the house?"
Helga frowned as she stood to pace once again. Miriam was never the one to call just to chat.
"It's fine, I'm just getting used to it… do you need something?"
Sure, she realized that sounded rude. But after her last pointless conversation, she wasn't looking for another one. It was mute for a few moments before her mother mumbled,
"Not really, I guess. Well, actually, I was wondering if you wanted to… come by the house?"
Now it was Helga's turn to be silent.
"Bob isn't home. I mean, I just thought you'd like to revisit the house you grew up in, is all," her mother continued, sounding very un-Miriam-like. Helga exhaled loudly.
"Sure, I'll be over in a bit."
She hung up before her mother could say another word. It's not that she didn't like spending time with her, but…
Actually, that was a complete lie. The sad truth was that she loved her mother, but did she like her? That was a good question. She didn't bother to dwell on those thoughts, though, for she was already out the door.
Ten minutes later, she was in front of her door. Five minutes after that, she knocked. It took a lot for her to do that, to willingly see her mother when she could barely stand speaking to her on the phone. It took even more for her to realize that she was back outside her old house.
The front porch induced a bout of déjà vu; she remembered sitting on those front steps for countless hours, head in hands. Those were usually the times when Miriam was too drunk to speak and Bob was yelling about something-or-other. Helga would just sneak out the door and wait for the commotion to cease.
"Come on in," Miriam said uncharacteristically, the ever-present glass of gin in her hand. Helga smirked. Just like the old days. "Are you hungry?"
"No, thanks," she mumbled as she crossed the threshold and wondered what she was doing back.
"Olga's coming home today. She doesn't know you're back," Miriam explained, standing awkwardly near the door. Helga winced. Just the thought of her older sister left a bitter taste on her tongue.
"Hrm," Helga replied, not quite sure what she should say to that. Olga had always been on her father's side of the spectrum, so she didn't exactly enjoy her "oh-so endearing" presence. She hoped she could escape before Olga returned.
"Do you want to see your room? It's still the same as it was all those years ago," her mother said, pointing towards the stairs. Helga shrugged and obliged.
The "Keep Out" sign was still stuck to her door; she entered anyway. The pink walls were blaring and bright compared to the dreary design of the rest of the house.
The phone rang. Miriam, startled, almost spilled some of her drink as she scurried down the hallway saying, "I should probably get that."
Helga closed her bedroom door behind her, feeling like a kid again. Everything was just as it had been the night she left. The bed was still unmade, there were school notebooks lying on the desk, and even a cup of water was sitting on her nightstand, collecting dust like an old artifact.
If anyone else had looked at this bedroom, it would have looked like the bedroom of a dead person; it was like her family was trying to conserve what was left of her by leaving her room exactly the way it was. Or maybe they were just lazy.
Helga dragged her feet across the floor, slowly moving her head from side to side like she was walking in an art museum. In the distance, she heard Miriam yelling at someone, most likely Bob. In spite of herself, she grinned.
Eventually, she found herself in front of her closet door. She opened it hesitantly, hoping that there wouldn't be any rats, bugs or other disgusting things living in there. Thankfully, there were only a few articles of clothing left behind, and a few boxes. She yanked one of the heavy, brown boxes out and opened it.
Pink books. Dozens of them. Obviously befuddled, she opened the first one.
Cornflower hair, a football-shaped dome,
Your smile brings me to a place far from home.
Gentle words, sweet as can be,
I wish you could see the girl behind me.
Helga snorted loudly. Skimming through the rest of the book, she realized that every singly poem was about cornflower-haired, football-headed boy. She threw the book behind her shoulder and picked up another one.
And another.
And another. Without thinking, she shoved a few of these books in her jacket pocket and left her room, almost colliding with Miriam.
"I think I'm going to go now," Helga mumbled. Her mother stopped and looked at Helga in confusion before sputtering,
"All right, well, I'll see you."
As Helga descended the stairs, she almost felt a pang of guilt. Probably because seeing her mother again soon was definitely not in her agenda. Not for a while, at least.
--
Another week passed, and Helga had forgotten all about the books when she became engrossed in her writing. Cups and cups of soda were falling all over her desk, along with food wrappers and notes to herself. Lately, she had taken a liking to looking out the window (it was a much better sight than her filthy desk) for inspiration.
A lot of her memory seemed to come back to her. Like the time she slapped Lila Sawyer in the face in the eighth grade, just a few feet away from Gerald Field. And the time she ran away from home; the roads had seemed endless and winding, and all the houses looked the same. That was the same night she got lost, and had to call Phoebe to pick her up.
Her stomach rumbled, interrupting her thoughts. Hastily, she shoved her hand in her pocket, but there seemed to be no cash. She then checked her purse, which was empty as well. She hadn't even noticed that she was getting poorer as the days passed.
So she went to bed hungry that night, and woke up even more hungry. There had to be a way to earn money in this town. Absentmindedly, she went about her normal morning routine of brushing her teeth and padding out to the mailbox in her slippers. She set the stack of junk mail on the coffee table before noticing her weekly magazine had arrived.
It was a local magazine that she had picked up on a few weeks ago. Well, a writer's journal, to be more exact. The short stories featured were almost an inspiration to her. And that's when it hit her.
She took a look at the address to find that it was only a few blocks from her house. Scrambling to look presentable, she threw on some tidy clothes and a bit of makeup before heading out the door. Magazine in hand, she made her way towards the local magazine headquarters, feeling more and more reckless with each step.
Surprisingly, she didn't have a hard time finding the place. It was amazing how much she remembered about Hilwood, without actually remembering much. Nevertheless, she pushed open the door and a burst of warm air instantly surrounded her.
"Hello, do you need something?" asked the receptionist. Helga, who hadn't noticed she was out of breath, nodded and pointed to the magazine in her hand.
"Yes, I'm here to speak to the editor about submitting a short story?" Helga sputtered. The woman smiled and pointed to the elevators in the hallway next to her desk.
"Floor three, first door on your right," she replied. Helga muttered a 'thank you' before striding towards the elevator and stepping inside.
It wasn't until the elevator doors had slid shut that she realized she had nothing to say. Somehow, she figured that, "I need money," wasn't going to impress the editor. The elevator music was the only thing that filled her mind as she descended to level three. She wanted to smack her forehead.
Mustering up some confidence, she knocked on the editor's door.
"Come in," he called; his voice was crisp and professional. She felt like a child as she pushed open the door and slid inside.
"Hi, I'm, um, here because, well…" she began nervously, trying to gather her thoughts. She grew angry with herself; she probably looked like an idiot in front of the guy. He glanced up at her from behind his glasses and smiled warmly. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I'm here because I want to submit a short story to your magazine."
At first, he looked as if he wanted to say something. But he stopped, and took off his glasses abruptly. His giant, imploring eyes seemed confused, but then he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Thoroughly bewildered, Helga awaited his response.
"Um, yes, here, fill out the paperwork," he stumbled across his words as he pulled a sheet of paper out of his desk and shoved it in her direction. Almost offended, she took the paper and the pen he offered. "It's just, uh, contact information and general things like that. We'll get a hold of you if your work catches our eye. You can sit there."
He pointed to the chair in front of his cluttered desk. Rather intimidated, Helga took a seat and scribbled down her information. The sudden change in his behavior made her uneasy. The room was mute as snowfall, and Helga had to resist the urge to cough or fidget or anything. It was one of those awkward situations where making noise would just worsen the circumstances. A few tense moments passed.
"Here, I'm finished," she said, setting the paper on his desk. He nodded thoughtfully.
"Okay, we usually have our short story writers submit their pieces on Friday, and then we'll choose from the bunch. Can you have it by then?" he asked, but he might as well have been asking the shrub over her left shoulder. It was obvious that he was looking right past her.
"Yeah, Friday is good."
"Good," he concluded, looking down at his desk. He gripped her paper in his hands, and when he caught a look at her name, he suddenly felt nauseous. His mouth grew dry and his tongue was sticky; it couldn't be her. But when he looked up to look into the face of the girl, she was gone.
A/N: Okay, question. Would you guys totally hate me if I switched up the narration? I'm not going to change from 3rd person to 1st person, but for this next chapter, I may want to switch who the narration is centered around. Let me know if that is a totally horrible idea. Thanks and review!
