Author's Note:

1) Thank you so much for the positive feedback so far! I feel a lot more confident about continuing this story :)

2) As you can see, in the last chapter, I tried to keep things light and fun (compared to the prologue). I was afraid I was boring my readers will all the crazy detail! In this chapter, I revert a bit back into the somber tone with which I started my story. How do you guys feel about this style? What would you like to see more of in future chapters?

3) The beginning might seem totally random, but I promise it'll make sense in later chapters!

4) Also, how do you feel about the Helga x Arnold dynamic so far? Too cliché? Any comments?

CHAPTER TWO

WAIT, ISN'T THAT PHOEBE?

If you look into its eyes as it happens-if you really pay attention-you'll notice the glossy film that creeps onto its cornea. It's that moment when a dumb beast suddenly becomes aware of its own mortality. It wonders, where the hell are all the years of my life?

It's a look he'd seen over and over again when he made his occasional trips over to the slaughterhouse. Every once and a while, someone will ask for the good stuff, and it was up to him to make the drive upstate, past the farm, and over to the massive warehouse where shy goats, chicken, pigs, and calves would lounge around like the stupid creatures they were—that is, until that moment. At that moment, of course, they'd have all the answers in the universe sitting at the tips of their tongues.

Accompanied by a worker—a black Jamaican man with a rugged beard-he went to the back and shimmied between the little spaces they kept around the wooden pens, stepping over piles of feces and bird feathers, until he finally made it to the goats.

They stood there—all six of them, waiting for a change in their mundane existence. One in particular noticed the sweaty red headed man with a green apron make his way over to their pen.

"Baaaaaaaah," he alerted his pen mates.

The gang looked sharp, unsure of what was to come next. Every week at least, they lose one of their friends. He or she is dragged out of the pen, and then never comes back. Of course, they were all too senseless to contemplate the phenomenon.

"That one." The man pointed to the very goat that alerted his pen mates. He saw the worker heard three out of the pen. "I only want one."

"I know."

"What do you need the others for?"

"Dey can't be alone when dey die. Makes em nervous, man," the worker responded in a strong Jamaican accent.

They were in a large room inside the slaughterhouse. The entire inner perimeter was lined with railing and multiple pulleys, with belts hanging down from them. The man with the green apron watched the worker tie a belt around the goat's ankle. The goat immediately began wailing, and no matter how many times he'd seen this ritual, neither the man in the green apron, nor the worker could block the sound out of his heart. As the worker yanked the other end of the belt, the goat found himself flying up towards the ceiling, hanging upside down. It stopped wailing and its eyes became glossy.

But Marty Green was not in the room when the moment happened. He received a phone call just as the goat began to ascend. Stepping outside into the hallway, he pulled his phone out of the pocket of his green apron, and was not surprised to see who was calling him ten minutes before their shift was about to start.

"What is it, Harold."

"Um…so I can't come in to work today."

"Why am I not surprised," he mumbled. "Alright Berman, lay it on me."

"Ahem. Yeah…I'm not feeling too good Mr. Green. I think I have an appendicitis!"

"Harold. We both know you don't have appendicitis. Look, don't make me tell your rabbi you were lying again. You know I'm not very good with religious folk." Marty heard an exaggerated sigh from the other end.

"Alriiiiiight. I guess I don't have an appendicitis," Harold admitted. "But I have a really good excuse! I promise!"

"Sure you do."

"They just opened up a new ride at Dino Land and everyone is going including Sid and Stinky…"

"Yeah, yeah. Knock yourself out."

"…and Arnold and Gerald."

"Better enjoy bein' a kid while it lasts."

"Thanks Mr. Green! Oh my God, I'm gonna ride the Raptor of Doom so many times, I puke all over the place! Haha!"

"See you TOMORROW, Harold."

"Later, Mr. Green."

Marty was about to hang up the phone when his heart stopped for a second.

"Wait…did you say Arnold?!"


"I can't believe Harold rode the Raptor of Doom eleven times last night," said Arnold, as he and Gerald rummaged their lockers after the final bell of the day.

"My boy has some crazy gag reflexes," said Gerald, reaching up towards the top shelf of his locker before pulling out a sleek black leather case, small enough to fit inside his hands.

Arnold watched him reach inside the case. Pinching the jewel encrusted hinges, Gerald allowed the casing to slide off, revealing a pair of circular glasses that were tinted blue.

"Cool shades!" Arnold stared at them in awe.

"Not just any shades," explained Gerald. "These are a one of a kind pair owned by none other than Dude Willington."

"The trumpet player?" asked Arnold, as he and Gerald broke free from their lockers and began heading towards the back exit of their school.

"The one and only."

"How'd you get those?" Arnold asked.

"My uncle got em for me last Christmas. He's part of a jazz band that plays tributes to all of Dude Willington's work. They're playing tonight by the pier. You're coming, right?"

"Yeah! That sounds awesome."

As Arnold and Gerald reached the exit, they began passing by two gigantic doors leading to the gym room, when Gerald came to a sudden halt. Walking slightly behind him, Arnold nearly fell back when he bumped into his now perspiring friend.

Gerald turned around to look at Arnold with panicking eyes. "Can we…leave through the front entrance?" he whispered. Arnold tried to look over Gerald's shoulder to see what was going on, but Gerald yanked the collar of his plaid shirt. "Don't look now, man!" he pleaded.

Arnold rolled his eyes and gently pushed his friend aside. That's when he noticed a levitating pile of books emerging from the library and heading in their direction. If one looked passed the books, they might notice the gripping white knuckles struggling to hold on to the sheer weight of reading material over a pair of petite legs, and perhaps they might hear the high pitched grunts that were so distinct to its owner.

"Wait, isn't that Phoebe?" said Arnold.

"Oh…is it? Phoebe? Like, Phoebe Hyderdaal? Oh man, I didn't even notice her probably cuz I never think about her…hehe. Well, she looks really busy right now. We should probably just give her some space and walk in the opposite direction from where we came…hehe…"

"Gerald," Arnold crossed his arms over his chest. "Are you avoiding Phoebe?"

"What?" Gerald's jaw dropped in an exaggerated fashion. "Me? Avoid Phoebe? You, my friend, have mistaken me for a much simpler man who can't smooth talk the ladies."

"Why don't you just ask her to come to the pier with us?"

"I can't just ask her!"

"Why not?"

"She'll say no!"

"How could you possibly know that before you—"

"H-hey Phoebe!" Gerald chirped, while silencing Arnold's judgment by stomping on his foot.

"Ow!" Arnold whispered, as he elbowed his friend. Before he could protest any further, Arnold felt his body shoved in the opposite direction. He slowly backed away and inched towards to gym room to give Gerald some space.

"Are you leaving, Arnold?" Phoebe asked, her short legs running towards them. Gerald shot him a panicked glare that screamed Get lost!

"Y-yeah!" Arnold stuttered, taking a hint. "I just have a lot of school work to catch up on…you know, been out of the country for a while…"

"School work? In the gym room?" she questioned, furrowing her eyebrows through her glasses.

"Uh…yeah! Got tons of phys ed to catch up on…you know, we don't get much exercise in the village! So I'll uh…just see myself out? Great. Later, Phoebs!"

Watching his friend bumble like an idiot, Gerald smacked his forehead and began shaking his head, mortified.


"Whew!" Arnold exhaled, as he slowly inched backwards while closing the doors to the gym room, located next to the bleachers. As he bent forward to catch his breath, he heard the distant sound of a sports whistle and realized that the gym room was not at all empty as he first suspected. Just as he was about to turn around, he heard a female voice…and its very familiar Jersey accent.

"Let's go boys! This aint a huggin fest!"

A blonde middle-aged woman yelled across the room between furious blows into a whistle that alternately went from resting on the jacket of her all pink tracksuit to being shoved between her red lips. Next to where the whistle rested on her jacket, and embroidered with gold thread into the left breast pocket, was the name "Tish."

She was known by most, however, as the other Coach Wittenburg.

Before anyone could catch him, Arnold snuck behind the bleachers where he could see the backs of the rest of the team members. Peering through the cracks, he rolled his eyes when he recognized the two mid weight wrestlers on the mat.

They seemed to be concentrating all of their energies towards squeezing the soul out of one another. The look of childish anger was so heavily present on their faces that Arnold began to suspect that the two wrestlers have perhaps entirely forgotten about wrestling.

"Oh come on!" whined Coach Wittenburg at one of the boys. "Ludwig! Grab Wolfgang's leg. Gimme something!"

Ludwig considered taking his coach's advice, but then he had a much better idea. He slacked his embrace of death and drew is arms away. It seemed to Arnold that Ludwig might actually be sensible enough to attack Wolfgang from a different vantage point, but was not surprised to see him instead exercise a tactic that was far removed from the sport of wrestling.

"Ow!" yelled Wolfgang. "Let go, you asshole!"

Much to Coach's Wittenburg's dismay, Ludwig had begun yanking Wolfgang's hair.

"Screw you, Wolfgang!" Ludwig yelled, grabbing handfuls of ex-best friend's blond hair. "I told you never to talk to my sister!"

"Oh, we hardly did any talking," Wolfgang smirked, right before experiencing a punch into his left eye.

Coach Wittenburg threw her hands up in the air in disbelief. "Ayayay!" she yelled to no one in particular, as she walked over to the two delirious wrestlers who were, at this point, throwing indiscriminate punches into the air that occasionally managed to hit their opponent. She bent down, and snatched the backs of their uniform, effortlessly pulling the two apart. "Alright, get the hell off my mat. You two are reporting to Wartz's office tomorrow." She then turned towards the bleachers. Arnold gulped, hoping she couldn't see him. "Is there anyone in this room that can restore my faith in the male species?" she sighed.

"Let me," said a voice.

Arnold watched the back of one team member stand up and noisily walk down the steps.

"Alright Donny, get down there." As the two hundred and seventy pound ape of a teen assemble his gear in front of his teammates, she turned back towards the bleachers. "Who wants to go up against Donny?"

Little to her surprise, the undeserving baboons that she was stuck coaching all year merely fidgeted in their seats, responding with overwhelming silence. After several minutes of pondering, Tish finally thought of an eloquent way to explain to her baboons that their first practice of the year will end early today because at her age, self-medication meant succumbing to a midday tequila. She was just about to deliver her plead when the gym room door slammed open.

Fearing that whoever just entered the gym might see him, Arnold crouched further under the shadow of the bleachers. He watched the slender legs stride past him towards the front of the room. He stood up to see who it was, but one of the teens sitting on the bleachers moved their backpacks next to their feet, thus blocking Arnold's view of the mat.

Thank you lordy Jesus, Coach thought, as she watched her much anticipated player arrive tardy as usual, before turning back to the mat. "I think I found you an opponent, Donny."

"Wait…you want me to fight her?" yelled the ape.

Before Coach could respond, the new opponent spoke up.

"You gotta problem with that, bucko?" said a voice that Arnold immediately recognized.

"I aint fightin no girl," said Donny.

"No, you aint fightin a girl…" Coach responded, curtly.

"You're fightin Helga G. Pataki," the new voice cut in.

"You're wrestling," Coach continued. "Now quit whining and the two of you gear up!"

Frustrated by his obstructed view behind the bleachers, Arnold emerged back towards the door. He was sure no one would notice him as all eyes seemed to be glued to the mat, where a two hundred and seventy pound ape sized up his five-foot-seven female competition.

Unlike the last fight, both wrestlers displayed a much stronger understanding of their sport. At first, her sheer strength seemed to help Helga hold her own against her much bigger rival. Gritting her teeth, she manage to push against him as she struggled to stay on her feet. Soon, however, she felt the soles of her sneakers slipping. Afraid that she was about to plunge, she immediately ducked to try to reach for his ankle. She yanked it towards her with all her might and began feeling his legs wobble. Perfect, she thought. She was about to get up to give him a final push, when she felt two hands wrap around her waist.

Before she knew it, she felt her feet lift off the ground until Donny had her dangling above him. She grabbed his shoulders and tried to pry herself off. She knew he was very close to being able to throw her onto the mat. Trying to throw him off balance, she wrapped her arms around his head, and pushed her body forward. That's when she felt his face pressed against her chest.

"Nice rack," said his muffled voice.

Growling, Helga wrapped a leg around his and snapped it back, catching him by surprise. She felt herself fall forward, landing on him. Realizing that time was of the essence, she quickly held him down so that he couldn't get up.

"One!" Coach Wittenburg started the count.

Donny struggled to push Helga off to no avail.

"Two!"

He grabbed her knees, and was just about to push her off. Helga struggled to dig her feet under his body to lock him in, but began faltering. The entire room held its breath.

"Three!"

"Yes!"

Everyone in the room turned around.

They watched the boy standing near the entrance of the gym quickly clap his hand over his mouth as he froze like a baby capuchin caught between two alligators.

"Arnold…?" said Helga over her shoulder while still sitting on her rival.

"Uh…hi, Helga." He smiled nervously at her, before noticing the middle aged woman in the pink tracksuit peering at him. He gulped. "H-hello Mrs. Wittenburg…"

"That's Coach Wittenburg to you," she corrected.

"Right!" Arnold slowly inched backwards towards the door. "I was just looking for my…uh….actually, I probably left it in my locker…so I should get going now! Nice seeing you Mrs…Coach…Wittenburg."


"Anyway, if you're not doing anything tonight…maybe you can stop by the pier?"

"I would love to, Gerald!" replied the young Japanese girl, appreciating the quiet time she was finally getting in the hallway with her rather elusive classmate before being interrupted. "What time is your uncle perf—Oh! Arnold!"

Gerald begrudgingly turned around, only to see his best friend burst out of gym room with a look of stark panic in his eyes while slamming the door shut behind him.

Still catching his breath, Arnold looked over at a confused Gerald. Then at a confused Phoebe. Then back at Gerald.

"Don't…ask."


After Phoebe left, Arnold and Gerald continued to down the halls when they came across the library. Just as they were about to pass the room, Arnold noticed a flyer taped onto the glass door. Without giving it much thought at the time, he tore it off before shoving it into his pocket.


Roy carried his trumpet case like it was an old pet. He sat down with the rest of the band at the center of a makeshift stage that baked in the scent of hotdogs and Bavarian pecans. He listened to the grainy sound of his own shoes rubbing against the concrete, and at the same time felt the euphoric sensation creep into his bones as they turned on the lights. People began to crowd around them—some knew about them performing, but most happened to be walking passed them only to allow their curiosity to draw them towards the concrete seats.

After slapping a few mosquitos off his arm, he opened the case to pull out his instrument. Though his bones were quickly warming up, the trumpet lay limp in his hands. He perched the mouthpiece against his lips and blew some hot, wet air into the metal tunnel, until it felt like nothing more than another limb. The light tapping of the percussion signaled the whole gang, and Roy got right into position.

Towards the front, rested Tay and his grand piano, both glorious in age. Roy watched Tay play a few uplifting notes before releasing his sonorous voice through his mustached lips. He sang an old tune that had practically carried them into adulthood back in the 70's. And as Roy waited for his cue, he thought back to that era when he first grew into the performer he became today. It was a good time: he and his buddies fumbling with their vintage jazz back in the garage while his much cooler brother and friends got their groove on at the disco.

As Tay melted the audience with those same lyrics that continued to melt the old gang, Roy noticed a young boy walk passed them. Maybe13 or 14 years of age, his clothing was all black and he sported orange hair that stuck up like the mane of a macaw. Hooked to his spiked belt was a music player blasting terrible screaming shrills that must have come down from dear Lucifer himself. Roy shook his head. Kids these days wouldn't know real music if it hit them on the back of their heads, he thought.

I can never see you with no other man! Baby, am I in love? I don't understand!

As Tay finished up the verse, Roy took his cue and got up with his trumpet. Just as he stood up, he looked over at the audience and a broad smile crept up on his face.

He saw standing towards the front in wet grass, his favorite nephew jamming to their performance. Next to him stood an equally enthusiastic boy with blond hair and a wide head. Both bobbed their heads and snapped their fingers as Roy performed his solo part. The rest of the audience also cheered as he played around with his mute to create fantastic and unexpected melodies.

On an impulse, Roy stepped off the stage and reached for his nephew. Gerald began to laugh as Roy dragged him onto the stage. One of the saxophone players in the band handed his instrument over to the young boy, knowing fully well how skilled the boy was at playing it.

Gerald had been attending his uncle's performances for years, and sometimes, when his dad was feeling especially lenient, he was allowed to accompany them to the hotels where they were commissioned, and play with them on stage.

Much like Roy, Gerald immediately felt the weight of the instrument in his hand tug at his soul. He breathed his warm air into the brass funnel, appropriating the previous player's own juices until the saxophone began to obey the rhythm of Gerald's heart. The audience went wild.

One whistle in particular stood out. Gerald looked over to the audience and saw his best friend blowing between two fingers in his mouth. He turned to one of the musicians and seemed to whisper something to their ear. The musician snuck off stage for a moment before running back to his seat and handing something over to Gerald. Grinning, Gerald walked over to his friend. He looked back at his uncle, who nodded in approval.

Arnold was surprised to see his best friend walk over to him from the stage with a mischievous look on his face. As he saw Gerald's hand reaching over for him, he felt his heart jump. He had just begun to pull his arm away when he felt Gerald's fingers locked around his wrists. Unable to escape, Arnold felt himself being tugged away from the audience and towards the stage.

Arnold found himself stumbling into the spot light, surrounded by the 23 man-band known by most hotel dwellers and a few devoted 81.7 FM late night jazz listeners as Dude's dudes. To his left was Tay Donalds, a famous pianist who started off as a teen working for the Dude himself, carrying the band's instruments to and from their tour bus, to a world famous musician who was eventually commissioned to the be official pianist for the White House before finally retiring in the city, only to join this fine group of men whom shared an interest in Dude's work just like him.

To Arnold's right, stood his best friend who began a set of chords on his instrument. His lips were sealed tightly around the sax's mouthpiece, but the smirk on his face was undeniable. Arnold watched his friend, for a split second, wink at his direction. He watched him pull the mouthpiece away and let the saxophone hang around his neck.

The entire audience looked over at the blonde boy who found himself caught in the center of his friend's uncle's band's performance. He didn't need to turn around to know that the entire band behind him was also watching him, silently waiting for him to make his move. It was then that Arnold looked down and saw that Gerald had handed him something as he pulled him onto that stage. This whole time, his fingers had been wrapped around a small oblong object. He realized he was holding a harmonica.

Arnold gulped and at first couldn't bring himself to comprehend the situation he was in. He shot Gerald a panicked look. Gerald warmly smiled and was about to take over for his stage frightened friend, when a familiar melody coming from the other direction struck through the silence.

All eyes turned to Tay, who began a tune that wasn't normally played by the Dude's dudes. In fact, it was a melody that didn't belong to Mr. Willington at all. But that didn't make it any less well known. Even a young boy with orange spikes passing by, pulled out his ear buds when he heard the familiar music born straight out of the soul of this city. Tay leaned over to his microphone and began to sing in his deep voice…

Darling, you left my heart

In pieces on the floor

Arnold broke into a smile.

So tell me why shouldn't I

Break something of yours?

It didn't take long for the entire trumpet and saxophone line to join in right on cue. Before Arnold knew what he was doing, he felt the harmonica brush against his lips, and he too joined the band.

Darling, POW! I'll smash em all.

When the rest of the music died down, Arnold found himself exploding into an impromptu harmonica solo that was never part of the original song, but had found a natural place in this Dude's dudes cover. The audience went wild. Arnold seemed to have a natural charisma on stage.


"Man," he sighed as the band began to pack up its things. "Roy has the coolest job in the world."

"That's my uncle for you," replied Gerald, before perching his ears at the growing sound of a cane tapping against the floor.

Arnold and Gerald looked up and saw a smiling Tay Donalds limping towards them. Before either of them could say anything, Tay reached over and placed a heavy hand over Arnold's shoulder.

"Well, well, well," he said, shaking his head. "If it isn't Phil and Gertie's grandson."

"Wait…you know my grandparents?" Arnold asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course!" Tay replied. "How else would I have known that I was in the presence of die hard Dino Spumoni fan?"

"Oh yeah! How did you know?"

"You grandparents stop by the hotel every once and a while to listen to us perform. Bless her heart, Gertie talk about you all the time. I'd be a monkey's uncle if I didn't recognize you from all those photos."

Arnold looked down bashfully.

"If you stop by with young Gerald, here," Tay continued, "You know we always have room on our stage for one more."

Just as Tay left, Arnold heard a familiar high pitched voice, and saw Phoebe Hyderdaal approach them, beaming with joy.

"That was wonderful Arnold and Gerald!" she exclaimed.

"Thanks Phoebs," replied Gerald. "I hope this whole thing wasn't too crazy for you. I know this isn't really your scene."

"Are you kidding?" she asked. "Watching you on stage was…" She blushed before continuing, "Well, it was exhilarating!"

Arnold had known Gerald long enough not to be fooled by the dark skin covering up a readily apparent blush that was travelling up his cheeks.

"Yeah? Well…maybe we could get together and you could listen to me play…"

"I'd love that!" she chirped.

"How about the day after tomorrow? After school?"

Suddenly, Phoebe looked down and frowned.

"I'd love to…except the day after tomorrow is Friday, and they're introducing the candidates for class president."

"So?" Gerald snorted. "Look, Phoebs, I know you love to stay on top of what's happening at school, but this is class president for crying out loud! No one cares who the class president is! Besides, it's probably just going to be Harold running as Harry Balls again."

"Well maybe people should care more about what goes on at our school!" Phoebe snapped back, much to Arnold and Gerald's surprise, before storming off.

Gerald turned to his friend with an incredulous look on his face.

"Did you hear what I just heard?" he asked.

"I heard," replied Arnold. "But you know, she does have a point."

"Oh man, you too? Look, I'm all for joining clubs and all that, but class president is the biggest joke and you know it. Well maybe you don't since you haven't been year in ages, but let me break it down for you: the class president never does anything and no one cares about that election."

"Well, maybe it's about time someone serious runs."

"Like who, Arnold? Who could possibly hate their lives so much that they would actually run for class president of the eleventh grade?"

"How about you?"

Gerald's jaw dropped.

"Me?! You want me to run? Are you out of your mind?"

"Look, you were a great president in the fourth grade. And I know we're not kids anymore, but I think maybe the school could use a real president. You know, someone who cares about what's happening."

"Come on man," Gerald whined. "I can't believe you're trying to convince me do this."

Arnold paused, and thought long and hard about how to convince his friend to reach his fullest potential. How to fulfill the position he was destined to take on. How to be the leader he was naturally born to be. Then it came to him.

"Phoebe would be impressed," Arnold smirked.

Gerald looked at him ready to retort any argument his friend might bring up, but then found his mind shut midsentence.

"How do I sign up?"

Smiling, Arnold pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. It was a flyer announcing that candidate positions were open for class president.