Author's Note: Another attempted Helga poem. I enjoy writing poetry, but I always worry…if a character reacts to Helga's poem, it's always positively, and then I have to worry that the poem I wrote was not up to snuff. I like what I wrote, but let's face it, poetry is terribly subjective. I contemplated just having Phoebe borrow Helga's copy of Sylvia Plath's poems and having her read "Mad Girl's Love Song" (If you have not read this poem, I suggest you do so. It is easily my favorite), but I felt it would lose potency and not be nearly as applicable to the plot. I apologize if Helga's poem was not good enough.
Phoebe shook for a moment, then righted herself, letting out a sigh of mixed exasperation and exhaustion. She pulled her backpack off and set it on the ground, heaving a bit from the effort. Desperately she searched the contents, hoping for something, anything, that wasn't necessary for tonight's homework and could be safely deposited in her locker until tomorrow. She let out another sigh when she realized that she had homework in every subject. She considered taking the poetry book Helga had lent her away, but felt a pang of guilt - somewhere in the tome resided Helga's first ever published work, and she'd promised Helga that she'd read it tonight.
"How much does that thing weigh?" Phoebe jumped and turned to face her long-time boyfriend, Gerald. He tried to lift her backpack with one hand, but barely got it off the ground. He studied his small framed girlfriend, his face quizzical. "How does a small girl like you lift that?"
"Practice," Phoebe snorted, lifting the bag and slinging it over her shoulders, trying to make it look effortless.
"Mmm-mm-mm," Gerald shook his head. "Don't know how you do it. You want a hand?"
"I can handle it," Phoebe snapped. Gerald raised an eyebrow. She looked away, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Gerald. It just seems I'm laboring under the pressures that I put on myself and the pressures everyone else puts on me. I have homework in every class, I have to tutor three times a week, then there's dates with you and Helga's been complaining that I don't make time for her anymore…"
Gerald flung an arm over Phoebe's shoulder. She tried to snuggle into him, but before she could, he'd seized her bag and thrown it onto his shoulders, the hug merely a means to that end. "Oh, Gerald, don't, you've already got your own book bag…"
He chuckled. "Mine barely weighs anything, wanna check?" she shook her head. "Eh, suit yourself. Trust me, though, the only homework I've got is from Mr. Simmons. And I've got all weekend to do it!"
"Aren't you lucky," Phoebe muttered.
"So, get the hard stuff out of the way and then do the easy work. We don't have to have a date this week."
"Easy work," Phoebe snorted. "None of it's easy work, except…well, Mr. Simmons is, and I intend to write that letter to Arnold for the extra credit -"
"Not that you need it," Gerald added. Phoebe ignored him, but he knew he was right. Simmons wrote easy tests. For a girl like Phoebe, they were never any trouble.
"The rest of it…I can handle it, I just feel like I'm being stretched too thin. I don't know how I'm going to handle all of it as well as extracurriculars…You know, for college applications…"
"Have you considering dropping a class? Or not tutoring anymore? …or you could always stop hangin' out with Helga," Gerald suggested.
"You may not get along with her, but she's still my best friend."
"I know, I know. But I can dream, can't I?" Gerald joked. Phoebe managed a weak chuckle, but shook her head.
"Obviously I won't give up you or Helga, but the tutoring…those kids need my help. And the other classes I just can't give up, they look so good on college admissions. Plus I really think my Psychology teacher is on the verge of a break through, she is very intelligent and most interesting to listen to."
"I dunno, Phoebe. If you think you can handle it all, great, but I am kinda worried about you. Let me walk you home, that'll be out date for this week so you have one less thing to worry about."
"I find that most agreeable," Phoebe said, grabbing his extended hand. "But shouldn't I take my bag back?"
"Nope, I'm carrying it home for you. No arguments."
The two walked to Phoebe's house in silence, both of them trying to figure out a solution to Phoebe's problem. But once they reached the stoop, nothing had come to mind to either of them. "Sorry I couldn't be more of a help," Gerald gave her a peck on the cheek and returned her bag to her. "Try to take it easy, find at least one simple thing to do, okay?"
"I'll try…"
Gerald watched her disappear into her house and shook his head. "Man, that girl does too much…" he noted before making his own way home.
Inside, Phoebe dumped the contents of her pack out on her bed, sorting it out by importance, as was her typical custom. First was her Psychology project, then her Calculus homework, Anatomy, Mr. Simmons's assignment (by far the shortest - just two pages on her opinion of "The Redheaded League" by Arthur Conan Doyle). As an afterthought, she added Arnold's address and the book Helga's poem had been published in to the group, placing them last.
"I suppose I should get started," She resigned herself to her work, her pencil flying across the page, only stopping on occasion to erase an accidental misspelling or to grab a new book and move onto the next subject. She took one thirty minute break for dinner and to use the restroom, but returned immediately to her work once her hands were dry. It was three in the morning when she finished, with only a few more questions to finish on the Psychology project (but as they required her to get answers from someone else, she figured she was as close to done as she could be). She threw the books onto the floor, fully intending to go to sleep, but was annoyed to find she'd somehow gained a second wind. "I really should sleep…but I suppose extra credit work is more important…" she reached down to grab Arnold's address from where it had fallen when she spied the poetry book out of the corner of her eye. She grabbed it as well, holding the book in the flat of one hand with Arnold's address still in the other. She seemed to weigh them against each other before sitting back down on her bed, and after a moment's hesitation, setting Arnold's address to the side.
"Oh, Helga," Phoebe shook her head when she scanned the table of contents and realized Helga's name was not listed. She smirked when she found that there was only one entry that had been submitted anonymously. "That'll be Helga's," she figured aloud, thumbing through the pages until she reached the poem at about mid-section.
I can't remember the last time the clock ticked -
Was it minutes, hours, seconds or days?
The second hand stays decidedly upon that hour,
Who am I to ask it to change its ways?
Time marches on, yet so maddeningly still
How can you still have me in your power?
I dream of you every night, teasing me with your presence
I hold you as long as I can, but light steals you away from me
I dream of you every night, torturing me with visions of your present
Making me pay dearly for my penance
I eye the clock with disdain,
Another hour waxed and waned,
Or merely another second passed me by?
Time itself mocks and tortures, but is it even your concern?
I held you in this lifetime, but only for a moment,
Even this distrustful clock tells the truth there
Why can't I move on? Why won't I learn?
Such a beautiful, amazing lie you wove
Clever trick, cruel time you gave me
The clock ticks by only while I'm not looking -
Yet I know it must go forward, that much I can see
But do these long years bring you closer
Or is it simply not meant to be?
-Anonymous
Phoebe had always been amazed at Helga's talent for poetry, and tonight was no exception. "Poor Helga…you still miss him," she grabbed Arnold's address and studied it, considering things.
Phoebe's problems were all self-induced. She tutored because it made her feel good to help (and made her feel smart), she took on all the hardest classes to challenge herself…Gerald and Helga were the only two constants in her life that weren't a chore, and neither of them asked too much of her. Sure, sometimes Helga could be selfish and only want to talk about her own problems, but Phoebe was a kindhearted enough person to realize why Helga needed that.
"Oh, but I can't give any of it up," she thought aloud. "I love my classes and…" she considered her tutoring job and sighed. That she didn't love. It had been more self-indulgent, a way to make herself feel smarter without acting superior, but really all it had brought were frustrations. A lot of the kids she wound up with expected her to do the work for them, or she'd end up upset because she couldn't figure out a way to help them. She considered what Helga would do in the situation.
Well, Phoebe could hear Helga's voice clearly in her mind. I'd say I'm sick of this crap and if these morons can't learn it on their own, tough luck, their problem, not mine.
She figured Gerald would have a far nicer approach, but just as Phoebe could never imitate how nonchalant Helga could be, she could also never match Gerald's cool disposition.
"Arnold!" Phoebe snapped her fingers. She and Arnold had always gotten along well, both of them preferring to be polite and kind as much as they could. "Well, it is quite silly, it's not like he could answer me immediately…still, it might make me feel better, and you can't know the outcome of an experiment unless you actually try it…" Phoebe grabbed another blank sheet of paper and squeezed her hand into a fist a few times, loosening it up in preparation to start writing again before grabbing her pencil once more.
Dear Arnold,
I hope this letter finds you well. How are you? How about your parents? I bet having class in such an exotic environment is fascinating. How's that monkey doing? Helga insists that it must have died after taking a bite out of Harold, but I keep telling her how unlikely that is.
She really misses you. I was about to tell you all about my problems, about how hard it is for me to sort through things…and then I thought of that. I can figure out on my own how to tell the principal that I'm not interested in tutoring kids anymore. I feel terrible for having even brought it up now, though knowing you well enough, I doubt you'd hold it against me. I was feeling a bit overworked, but I'll get it all under control. There are worse things. Besides, my grade point average is still perfect.
Just in case you're wondering, I'm fine, and so is Gerald. I know he already wrote his own letter to you, but I'm not sure he told you that. We're still dating. It's been a pretty long time. He's a great guy, I'm very happy with him.
Phoebe paused for a moment, then snatched up the poetry book, writing feverishly, feeling the guilt rise up in her stomach, but she felt she had to do this. She transcribed Helga's poem into the letter before adding her final paragraph.
I didn't write this, Arnold. I know you know who did. I just thought you might want to see it, especially since I know she wouldn't have told you, but it was published. Anonymously, but still published. I thought you might be interested in seeing it.
Write back soon, if you can
~Phoebe
Phoebe sighed and rechecked the letter for grammar errors before folding it up and placing it on her nightstand. If Helga found out about the poem, she might never forgive her. Phoebe wasn't even sure why she'd included it, but she'd suddenly felt it necessary. She wrote a quick note to herself about trying to write a formal resignation letter from her tutoring duties before she curled up into her bed and yawned, finally falling asleep a mere two hours before her alarm was set to go off.
When the alarm did go off, for the first time in three years, Phoebe hit the snooze button, rolled over and went back to sleep.
2nd Author's Note: That poem is going to be very important to this story. Next chapter will most likely be Eugene, though I'm contemplating Brainy (I'm trying to switch off so that every other chapter is a girl's chapter)