Chapter Fourteen: Easy Come, Easy Go

I awoke with the alarm at six-thirty on that first day of school after Thanksgiving Break with a slam—a literal slam, as I smacked my phone to make sure it would stop playing Dear Future Husband by Meghan Trainor. I immediately loathed Olga temporarily in my just-woke-up stupor, who had surprised me for coming over for the holiday season. It had been amazing—us in the kitchen for hours on end with a turkey we'd acquired at the last minute—with little Eilis occupying herself with some of the books Olga had brought. The loathing, of course, had been Olga remedying my wake-up alarm with something a bit more preppy for the mornings ahead. Even though I much preferred Somewhere Only We Know by Keane, and made a mental note to change it back later that day.

Hauling myself out of the cocoon I'd made for myself in the nest of blankets, I went to my en suite bathroom and got a good look at myself in the mirror. Pure and absolute crap—yet it was nothing foundation, mascara, blush, eyeliner, eyeshadow, and lipstick couldn't fix. I splashed some water onto my face and rolled my shoulders, rinsing out my mouth for good measure before pinning my hair up as I readied my face. During the week from Monday through Thursday, I worked the late lunch and dinner shift at the local diner, Hillwood Hideaway, a short bus ride from Hillwood Academy, from four p.m. until nine p.m., a job that Stella had managed to get for me over the summer to cover expenses, as I did not want to blow off all the inheritance I'd gotten from Dr. Bliss all in one go.

I methodically reached out for my toothbrush, layering the toothpaste on thick to quell the morning breath that emitted from my mouth and dragged it in those little circles the dentists always told you to do. Once my mouth was presentable, I returned my toothbrush to its holder and dragged my brush through my hair, managing to secure it with a pink hair tie and then proceeding to put on my face for the day ahead. The shifts at Hillwood Hideaway weren't too terrible—I even picked up a shift from eleven a.m. to six p.m. on Saturday, and from ten until three p.m. on Sundays. The food wasn't too terrible, and the discounts afforded to me for being an employee certainly helped in subsidizing my income.

I stepped out of the bathroom and returned to my bedroom, walking towards my dresser and removing a frilly blouse, a simple black skirt, and sweater tights, while I gathered my Mary Jane heels from the back wall. Getting all my clothes on was a cinch, and I then made a grab for my essay for English class from my printer, placing it into its proper divider of my binder before slipping everything into my backpack and placing that upon my shoulders. I made a grab for my phone, seeing that I had a couple of minutes to spare, and checked my email and social media to make sure that I didn't have anything pressing to attend to. Once I discovered I did not, I did my best to gather my wits about me for the day ahead as I unplugged my phone and pocketed my charger, leaving my bedroom and making my way into the kitchen, where I fetched an oats and honey bar for breakfast before fetching my lunch—packed the night before—from the fridge.

I slipped my lunch into my backpack as I approached the entryway, grabbing my set of keys off the hook and unlocking my front door as I went. Turning out and into the hallway, I pulled the door shut behind me, locking it quickly, whereupon I stuffed my hands into my pockets and walked down the hallway. The carpets, although they must have once been high-quality, were frayed in some spots, and covered in others that were reminiscent of some form of bodily fluid that I did not care to know too much about. I approached the elevator and clicked the 'down' button, tapping my foot impatiently for the car to arrive, and once it did, I got in quickly to make sure that I could ride down on my own. The car took me swiftly down to the ground floor, and as I stepped out into the main lobby of the apartment building, I waved in greeting to Christine Hutchinson, the sister of the man who owned the building company, who worked the front desk and also managed the entire building.

"Mail's been dropped off already, Helga," she called as I walked towards the revolving door to the main street outside.

I turned mid-walk. "Thank you!" I called back, not even bothering to wonder the sudden earliness of the mail drop-off, but decided to ignore it.

Stepping down the hallway just before the main doors, I walked towards the mail boxes that dotted every surface, before I found mine—717A. I removed my set of keys from my pocket, the small, silver mailbox key dangling from the chain, and put it into the golden lock. Turning it to the right, the box opened willingly for me and I took out the stack of white envelopes that awaited me from inside. I shut and locked the box automatically and looked through the main, hovering in the hallway for a moment in case I had to recycle some advertisements or tear up some fake credit card letters.

I was only looking for one thing, really—bills, of course. But, then again, there was another thing that I hoped to find—a letter from Arnold. Sure, he had no reason to write to me, given the way that I'd ended things, and the cryptic phone call three months after he left to tell him about Dr. Bliss certainly didn't help matters further. Biting my lower lip, I blitzed through the small stack of letters I'd received, letting out a slight sigh of sorrow when I came out disappointed. I slipped the necessary letters into my backpack to deal with later, and recycled the unneeded ones as the negated pieces of paper that they were. Stuffing my hands into my pockets again, I trudged back up the hall and towards the revolving doors, ready to face the day, and the music, ahead.

. . .

Her shaking her head at my words frightens me, but I can't do anything about it—not now. "I can't just live because you beg for it, Helga. I can't." She claps my hand again. "But I know it'll work out."

"Tell me it's going to be okay," I say brokenly.

She smiles. "I know it will be," she replies, her eyes shutting then, and it is then that I hear the heart monitor flat-line, and her grip goes slack in mine, and I fall to my knees in despair as there is a flurry of activity around me, as all the doctors and nurses attempt to save her life in vain.

I mechanically drag myself out of there, walking down the hall of the hospital and outside, where I walk the two miles home. I lean up against my house when I arrive, the tears frozen on my cheeks, as I take out my phone and dial the number that I'd been given by Mr. and Mrs. Shortman, but had vowed never to use. When the voice on the other end answers, fresh tears form in my eyes.

"Helga? Is that you?"

I clear my throat. "Yes," I reply.

"What's wrong?" he asks, immediately concerned.

I sigh then, and find I cannot say it. "Dr. Bliss is gone," I whisper, and then my hand goes slack and I cut the call.

. . .

I made my way down the block; Hillwood Academy was located only a handful of blocks away from my inherited apartment, which was a blessing in disguise, as it would guarantee more time on my feet overall. The day was gray and overcast and the sidewalks were still drenched from last nights' rain, and I was thankful for the grips on my heels to prevent me from spiraling out of control or breaking my ankle along the cracks. Looking up on the final stretch of road between myself and my high school, I saw that it was just visible through the layer of fog which had decided to develop as I walked along.

I walked up the stairs leading to the campus and walked towards the courtyard which separated the entryway from the rest of the world. I heard my name being called from behind me and turned to see Phoebe, a smile in her eyes as she stepped forward to walk with me. I slowed my walk slightly to accommodate hers as we walked towards the main double doors of the school.

"おはようございます, Helga," she said with a smile.

A smile played at my lips. "No Japanese today, Phoebe," I replied, turning to catch her reaction. "I have a headache."

"Oh, okay," she replies quickly with a grin. "English!" she chimes out, giving me a thumbs-up.

I let out a small laugh as we approach the double-doors of Hillwood Academy, which we manage to get open despite their heaviness and advance through. We were on our way to Advanced English Literature, where we were discussing feminism in the works of William Shakespeare, Thomas Hardy, and Jane Austen, where we would ultimately be assigned a book to work on. We were given preliminary lists just before Thanksgiving, and had to have our top five books or plays of choice submitted by the day before Christmas vacation. Mrs. Dobsen, our teacher, would them email us during the holidays to let us know which book or play we had been assigned.

"Any idea which book you may want to do a project on, Helga?" Phoebe asked as we passed through the academic hallway.

I sighed. "Maybe Pride and Prejudice," I reply.

"Will you discuss Elizabeth Bennet's plight about how she refuses Mr. Collins in a heroic act of feminism?" she wants to know.

I feel my lip curling upwards at the thought of the rather creepy, slightly stalkerish Mr. Collins running his hands all over Elizabeth Bennet, and wondered then what she would say to that. "That sounds like a good key point, which I could easily expand to three paragraphs, if not more," I reply. "How about you? Which book is calling your name?"

"Tess of the d'Urbervilles," Phoebe replies with a smile.

"How very Anastasia Steele of you," I reply as we walk through the halls to the staircase which will lead us upstairs to the English department hallway. "Methinks that would be an interesting book to report on..."

"Fifty Shades of Grey?" my best friend replies, her eyebrows rising and falling quickly, almost as if it was even a scandal to discuss such a book—if one could call it that—in the hallways of a high school. "Why? She lets Christian Grey dominate her at every turn..."

I shrug. "She may be the submissive, but they only ultimately do what she is comfortable with, so one could make a case for her holding the puppet strings," I put in as we begin climbing the second flight of stairs. "Sure, I'd never allow myself to be mixed up in a relationship like that..."

"Is it because of self-respect?" Phoebe wanted to know.

I shake my head. "No, no—nothing like that," I reply as we finish climbing the stairs and arrive in the proper hallway, the clamor of other students easily drowning out our controversial conversation. "It has to do with the notion of knowing myself and what I would and would not be comfortable with...in the bedroom," I say quietly, my cheeks heating at the notion and hastily force myself to banish the thought.

"Arnold was fourteen when he left, just like you..."

"Yeah, so?!" I demand then, already on the offensive, and immediately I regret it and feel my shoulders deflate. "Sorry, continue."

"It's okay," Phoebe replies with a small smile as we hesitate for a moment outside our classroom. "All I'm saying is, plenty of teenagers find themselves in those particular situations. It's perfectly normal, but not typically advised, due to the emotional immaturity one is faced with."

I sigh. "Phoebe, what are you getting at?" I ask, knowing we have a good five minutes before we need to be in class, but this is not something I'd even want to be discussing under any circumstances—well, maybe not, but especially not in the hallway of our high school. "Just tell me."

She sighs. "Did you and Arnold...do anything?" she asks. "You were together for a few years there..."

I felt my cheeks heat again as I lowered my eyes. "No," I reply, "we didn't do anything like that."

"Like that as in Fifty Shades like that, or as in...?"

"As in, we only made out," I say, a little more forcefully than I intended. "I'm being totally and completely honest here, Phoebe. Arnold wanted me to, and I guess maybe other people just assumed, but... No."

Phoebe nodded. "I see."

I sighed. "What about you and Gerald?" I asked, knowing that me turning the tables here wasn't exactly called for, but I did have every right to at least pose the question to my best friend. "Did you two...?"

Phoebe sighs. "Yes."

I blinked, shocked that Phoebe would allow it to get that far, and immediately wondered if her parents knew. Likely not, I thought to myself. "And when did this joyous occasion happen?" I want to know.

Phoebe's lips thinned, never particularly wanting to discuss her ex-boyfriend, whom I knew she still harbored feelings for, but romance and trust issues, I knew, did not mix. "Last spring," she replied.

"Last spring?" I asked, shocked that she would cough up the information about this seemingly frightening topic so quickly.

"Last spring," she affirmed. "We went to that beach cabin for a spring break, and I wanted to, even though I knew we were on the rocks about everything... I mean, we only broke up a few weeks later..."

"Not because of that?" I ask.

"Oh, no," Phoebe replied, shaking her head. "No, I guess I just thought—due to my apparent emotional immaturity—that maybe if we let it get that far, then maybe we could find a way to salvage the relationship..."

I sighed, leaning up against the wall. "You know that couldn't possibly have worked in any situation, right?" I asked.

Phoebe smirked, walking past me towards the door to the classroom. "Don't remind me," she muttered over her shoulder.

. . .

I got out of school at three-thirty sharp and made my way from campus down the block towards the bus stop, which arrived ten minutes later. The Avril Lavigne song pumping in my ears as I walked soothed me, yet it seemed to be like the story of my life as I approached the stop. Sitting upon the offered, splintered wooden bench provided, I remembered many conversations I'd had with Arnold in such a place, permitting my mind to temporarily seep away from itself as I lowered myself into it, contemplation filling me then...

"Dr. Bliss says that I should channel my anger in more productive ways," I reply as we walk through the doors outside.

"What has she suggested?" he asks.

"She says I should write one letter every day to the person who makes me the angriest in my life..."

"Your dad?"

I sigh, going to sit on the bench against the brick wall with him, where we wave to the likes of Nadine, Patty, Stinky, Sid, and all the rest of them, who got Gerald's warning not to give us nonsense about now being in a relationship. "I think that's a given," I reply.

"Have you ever asked him?" Arnold asks. "Directly, I mean—when he's not trying to sell beepers to people..."

"Or distracted by my mom or Olga," I say, sneering when I utter her name, and mentally curse myself for doing so. Sanction later, Helga, I tell myself. "No, and he probably would think the letter was fake or demeaning towards him in character, which, arguably, it is, and then tear it up. Thankfully, I managed to find a way to copy them without him knowing it, just in case I want to show him the damaging affects someday..."

"I just hope that he sees reason—with you and with his business," Arnold replies, shaking his head. "What's the word on that?"

"Beats me—I'm trying to stay out of it," I tell him. "Next year we start middle school, and that's where the fun begins."

"You're not having fun now?" he asks.

I blink, immediately turning to look at him. "No, of course, I—" Immediately, I see that he is smiling. "You are such a Football Head," I mutter, and he leans in and kisses me on the cheek. "But I suppose I can get used to it..."

"Like I can get used to being your boyfriend," he says, placing a gently hand upon my shoulder.

Almost instantly, I feel my skin prickle all over and feel myself melting. "Ohhh!" I whisper to myself, and Arnold smiles.

"You know, they sent me the tape of the news reporting on us getting the trip to San Lorenzo," Arnold tells me.

"Really?" I ask. "How was that? Was the news reporter embellishing, as some of them often do?"

"No," he says, "but I did see you leaving my house."

I feel myself flushing then, and know that my face is as bright as a day-old tomato left in the heat. "What?" I ask.

"I saw you leaving my house," he repeats patiently.

I lower my eyes to the bench, the large nails beginning to gather rust around their respective edges, and the planks of wood severely water-damaged and splintering in some places. "Did you?" I say.

"I did," Arnold confirms. "Let's just say it was nothing short of a completely adorable experience."

My eyes shoot up to his, feeling as vulnerable as we did when we were suspended from the makeshift wooden bridge with Gerald. "Adorable?" I ask.

"Yes," Arnold replies. "You were dancing around and clutching your heart like the best thing in the world had happened to you. What did happen...?"

"You touched my shoulder," I reply, knowing that it sounds lame now. "I just felt like a turning point had been reached, you know? Like suddenly you didn't just see me as the bully Helga Pataki, but someone that you could, I don't know, actually care about on a different level..."

"That's all it took?" Arnold wants to know.

"Well, you know as well as I do that I would've done anything to make you notice me," I say, picking at some of the splintered wood on the bench. "All I wanted was you not to hate me..."

"I never hated you, Helga," Arnold replies, briefly covering his hand with mine. "I think it would've helped, had I known the entire story about what was going on in your personal life, but you were never one to open up with anyone. I mean, does Phoebe even know the entire story?"

"The abridged version," I tell him.

Arnold nods. "I get that—I mean, my family life has never been normal, and I doubt it ever will be. I mean, I have a pig named Abner who lives with us practically, even though my grandparents still don't fully grasp that. Even getting him up to my bedroom during the cold nights is difficult..."

"I mean, at least your parents like me..." I say quietly.

"You saved their lives," he says. "Of course they like you."

"That's comforting," I reply. I turn towards the school then, and count to ten in my head. "I like them, too," I say softly, my reply drowned out by the bell ringing, nearly splitting my eardrums in the process.

"Let's get back to class," Arnold says softly, offering his hand again.

The bus arriving catches my thoughts in their tracks as I hastily get to my feet, getting into my pocket and retrieving my bus card as the doors open. After the other passengers exit, I hop up onto the step and scan my card before looking around for a seat. Taking one towards the back and beside a window, I crank up the volume in my headphones, attempting to become Zen as we leave the area designated as the Hillwood Academy and Preparatory campuses and make our way towards Downtown Hillwood.

Once my stop arrived, I hop off the bus again, shouting a "Thank you!" to the driver as I make my way down the block and around the corner, where Hillwood Hideaway is located. I slip down the alley way of the restaurant and in through the back employee entrance, greeting the cooks in the kitchen as I make my way to the hole-in-the-wall staff lounge, down the hall from the manager's office. The floors throughout the back of Hillwood Hideaway are a brick-red tile, which the cleaning staff—who comes during the weekend—has to work double-time to keep the grout out from between the tiles.

I swipe my employee card into the staff lounge door, making my way inside and towards the lockers located on the back wall. Mine is midway up, and I slip my backpack off from around my shoulders as I dig inside for my apron, which we employees have to wash ourselves. I shove my backpack into my locker and tie my apron on around my waist, before making a grab for my combination lock in the empty mason jar beside the lockers and clip it into place. My coat is hung with the rest of them upon the pegs along the wall, just next to the lockers, and I make a grab for my name tag from the hook just beside the coat pegs and dip my hands into my pocket for my order book and my pen. Finding both necessities in place, I make my way out of the staff room, stopping once through the kitchen to wash my hands before getting out onto the floor, where the hostess, Samantha, flashes me a good-natured smile, letting me know that it will likely be dead for a couple of hours before the dinner rush.

I walk towards her and make a grab for some cleaning supplies, just as a middle-aged man pays for the meal he shared with a much-younger woman with Samantha before I go over to their vacant table, a bussing bin already in my arms. I clear away their plates, glasses, and other dish materials and bring them back into the kitchen, leaving the cleaning supplies beside the table, and place them into the sink. Walking back out into the restaurant, I wet my rag with disinfectant and wipe down the table, making sure to get all the corners along the wall before stepping back and admiring my handiwork. I spritz some hand sanitizer upon my hands as I return to Samantha's side to return the cleaning supplies; the couple have moved on their way, and I can see them getting into their car across the street.

"They okay?" I ask her, nodding to the couple as I duck beneath the hostess counter to place the cleaning supplies on their proper shelf.

Samantha was a pretty young woman with striking red hair and silver eyes; in her early thirties, she had a certain disdain for the world which I could agree with, although she was kind and served as a mentor for me on the job, and was always game for a talk. "As okay as an executive and his mistress can be," Samantha replied disdainfully, rolling her eyes.

I let out a short laugh then. "How do you know they're not married?" I ask her as I watch the man drive off, the woman in the passenger seat.

"Other than the fact that he was wearing a wedding ring and she wasn't," she said quietly, "it was their body language that told the full story."

I raise my eyebrows, making sure that our boss—Greg Showalter, Samantha's older brother—wasn't watching, before I causally leaned upon the hostess desk and felt my eyebrows knitting together. "What specifically about their body language?" I wanted to know.

Samantha smiled. "Well, for one thing, customers must think that restaurant employees are blind," she replied, rolling her eyes with a scoff. "I mean, it's not like I can't see underneath the table..."

I snort then, lowering my voice further. "Footsie or fondling?" I ask, knowing that there is criteria for these things.

"Both," Samantha confirms. "Feet for him, fondle for her."

"Certainly doesn't leave much to the imagination," I reply, rolling my shoulders as I push the thoughts from my mind. "How are the kids?"

Samantha smiles, likely picturing her six-year-old daughter, Tess, and four-year-old son, Willy, in that moment. "Good. The deadbeat's child support actually came in on time," she muttered.

I roll my eyes. "Good," I reply. "I remember when he had the audacity to come in here next week with... God, what was her name...?"

"Ruby," Samantha sneered, "his fiancée."

I shake my head. "Corporate type, just like him?"

She nods. "Yeah. Of course, when we were together a few months and Chad said that he made such-and-such amount, I told him I wouldn't quit my job, even though it would've been enough for pretty much anything. But Chad insisted that I should quit and raise the family..."

"Do you miss it?" I ask her.

"Being a psychiatrist?" she wants to know, shrugging. "I don't know—I mean, it might not have been a good fit for me..."

"Why's that?" I want to know.

Samantha looks around again, almost as if Greg is going to come stomping out here at any moment, waving his manager clipboard, and demanding results, despite the fact that there were currently no customers on the premises. "Well, you know how with medicine, the first rule is 'do no harm'?"

I nod. "Of course."

Samantha sighs, her shoulders deflating. "Well, if you sleep with your client, that's considered harmful," she tells me. "If one were to do that, and then recommend another therapist, that would be one thing..."

"But it's not like you made a habit of it, right?" I want to know. "No judgement, of course, but..."

Samantha nods. "It's a valid question—a loaded one, but a valid one all the same. I mean, certainly there were attractions to other clients—despite the 'Dr.' in front of my name, I'm still human," she admits. "But I never acted on anything of that nature until Greg came into my life. It just sort of happened, and he was single and so was I, and we just...clicked."

I nod then, still looking around for customers. "I can understand that."

"Total whirlwind," she tells me, smiling at the memory. "In three months, we were living together—his place, of course—and then for our six-month anniversary, he surprised me with the house. And then I found out I was pregnant with Tess so we got married and then I took maternity leave, but ended up quitting a few weeks after I got back to the job... Then I got pregnant with Willy and then things started spiraling out of control..."

"He started seeing other women?" I guess.

"Well, yeah, but of course it was the age old story of working late and dinners out with clients and out-of-town conferences... I felt so stupid that I believed his lies for almost three years, and then the whole bombshell came from someone who worked with the company. They called me, letting me know that he was seeing Ruby and that they seemed to be in love. And when I confronted him on it, the son of a bitch didn't even deny it..."

"But that's good, right?" I ask.

She shrugged. "Is any marriage breakup good?"

"Sure wish mine would've gone their separate ways..." I mutter.

Samantha smiles, taking my hand. "Maybe they were just a bad fit, but good in the beginning... I mean, that's how me and Greg were—I think. I mean, sure, it was complex how we got together, but..."

"But what?" I ask.

She shrugs. "I don't know... Maybe I wanted him to lie to me, to convince me that this person was out to get him and that it was all a lie cooked up to ruin our marriage..."

I smile faintly at her. "Isn't it better to be hurt by the truth than a lie tacked on as the truth?"

"Who said that?" Samantha asked, dashing the tears from her eyes.

I smiled. "I did."

. . .

I wake up with my alarm the following morning and do a rather unmotivated rendition of getting ready. I was working again that day, so my professional outfit was in place as I made my way from my apartment, down the hall, and towards the elevator. Thankfully, I had the car to myself for the second day in a row, and when it dinged in the lobby, I was relieved to have been alone throughout the duration of my ride. As I walked through the lobby on that Tuesday November morning, I waved hello to Christine Hutchinson as always.

"Mail's here, Helga!" she called out to me.

"Thank you!" I called back, walking down the corridor just before the revolving door and making my way to my mailbox. Grabbing my keys from my pocket, I stuck them into the keyhole and turned it, my individual letterbox popping open with the keys' help. I stuck my hand into the compartment, flipping through the mail methodically and letting out a gasp at the final letter.

It was from Arnold—to me. He had finally written me back. Hastily, I ripped open the letter, knowing that I still had time, and unfolded the pages, my heart beating in my ears as my eyes greedily took in his written words.

Dear Helga,

I also regret how we ended things, and yet this whole keeping the communication track open was a good idea—the mature thing to do. I'm glad that you're keeping in touch with my parents—you risked your life to save them, after all, and I know they are appreciative about your spending time with them. Of course, I won't tell them that you mentioned how much they missed me—they really don't need to hear that; even I can understand that.

This co-ed boarding school is definitely a new experience for me. Winning that contest at the end of eighth grade...it was quite a game-changer. Even though Gerald says you didn't, I swear that maybe you had something to do with it. Of course, I know you well enough that I couldn't ask you that question directly, unless we were face-to-face. Ever since San Lorenzo, it became easier and easier to read you like a book, which was one of the many things I loved about you. It's hard—this separation—but who knows? Maybe everyone's dreams will come true, and the outcome could be, maybe, real.

It's been two years since I moved to New York—man, almost two and a half. It's hard to believe that when we said goodbye at the airport when we were fourteen that it would be the last time. Your letters help, and I'd never ask you to stop writing them—maybe include one of your poems next time. I must admit, the one about me making your girlhood tremble had to have been my favorite. Were you really nine when you wrote that?

I want to go back to Hillwood and see everybody—not kidding; I miss everyone, Gerald, Patty, Phoebe, Harold...everyone. Especially you. When we said goodbye at fourteen, I thought that my parents would at least want to come out here, or that I could arrange a time to come and see home. It's not that easy; this program is so intense that even carving out some time to write this puts a dent in my day. But it's worth it, because this method of communication is one of my last links to home—to you—and I'm not ready to give that up either.

Your friend,

Arnold Shortman

I held the letter to my heart, tears streaming down my face as I forced it back from me, so as I could read his words one last time. I pocketed the letter, vowing to keep it for as long as I needed before disposing of my unwanted mail. I waved a final goodbye to Christine before walking out the revolving door and into the morning, which had suddenly turned sunny and bright, which was a clear representation of my personality.