Chapter 4
"Helga, don't you feel uncomfortable on the couch?" Arnold asked while biting into his toast.
"I'm fine with it, Arnoldo," Helga replied as she poured herself a glass of orange juice.
"Are you sure you don't want to sleep in our bed?" Arnold smiled.
"Criminy, Football Head!" Helga shouted as a light blush made its way to her cheeks. "Why would I ever want to sleep next to you?!"
"You know we've shared a bed for four years, right?" Arnold teased.
"I-I..." Helga stuttered. "I don't remember!" She then coughed and quickly changed the subject. "So, when are Bob and Miriam coming back?"
"Coming back?" Arnold uttered with wide eyes.
"Yeah, Pheebs told me yesterday they went on a vacation to Japan," Helga remarked as she crunched on some cereal.
"Oh, right. Um... well, they might be extending the trip," Arnold muttered, looking down at this toast.
"Extending the trip? Sheesh, what's so great about Japan?" Helga mumbled as she rolled her eyes.
"Anyway Helga, I gotta get going to work," Arnold quickly changed the subject as he stood up and walked over to Helga to give her a hug. "I'm going to be home late tonight; I have to go to that charity ball I told you about."
"Hey, hey, hey, back off, bucko!" Helga exclaimed as she pushed him off of her.
Arnold just chuckled. "Have a great day, Helga," he said as he blew her an air-kiss on the way out.
As soon as the door shut, Helga sighed as she practically melted into a puddle on the floor.
"Oh, Arnold my love, I hope you have a wonderful day. I'll be counting the minutes until you come home to me..."
It was around late afternoon when Helga got the call.
"Hello?" she answered.
"Helga? It's me, Gerald."
"Surprising to hear from you, Geraldo," Helga remarked. "What do you want?"
"I'm calling about the Cauldwell Charity Ball that Arnold is attending tonight," Gerald stated. "I think you should attend, too."
"Oh no, tall hair boy, there's no way I'm attending one of those snooty pretentious events!" Helga declined defiantly.
"Please Helga, I'm begging you," Gerald pleaded. "If you don't show up, this is going to look bad for Arnold. He's a public figure, you know. The event starts at 6 PM."
"Not on your life! And if you call me again, I'll ring your neck like a chicken!" Helga slammed the phone down onto the receiver and stomped over to the couch. "Arnold, what a boob! What a dweeb! If I ever get my hands on you, I'll... I'll... kiss your delicate lips."
From there, her one-sided conversation took a very sharp U-turn. "Oh, my poor, lost sweetheart, how could I ever be so selfish to put myself before you?" Helga swooned as she lay on the couch. "Oh, angel of my heart, how I love thee. I would lay my own pride at your feet if it meant I could give you the world..."
"...Wait," Helga said as she suddenly sat upright. "It starts at 6 PM!"
Helga glanced at the clock. It was getting close to 5 o'clock already. Helga ran to the bedroom and looked at her appearance in the mirror. Her hair was tied in a messy ponytail and she had on a wrinkled t-shirt.
"Criminy!" she yelled out as she hurriedly tried to run a brush through her hair. It only ended up making it frizzy and poofy like the time she had accidentally gotten her hair done at the French Dog Salon. She spotted a tube of mascara on the vanity.
"Okay, no problem," she confidently told herself. "I've done this before."
Helga pumped the mascara wand and slowly brought it to her lashes with shaking hands.
"Ow!" she screamed as she accidentally poked herself in the eye. Damn, this was going to be harder than she thought.
After a few more attempts, she looked in the mirror... and practically screamed. She looked like a raccoon with flakey mascara. Who was she kidding? The last time she had touched makeup was when she was nine years old. This clearly wasn't going to work. She had to call someone, anyone to help her. That's when the light bulb suddenly lit up.
"Phoebe!" she said aloud.
Helga rushed to the phone and frantically dialed Phoebe's number.
"Hello?" Phoebe answered after a few rings.
"Uh, Phoebe?" Helga hesitantly began.
"Helga, is that you?" Phoebe replied. "What's the matter?"
"Can you come over?" the blonde woman uttered as she stared at the clown-like face in the mirror. "I need some help."
15 minutes later...
"Helga, it's me," Phoebe called from outside. "Open the door." Helga let her in but partially didn't when Phoebe saw her face and gasped aloud. "Oh dear, Helga," was her verbal reaction to Helga's mascara streaked face and frizzy hair.
"I'm supposed to be at this stupid ball in the next hour and I don't know how to put on makeup!" Helga exclaimed exasperatedly.
"Okay, calm down, Helga," Phoebe said. "We can make it."
With much primping and curling, Phoebe had managed to redo Helga's hair and makeup. Helga now sported loose curls in an old Hollywood glamour style. Her makeup was natural and understated.
"Alright, thanks Phoebe; you're a life saver!" Helga thanked her as she dashed to the door.
"Wait, Helga!" Phoebe stopped her. "You're not going to the ball wearing that,are you?"
Helga stopped in her tracks and looked down at her wrinkled shirt and jeans. "Oh, for Pete's sake!" she threw up her hands in defeat.
In the dressing room...
"Criminy, Phoebe, did I really wear these dresses on my own free will?" Helga sniped as she looked down at the poofy pink dress she was wearing. "I look like a birthday cake!"
Helga went to change into a demure black dress next.
"Hello!" Helga exclaimedd as she stared in the mirror. "The funeral home called; they want their dress back."
Phoebe shook her head in defeat. "Helga, we're never going to get you to the ball in time at this rate. You've run out of dresses to try."
"I might as well just go in a pair of jeans!" Helga cried out. "What's the big, stinking deal anyway?" She then stomped over to her large closet and started flinging all the clothes onto the ground. "They're just clothes, for Pete's sake! What is it with all those frou-frou princess types and their dress codes at their stupid, pretentious balls?!"
"Um, Helga?" Phoebe squeaked as she noticed a lone dress that hung in the very back of the closet that was once hidden by the rows of clothes that Helga had now thrown onto the floor.
"And another thing!" Helga continued ignoring Phoebe. "I wouldn't even be going to this dumb event if it weren't for that creep Football Head!"
"Helga!" Phoebe cried out.
"What is it, Pheebs?" Helga grimaced as she placed her hands on her hips.
"Look behind you!"
Helga turned around to see a beautiful silver-ivory silk dress hanging on the wall. It had a fitted ruched bodice with jeweled capsleeves and a skirt that draped loosely.
"Helga it still has tags on it." Phoebe noted. "You must have bought it for a special occasion and never worn it. You have to try it on!"
Helga hurriedly slipped on the dress behind the changing screen. When she came out, Phoebe gasped.
"Sheesh, is it that bad?" Helga asked.
"Helga," Phoebe gaped, "it's perfect."
Helga glanced at the mirror and could barely believe that it was her own reflection staring back at her. The dress complemented her body shape perfectly. It wasn't too tight and highlighted her statuesque silhouette.
Helga and Phoebe both turned to each other. "This is the one," they both said in perfect unison, each with a smile on their face.
At the ball...
Helga looked up at a glamorous white building illuminated by yellow garden lights. Across its impressive pillars was a banner that read, "23rd Annual Cauldwell Charity Ball." There was a red carpet rolled out and the place was swarming with celebrities and paparazzi alike.
Suddenly, she was bombarded with flashing lights as a hoard of paparazzi and journalists crowded her.
"Helga Shortman!" one of them shouted. "How are you feeling since the accident?"
"Helga, what do you think about the close relationship between your husband and actress Natalie Sawyer?" another asked.
It was all too much, too fast. All Helga could hear was screaming voices and the lights of the cameras which blinded her. She felt like she was going to go crazy.
"Get that camera out of my face, bucko!" Helga threatened as she shook her fist.
But that only seemed to make matters worse. The paparazzi continued to snap their pictures even more ferociously than before and the journalists were all yelling her name, eager for her to have a meltdown that would earn them major bucks. Just when Helga was about to lose it on one of the paparazzi, she felt someone tap her shoulder.
"Helga?"
Helga looked beside her to see a stunning red-head. She was the most glamorous person Helga had ever seen. Her sleek red hair was twisted at both sides and swept into a low bun. She wore a slinky black, backless evening gown with lace detail that hugged her curves in all the right places. She pretty much looked like she had stepped right out of a James Bond movie.
Do I know this person? Helga thought to herself.
"It's Natalie Sawyer!" the paparazzi yelled as they shot more pictures of the red-head.
"Miss Sawyer, could you answer some of these questions, please?"
So her name is Natalie, huh? Helga observed. I guess I better pretend to know her.
"Um, hey... Natalie," Helga started.
"Natalie?" the woman repeated her own name. "Well, I guess I deserve that. I didn't expect to see you. Arnold said you wouldn't be able to make it, but I'm really glad you did."
"Arnold? Where is he?" Helga asked, looking around frantically. She just wanted to get away from the cameras.
"Arnold's probably inside by now," Natalie stated. "Is everything alright between you two? I noticed you arrived separately."
"Yeah, yeah, everything's fine," Helga brushed her off as she grabbed the red-head's arm and proceeded to drag her down the carpet. "Walk with me, will ya?"
Helga noticed that when she walked with Natalie, all the attention was diverted from her and onto Natalie. This could definitely work in her favor.
"Helga, does... does this mean that you forgive me?" the red-head asked softly as Helga continued to drag her.
"Yeah, whatever you want, "Helga replied, barely listening to a word the red-head was saying.
Helga's only focus was to get to the door; anything else wasn't registering in her mind. By the time they got close to the door, Helga let go of Natalie's arm and ran to the door. Meanwhile, Natalie was continuing to pose for the cameras. When she turned around, Helga was already gone.
"Phew," Helga exhaled as she finally ducked inside the building.
It was much quieter in here and for once, she could hear herself think. She gripped her arm self-consciously as she realized everyone was staring at her. Unbeknownst to her, Helga was an absolute knockout and drew everyone's attention when she walked into the room.
"Helga?"
Helga turned around only to come face to face with Arnold. She momentarily caught her breath as she looked at the man standing in front of her. Arnold certainly wasn't the teenage boy she used to know. He was all man now as he stood there in his sharp, tailored tuxedo and slicked back blonde hair.
"A-arnold," Helga stuttered out in reply.
"What are you doing here?" Arnold asked.
"Here to support you," Helga snapped. "What does it look like? Doi!"
"Well... thanks, Helga," Arnold smiled as he extended a hand. "Would you care for a dance?"
"...Okay," tentatively took his hand. "I mean, I guess I could oblige you."
"You look beautiful," Arnold complimented her as he waltzed his wife around the dance floor.
Helga felt herself start to blush, "Don't get mushy on me, bucko!" But then, she cleared her throat. "I-I guess you're not so bad yourself, you know... for a Football Head."
When the dance was over, Arnold looked deeply into Helga's eyes. He felt his heart thumping in his chest madly as he looked at her. How could he be so in love with someone? He brushed his hand over her cheek and slowly raised her chin with his thumb as his lips drew closer to hers.
"Mr. Shortman!"
The moment between Helga and him was broken. Arnold embarrassingly broke away from Helga. He cleared his throat and turned around to see three older gentlemen.
"Mr. Shortman, it's wonderful running into you here."
"Mr. Weitz," Arnold greeted. "It's great seeing you, too."
"Listen, Arnold- can I call you Arnold?" the man said as he draped an arm around Arnold's shoulder. "I was thinking we can talk some business. You see, I've been looking into your work and I'm liking what I'm seeing. I'm thinking of investing in you."
Arnold turned around to look at Helga apologetically. She gave him a nod as though she was telling him she'd be fine without him. Helga watched Arnold walk off with the businessmen and she glanced around the ballroom, not knowing what to do with herself. Just then, a plump, middle aged woman with a beak-like nose approached her.
"Ah Mrs. Shortman," the woman began, "I get to meet you at last. I've heard many great things about you from my husband, Director Spielberg. My name is Margaret."
Helga shook Margaret's hand.
"I've been wondering, what do you think of the way Woody Allen's film 'Blue Jasmine' juxtaposes the heroine's humiliation with her past life of luxury?"
"Um... beats me," Helga shrugged truthfully. "I haven't watched any of his movies."
The woman gasped as though she had been slapped. But then, she soon regained her composure and pursed her lips into a tight line.
"Mmm, I see." The stuffy woman peered down her nose at Helga in obvious disdain. "I suppose Director Shortman didn't marry you for your knowledge on film. Excuse me."
The snobby woman spun around sharply on her heel and walked away. Helga, feeling offended and embarrassed, slunk over to the bar. This was why she never wanted to come to these sorts of things. She always felt like the outsider. She didn't know anyone here except for Arnold and he was too busy yucking it up with those business people. Helga sighed, never feeling more lonely than she did right now.
"Can I buy you a drink?" a polite voice asked.
Helga looked up to see an attractive young man in a black suit.
"Sure, why not?" Helga said as she placed a hand on her cheek in obvious boredom.
"What'll you have?" the man asked her.
Helga pondered. She was only fifteen as far as her mind was concerned. She had never drank alcohol before in her life and therefore didn't know the names of any of the cocktails. She just decided to play it safe.
"Um... wine, I guess."
"A classy drink," the man replied. "Sweet or dry?"
Sweet or dry? Helga thought to herself. Criminy, what did that even mean?
"Um, a little bit of both?" she said unsurely.
The man raised an eyebrow in surprise before smiling. "A woman with a sense of humor? I like that."
Helga smiled back. At least one person in this place was finally making her feel accepted.
After finally getting himself away from the investors, Arnold looked around for his wife. Glancing around the room, he finally located Helga at the bar. He was just about to walk over and offer her a walk outside in the gardens when he noticed another young man near her. Helga appeared to be giggling and having a great time with him.
"And so I said, 'That's no dragon, that's my mother!'" Helga said loudly.
The young man laughed at the punchline to her joke but Helga, clearly a bit drunk at this point, laughed even harder and slapped her knee. This however, made her spill the drink in her hand all over the young man's pants.
Helga gasped and reached for some napkins. "I'm so sorry!" she slurred as she started wiping the man's pants near his upper thigh.
"U-um, that's really okay," the young man insisted as he tried to stop her from wiping, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks.
Arnold had seen enough at this point. He felt an uncharacteristic jealousy start to build up at the pit of his stomach. He could feel it burning within himself and his brows furrowed as he strode quickly over to Helga.
"Oh hey, Football Head!" Helga announced louder than necessary when she saw him.
"We're leaving," Arnold commanded coldly as he grabbed Helga's wrist and dragged her out the back entrance.
"W-wait," Helga tried as she stumbled over her heels, attempting to keep up with Arnold. "The party's just getting started!"
Unbeknownst to the both of them, Lila Sawyer had seen Arnold dragging Helga from the room and had secretly followed them. She ducked around the corner and stood there eavesdropping on their conversation.
Once they were out in the corridor, Arnold let go of her wrist and spun around. "Helga, what are you doing?" he hissed.
"What-*hic*- do you mean?" Helga replied drowsily.
Arnold sighed exasperatedly. "Good job, you're even drunk."
"What am I supposed to do when they keep giving it to me?" Helga argued, putting her hands on her hips.
"This is why I told you to just stay home, Helga," Arnold rebuked.
"Hey, I did you a favor, bucko!" she jabbed a finger into her husband's chest. "I was told it would reflect badly on you if I didn't come."
"But you're not in a normal state right now, Helga!" Arnold yelled. "You have amnesia, for God's sake!"
Lila gasped and quickly covered her mouth as she learned the news of Helga's amnesia.
"I haven't lost my marbles, Arnoldo," Helga retorted. "I'm FINE. Just because I can't remember some things, you treat me like a crazy person."
"Fine? Does a person who's 'fine' behave this way? So what, you're just doing this to embarrass me?"
"Embarrass you? Oh, sorry I'm so embarrassing, Football Head," Helga bit back sarcastically.
"God, Helga, can you stop acting like a child?!" Arnold exclaimed frustratedly.
"No, forget this, Football Head! I'm going home! I'd rather go to Japan to find Bob and Miriam than stay here with you!"
"Helga, stop," Arnold grabbed her arm.
Helga shook him off "No, I'm going to Japan! At least then, I'll be away from you. And guess what? I'll be GLAD to get away from you so I won't have to look at you anymore!"
Arnold didn't know why it hurt him so much to hear this, but he felt himself losing a grip on himself as the anger washed over him.
"Helga, please."
"Let go of me, Arnold, I'm going to Japan! I'm going to go find Miriam!"
"Helga, your mother's dead!" he yelled. "Get a hold of yourself!"
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Arnold regretted them instantly. Helga stopped dead in her tracks, and for a moment, no one in the whole room dared utter a word; no one even breathed. She stared at Arnold and her eyes widened in sudden realization. She opened her mouth to say something but then closed it again as though at a loss for words. Then, she turned around to run.
"Helga wait, I'm sorry I didn't-" Arnold grabbed her wrist.
He expected her to be furious and to slap him or scream at him or call him names, but when she turned around, he was stunned that she did none of those things: Helga was crying.
