WHOOT! Another chapter! I'm actually managing to update this thing more than once every few months. I'm actually taking this story a lot slower than I intended. It seems it'll be longer chapter-wise and shorter word-wise than I expected… But that evens out, doesn't it? xD This chapter is mainly silly filler-ness… Sorta. There's some Phoebe/Helga friendship stuff and family interaction. I'm still not entirely sure how to make Helga act around her "new" family. But, eh, I try. Heh. Enjoy!

Chapter 4: Peanut Butter And Cardboard

Bob Pataki had been standing guard at the door for the past hour, and had pacing since 2:30 that afternoon. And when that door finally swung open, he pulled his daughter into a hug, and then pushed her back, holding her at arm's length, one hand on either shoulder. "Where on earth have you been, O…."

As though on cue, Miriam slipped out of the kitchen. "Ahem…" She coughed softly and whisked up the stairs. Chances were, she would be listening close by.

"What I mean is, we—your mother and I—would have appreciated a phone call… Helga…"

"It's not that late," Helga sighed. True, it wasn't especially late; it was roughly a quarter to nine, but Helga had to constantly remind herself that her parents were trying. And that meant she should try to be more daughterly… and not laugh when she happened to catch her dad screaming at (or hugging) a fluffy toy poodle as part of his anger management routine.

"That's not what's important here. I would have liked to have known that you wouldn't be home." Bob scratched awkwardly at the side of his head. "We've been worrying, got it?"

"Yeah. Phone call. Got it!" She raised a fist in affirmation, nodded briskly and started up the stairs. "And sorry for making you worry, Dad. You too, Mom!" The last statement was spoken a step louder, to assure that Miriam would hear it.

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The night was spent scribbling away in a new pink book, filling its pages with fantasies and poems. In each and every word shone that undying, unfaltering love.

And when she finally gave in to sleep, she dreamt of a church. Light flooded through ornate stained glass windows, and roses were placed appropriately throughout the chapel. He, in black, stood waiting for her, in white. Rows of pews were filled with spectators who sat in silent awe. But… they must have all been from Arnold's family. Scanning their faces—their reverent expressions—she couldn't help but notice that every single person shared Arnold's brilliant green eyes. And she wondered, a tad absently, if their children would inherit those eyes.

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It was early-afternoon when the doorbell rang—once, twice, thrice. Finally, whoever was on the other side gave up and jabbed a key into the lock.

Phoebe Heyerdahl pushed through the front door of the Pataki household. Through the years, she had practically become Helga's sister, so she was given a spare house key. Whenever the Pataki family was on vacation, she was left in charge of taking in mail, watering plants, and watching after the monitor lizard (the latter being a none too pleasant task, with the reptile exceeding six feet in length).

"Helga?" called the girl just barely louder than her speaking voice.

"Kitchen, Phoebs," responded Helga.

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The situation Phoebe found Helga in was admittedly strange. The pigtailed blonde was on her hands and knees, a knife poised in one hand.

"H…Helga?" Phoebe began to take a step back. She had questioned the sanity of her friend before… Was it possible that the girl had finally broken?

"Shh!" Helga waved the knife, signaling for silence. From some indistinguishable point in the room came a chirp. Then another. And another, until the chirping was confidently consistent. Helga crawled along the floor, peering underneath the dishwasher. "Cricket," she whispered.

"A cricket?" Relief. Her friend was crazy, yes, but the victim of her wrath was both real and trivial. "Helga, I'm sure a cricket shouldn't cause you this level of distress. They're even considered lucky in some cultures."

"Yeah, well… I was trying to think, and there was this noise. This cricket noise. Have you ever noticed that you can never actually find a cricket in your house? You hear them… but, they're never there. I find that very suspicious, don't you?"

"Of course, Helga… Very suspicious indeed." Phoebe hid her smirk behind a slender hand.

The blonde got to her feet and tossed the knife into the sink. "You win this round, cricket. But the war is not yet over! Not by a long shot." She looked back to her friend and shrugged a shoulder.

"Since the cricket is… being cowardly… Perhaps we could talk?" Phoebe gestured to the living room before leaving the kitchen, with Helga close behind.

The two fell back on the couch in unison.

"I expect your parents are at their respective meetings?"

"Yup." Helga crossed her legs and flicked on the television, searching for something watchable.

"Well… Have you happened to speak with Sid lately?" Phoebe adjusted her glasses, an old nervous habit she had never quite been able to drop.

"Not since… oh, wow… it must have been freshman year." On the screen, a man in black stared nervously around a corner. "Why's that matter?"

"Well… the thing of it is… Arnold... Well…"

"Yeah! Arnold! Have you had a chance to talk to him? It's… well, Phoebs, it's honestly unbelievable. He just shows up in our lunchroom and POW!"

"Yes… unbelievable. Helga, Gerald hasn't spoken to Arnold at all. And he's been trying to get ahold of him. Would you happen to know of a way for Gerald to reach him?"

"Yeah… I have his cell number. I'll write it down for him before you leave." She paused. "Why doesn't Gerald just go to the boarding house?"

Phoebe continued to fiddle with her glasses. "I assume he was out at the time Gerald tried." She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and leaned back. Why was she even bringing this up? Sid couldn't be trusted, and she hadn't actually spoken to Gerald since his last attempt to reach Arnold. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its nervous quality. "So, you two went out yesterday, didn't you?"

"It was so weird. He basically dragged me, blindfolded, to the middle of nowhere, and told me stories that his parents and grandparents had told him."

"The middle of nowhere?"

"It was an amusement park. L-something Lake… Lost, Limelight… I don't remember. I guess it was romantic, in a weird, lonely sort of way." Helga shrugged, looking back to the television. 'I didn't know! Please! Don't do this! We used to be so close," pleaded a voice from the TV.

Phoebe watched her friend closely. Despite the carelessness in Helga's voice, her eyes screamed a different story. In those eyes, there was hope… and relief. Several of their classmates had begun to fear that the jungle had eaten Arnold alive, even after his letters started to arrive. After all, letters were easy enough to fake, regardless of how personal they were. And throughout that first painful, Arnoldless year, Helga had held out hope. Phoebe believed that Helga's lack of response to the boy's letters, once they finally came, had not been out of fear, or even some strange form of revenge for abandoning her—no, Phoebe was certain that Helga had been avoiding the first hint that those words might have been written by a well-meaning Grandfather. But that didn't matter now. As strange as his return had been, bringing up Sid and Gerald had been a stupid thing to do. So, as any good friend would, Phoebe made certain that the subject stayed on this more positive route. "Come on…. There had to be more to it than that." She mimicked Helga's position and wrinkled up her nose.

"Nope. We were out in middle of nowhere, there were stories, and that's about it." She turned off the television with a groan. There was no way for her to follow the movie anyway. "But his parents should be moving out soon, and he'll stay."

"I'm glad." Phoebe put a hand to her heart. "Little Helga can finally have her love! The tragic tale has finally ended and the lovers can have their happily-ever-after, filled with sappy music and floating hearts! And don't think that there won't be floating hearts, Helga. There most certainly will… And ducks, as long as you're near a body of water, that is. Otherwise, it will be doves…"

Helga smacked herself in the face, peering between her fingers as her friend gestured wildly, still ranting. "Okay. Enough of that. I'm gonna call for pizza."

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Half an hour later, the girls were at the kitchen table, with a large pizza between them. Phoebe was spreading a glob of peanut butter over one slice. Upon noticing that Helga had stopped eating and was staring wide-eyed at her, Phoebe took a bite of the peanut butter-slathered pizza, silently confirming that it was, indeed, good.

"Phoebe Mae Heyerdahl…. Did you just put peanut butter on your pizza?" Helga raised her eyebrow, held out one hand, and shook her head in slow mock-disdain. "I… I'm sorry, but you have totally, completely, utterly, and fully ruined my appetite."

"Just try it."

"I would sooner eat my own foot. No… I would sooner eat Harold's foot. And that's a big, smelly foot!"

Phoebe giggled, but bit down on her lip before full laughter could take over. It wasn't Harold's fault that his feet were large and … unpleasant to those who had a sense of smell. Well… it wasn't entirely his fault, anyway. "Come one! It's good! Honestly!"

"Nope."

"Helga! Peanut butter makes everything better! Think about it… Celery, which is basically water and cellulose, becomes bearable with peanut butter. Even fish sandwiches are delicious with peanut butter. And everyone loves peanut butter cups!"

"Nope… Wait… Fish sandwiches?"

Phoebe ignored the question. She didn't need to defend her decision to put peanut butter on everything she ate! And there would be no need to if Helga would just eat the pizza! "Why not?"

"I'd rather eat a foot."

"You said that! Just try a bite?"

"A foot, I say!"

Phoebe grabbed a slice of pizza, smeared peanut butter over it, and set it in front of Helga. She then put on her very best sad face.

"Fine. If it'll make you shut up, I'll eat it." Helga held the slice under her nose, and sniffed it suspiciously. She tore off a small corner and popped it quickly into her mouth. Chewing slowly, the blond rolled her eyes, swallowed, and sighed. "Okay. You're right. It's good."

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Helga spent the following morning watching wrestling with her father, and the afternoon walking through the park with him. It was the demand of the uber-hippies for Bob to balance out his emotions, and the activities that resulted in those emotions. And while it was unlikely he would ever admit to it, it would seem that Robert Pataki did indeed find the park relaxing.

"Hey, gi—Helga… Let's go feed the ducks or something," Bob grumbled, staring towards the hill where ducks and geese had gathered.

"Ducks…" Helga glanced over to the birds and shuddered. She and birds never quite gotten along. But, of course, her vow to be more daughterly still stood intact. "How about…" She scanned the park and finally pointed to a pond where the annual toy boat races were being held. "Aha! A boat race!"

"We don't have a boat."

"No problem-o." She stared along the ground until her eyes landed upon a small discarded cardboard box. She quickly picked it up and beamed at her father. "Voila! Our boat!"

"Helga, that's a dirty old box." He stared down at her daughter, and by the expression on his face, he was probably wondering just how much he had damaged the girl's mind.

"No, no, no… You've got to look on the bright side sometimes." Despite the sarcasm in her voice, the words gave her a déjà vu sort of feeling.

Bob shrugged and the two hurried over to the pond to sign up for the next race.

The woman with the sign-up sheet gave the father and daughter a confused look when they showed up with their cardboard boat-box. But she couldn't deny entry based on poor craftsmanship of the vessel.

Once registered, Helga sat at the pond's edge, holding the box above the water.The sign-up woman's voice echoed from a megaphone:

"Ready?"

"Set?"

"GO!"

All boats were dropped into the pond, and most took off with as close to lightning speed as slow-moving toys could manage. The Pataki boat-box bobbed pathetically in place. "GO, GO, GO!" screamed Helga, cheering wildly (and perhaps a bit stupidly). The boat-box continued its complete lack of forward motion. "YES!"

Bob Pataki stared on, transfixed. What on God's green earth had gotten into his youngest daughter? He was glad to see her enjoying herself, but this was ludicrous. And why was a Pataki backing an obviously losing boat? And why was a Pataki's boat losing? It seemed that that wasn't important at the moment. The scene wouldn't be nearly so pathetically hilarious had they been winning… or even moving.

Bob kneeled down next to his daughter and plucked the boat-box from the pond. He tossed it towards the other boats.

"You can't do that, sir," said the sign-up woman in a rather careless tone. "You're disqualified." She sighed.

"Yuh-huh," Bob responded. The box landed on its side, slightly ahead of the other boats and began collecting water. A boat with a considerable lead on the others rammed right into the small box and kept right on going. The child who held its remote control glared spitefully at the Patakis.

And nearly five minutes of insanely slow boat-watching later, the craft was the first to cross the finish line, pushing the boat-box along with it. "YES!" shouted Helga and Bob in unison. They threw their arms in the air and broke down laughing.

"Actually, I believe you guys were disqualified," stated the sign-up woman curtly. "And the winner is Super-Speed, under the control of Yancy Clemments," she said into the megaphone.

The two ignored the announcement and continued laughing. "Stupid box actually WON," boomed Bob.

"There's no defeating us!" Helga slapped her knees and hid her face in her palms. "We are freaking invincible!"

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That night, Helga dreamed again. The closet door was open and feral sounds came from within. It wasn't a dream she would remember come morning, but the feeling was one that would stick uncomfortably in the back of her mind, telling her that she really ought to remember, that it truly was important

And when she did wake, an hour before her alarm went off, she was in a delusional panic. Or at least, she'd tell herself as much. Because, after all, people who are not trapped in a dream-induced terror don't typically see a small light hovering inches from their face that shoots off through the closed closet door.