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XX
A door hung ajar in the upstairs hallway. Gerald glanced inside – it was not the bathroom. Judging by the brief glimpse of pink bedsheets, it was Helga's room.
Gerald left Helga's doorway, about to check the next door down, when he felt his urge to find the bathroom eclipsed by a rising sense of curiosity. Helga's room. She and Arnold were out in the streets somewhere after her meltdown in the living room, so there was no Helga to be found in the house. No one upstairs except for himself. Gerald felt an invisible force begin to pull him back towards the door. Did he dare enter the lair of the beast?
Maybe it wouldn't hurt if he just took a peek.
Gerald eased the door open as quietly as he could, although he was nervous enough to believe its ominous creak would be enough to alert everyone downstairs. Fortunately, no one came up. He walked into the room and took a look around. Helga's room was sparsely decorated: a window, a closet, a dresser, an end table, wallpaper decorated with yellow hearts. Gerald thought hearts and a pink bedspread seemed a little feminine for Helga, but then, a pink bow was pretty feminine too, and she had worn that for as long as he could remember. He noticed a small shelf above Helga's bed upon which a beige porcelain dog stood at attention.
Okay, that's a bit weird, he thought.
The closet door was open a crack. Gerald pushed it open a little more and peered inside, knowing that his curiosity was beginning to verge on an invasion of privacy, but the chance to see Helga G. Pataki's room was so enticing that he felt unable to resist. Inside the closet, nestled in the back behind a row of clothes, was some kind of abstract object on a pedestal. Gerald studied it for a moment, but had no idea what it could be. He remembered Helga's sculpture on the living room coffee table downstairs, and an amusing thought crossed his mind; maybe Helga worshipped an effigy of Arnold's cousin Arnie in her closet every night.
Gerald, you gotta be crazy, he thought to himself with a smile as he closed the closet door. He turned to leave Helga's room when something on the end table beside the bed caught his eye at the last second. He stared at the object. It was a book.
What kind of a book does Helga Pataki read? he wondered.
There were several other books on a shelf, one of which was written by a guy named Chaucer – Gerald had seen one of his books in the school library once, but it looked way too old-timey for him – but he decided the book on the end table must be one which Helga was in the process of reading.
He opened the book to a random page, began to read, and gasped.
Arnold, you make my girlhood tremble
My senses all go wacky.
Someday I'll tell the world, my love -
Or my name's not Helga G. Pataki.
Gerald dropped Helga's journal to the floor.
"Whoa."
For just a moment, Gerald felt a pang of guilt at snooping through Helga's room and reading the journal. The feeling was quickly replaced by a sense of horror as the image of Arnold and Helga, lip-locked in a passionate embrace, wormed its way into his mind. Finally, both of these feelings were replaced by an even more intense feeling. An undeniable, overpowering need.
The need to tell Arnold.
At the same time as the thought entered his mind, Gerald heard the faint sound of the front door opening downstairs, followed by his best friend's voice. Arnold and Helga must be back. He left the end table, about to race through Helga's bedroom door, when he froze at the sight of the girl standing in the doorway. Gerald was caught red-handed. And there was no way out.
"Gerald," said Phoebe in a menacing voice, "what were you just reading?"
"Who me? Nothin' at all. Just looking for the bathroom."
"Yes, that is why I came up," said Phoebe. "You were taking so long, I thought perhaps you were lost. And Arnold's cousin was talking to me, so I wanted to escape."
Gerald nodded as he inched forward. "That's cool. Well, uh, I'm pretty sure the bathroom is downstairs, so if you'll just let me go down-"
Gerald made a sudden move towards the open door, but Phoebe stretched her arms out and matched his movement like she was a tiny defensive lineman. Another attempt to outmaneuver Phoebe resulted in failure. Clearly, Phoebe had seen what Gerald was reading.
"You're not going anywhere, Gerald."
"Come on, Phoebe! I gotta tell Arnold!" Gerald tried to rush past his friend, but was surprised to find that she was able to grab hold of him and prevent him from moving. Phoebe was stronger than she looked. "Aw come on, I can't keep this secret, it's just too much! I gotta go right now and-"
Phoebe stepped back and slapped Gerald across the face. He stood back, shocked.
"Sorry, you were talking like a crazy person."
"Fair enough," said Gerald as he rubbed his stinging cheek.
"Listen to me," said Phoebe as she closed Helga's bedroom door behind her, "you can't tell Arnold about this. It would destroy Helga, and I just can't let you do that – she's my best friend. She has to tell him herself, when she's ready."
Gerald began to pout, but he knew Phoebe wouldn't budge. What was more, he knew she was right. Just when he had gotten the juiciest piece of gossip in P.S. 118 history, Phoebe had to spoil his fun. He rolled his eyes, admitting defeat, and followed his friend back down the stairs to the remains of the party.
XX
"Thanks for havin' us over, Mr. Pataki!" said Gerald.
"Yeah, sure."
Now that Arnold had brought Helga back to her house, the party was over, and everyone had filtered out except for Gerald, Phoebe, Arnold, and Arnie. Phoebe's parents had just arrived to pick up their daughter and give Gerald a ride to his house. Arnold and Arnie were still waiting for Arnold's grandfather to arrive in his beloved Packard, and they stood in the entryway with Helga and her parents as Phoebe and Gerald got ready to leave.
"You sure you don't need a ride, Arnold?"
"No, but thanks. We should hang out sometime this weekend."
"Definitely," agreed Gerald as the two of them waggled thumbs. "Hey Helga, congratulations again on winning the art show!"
Helga narrowed her eyes briefly at Gerald – his compliment seemed to be genuine, although he was staring at her in a bizarre way. "Um, thanks," she said.
Phoebe gave her best friend a hug. "I'll talk to you sometime this weekend as well, okay?"
"Sure, Phoebe."
Gerald would have expected Helga to look a lot more miserable than she did, considering she was probably in deep trouble for her outburst earlier, but if he didn't know any better, he could swear she almost looked cheery. After shaking Arnie's hand awkwardly, Gerald followed Phoebe out the door and into the backseat of her parents' car. He rolled down the window to get a breeze going as the car started. The Pataki's house fell behind them as they drove away.
Phoebe's parents asked them how the art show and the party had been, but after a brief exchange between parents and children, the car was silent. Gerald sat quietly in the back as he thought about what he had read in the journal. The poem seemed to confirm his suspicions that Helga's sculpture was in fact football-shaped. But it was definitely not made in Arnie's image.
The more Gerald thought about it, the more it seemed to make a bizarre kind of sense. All the teasing and taunting, the constant negative attention she gave Arnold, must have been ways to mask her true feelings. Gerald couldn't even count all the times he had seen her shoot spitballs at Arnold's head in class, the times Arnold had complained about something Helga did while the two of them were hanging out in his loft room, the times the phrase 'football head' had been flung from Helga's lips with such biting disdain.
In light of Helga's real feelings, so much of her behavior seemed different to Gerald. He was even starting to remember particular moments that seemed a little strange, like when Arnold bumped into her in the street and her initial reaction was a kind of excited surprise, which shifted to anger. How had he not noticed it before?
Gerald felt like a light switch had been flipped on in his mind. He remembered the time he and his classmates had been eating ice cream in Arnold's room and talking about go-carts when Helga had suddenly dropped out of Arnold's couch with a tape in her mouth. At the time, they hadn't even mentioned it. Just another one of Helga's incredibly bizarre situations, like when she talked to herself sometimes, or when she dashed behind something for a few minutes with no explanation. Gerald reeled at all the implications.
"Hey Phoebe."
"Yes, Gerald?"
"Just makin' sure, but that shrine was shaped like Arnold's head, right?"
Phoebe nodded curtly.
"How long has she had a thing for him?"
"I don't really feel comfortable talking about it too much, Gerald. You weren't supposed to find out about that in the first place."
Phoebe gave Gerald a disapproving look that somehow made him feel even guiltier than any of the looks his parents had ever given him. He shifted uncomfortably in the back seat and gulped.
"You think Arnold noticed about the sculpture? I mean, how could he have missed that?"
"I don't know," Phoebe admitted. "He certainly didn't say anything about it."
Phoebe felt guilty about being unable to prevent Helga's awkward confrontation with her classmates, but she had not been able to get in contact with her friend ever since Bob drove them all back to the Pataki house and they realized Helga wasn't there. She had no idea how much Helga's secret had been compromised when all their classmates saw the sculpture, but at the very least, she could make sure Gerald didn't spill the beans to Arnold.
"I guess maybe it's not that surprising if he didn't realize what that sculpture was," said Gerald as he thought about his friend's interactions with girls. "I mean, he still hasn't given up with Lila even though she's always telling him how she doesn't like him like him. He's a bold kid, that Arnold, but when it comes to the ladies, the boy can't take a hint."
"I suppose you may have a point."
Gerald crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back in the car seat, satisfied with his appraisal of the situation. "Glad I'm not like that," he said. "Gerald always knows how to take a hint from the ladies. Nothing goes under my radar, no sir!"
Phoebe couldn't help but smile.
"Is that right?"
XX
The residents of the boarding house stood in the kitchen, gathering around the table as they stared at Arnie's unsettling creation. The collage of ingredient labels crouched on the table like some kind of feral creature that no one dared to approach too closely. It sucked the air out of the room.
"It's so cree -" Mr. Hyunh paused abruptly when he noticed Arnold's cousin standing beside him. "So imaginative. Something like that, take a lot of imagination, huh?" Mr. Hyunh patted Arnie on the back reluctantly. "It's good job! Good job."
Oskar threw his hands up in the air. "I don't get it," he said. "Come on Suzie, let's go to bed now. I've been standing up for so long today. Maybe you can give me a little foot massage in bed, wouldn't that be nice?" Oskar left the kitchen and marched up the stairs as Suzie followed him, her shoulders slumped in defeat.
"I think we should get to bed too, Grandpa," said Arnold. He and his cousin had been out all night, and it was already past midnight. Arnold had been yawning ever since he got back to the boarding house.
"Really?" Phil scratched his head in confusion. "It's the weekend tomorrow." He pulled his Schnitzenbauer Time Master 909 gold watch from his pocket, making sure everyone in the kitchen saw it – it was a nice watch, after all – and noticed that Saturday morning had arrived. "Actually, it's the weekend already. Either way, why go to sleep? You kids are still young, you can horse around all morning if you want to!"
"No thanks, Grandpa."
Arnold trudged upstairs, followed by his cousin. They took turns brushing their teeth in the upstairs bathroom and then went up the loft stairway into Arnold's room. Arnold smiled. After such an active Friday, and particularly after such an intense evening at the Pataki's, his room was a welcome sight. He dropped onto his bed without even bothering to change into his pajamas, while Arnie unrolled the sleeping bag he was using while he visited. Arnold's grandfather could have set Arnie up in a spare room of the boarding house, but neither Arnold nor Phil had thought of it until it was too late. That, Arnold thought, or his grandpa was playing a practical joke on him.
"You know," said Arnie as he changed into his pajamas, "I don't think Helga likes me."
Arnold looked over at his cousin.
"No, I guess not."
"It's too bad. I tried to woo her – gnnk – at the art show, and when she came to her party, but she didn't pay attention to me. I guess maybe Helga just doesn't see it the way I do."
Arnold turned the room's lights off with his remote control. He glanced at his cousin, who laid back in his sleeping bag and stared up at the skylight. A bright moon hung over them, pouring light down into the room.
"I could have sworn she liked me after I saw that sculpture," said Arnie, "but I guess it didn't mean anything. I was just reading into it too much."
Arnold yawned. "It happens."
As he thought about what his cousin had said, Arnold began to feel a pang of sympathy. It was true that Lila liked his cousin, and the very thought of them together made Arnold's eyelid twitch, but Arnie didn't like Lila back. He liked Helga. And it was pretty clear that Helga wanted nothing to do with Arnie. In a sense, his cousin's situation was the same as his own. Arnold kept trying to get Lila to see him as something more than a friend, but he just couldn't get through to her. Maybe he and his cousin weren't so different after all.
Well, Arnold corrected himself, that's not true. Arnie collected lint, after all. He was incredibly weird. But then, people liked what they liked, and Arnold could see how Arnie's strange behavior might make things hard for him sometimes. Maybe he and his cousin weren't that alike - but when it came to girls, they did have something in common.
"Hey, Arnie?"
Arnie's eyes blinked, one after the other, brief twinkles in the moonlight.
"Yes?"
"Congratulations on winning second place in the contest."
"Thanks."
Arnie settled into his sleeping bag, and Arnold was surprised to see what looked like a smile on his cousin's normally stoic face.
As he lay in silence, an image of Helga's sculpture formed in Arnold's imagination. The feathers, the carved granite designs, the paint, the impassive stare. The football shape. Arnold had been a little preoccupied with the sculpture ever since he saw it at the party – something about it really stood out. And now that Arnie had mentioned it, the image loomed even greater in his mind's eye.
Arnie had a point; the sculpture could have been a model of his cousin's head. Then again, Arnold thought, it could been a model of my head. The officials had announced each contest winner's title at the awards ceremony – what was it called again? Something about a shrine, Arnold remembered. His mouth formed into a wry smile as he thought about the possibility that Helga had a made a shrine to him.
But there was no way that could be the explanation. For one thing, she'd ever enter it into an art contest if that's what it was. And it just didn't fit with the way she treated him. Arnold knew Helga wasn't as bad as she made herself out to be, but she certainly didn't like him like him. She was far too mean to him for that to be the case.
Arnold's already half-lidded eyes began to droop even further as sleep descended, and his wandering thoughts drifted from the sculpture to another image. A stranger image. Helga, arms outstretched. Grabbing him, pulling him into her embrace, her pink bow disheveled, hair undone, as her lips parted and met his own...
Okay Arnold, enough with the weird thoughts. Go to sleep.
The image dissipated as it floated up into the air, through his skylight and into the night. Arnold turned over in his bed as he slipped into the world of dreams.
XX
Bob Pataki sat on the couch beside his daughter, at a loss for what to say. Olga and Miriam had gone to bed already, but Helga's outburst had been directed at Bob in particular, and Miriam had made it clear that she expected him to do something about it. It wasn't often that Miriam took a certain tone with him, but when she did, his usual bluster disappeared. Bob looked down at his youngest daughter. Helga had always been harder to approach than Olga, and Bob had never been an expert at communication. Selling beepers, easy. Talking about his feelings, not so much.
"So, uh, Ol – I mean Helga," he said. "Why did you skip the art show?"
Helga thought about how best to answer the question. She wasn't sure how much of her dysfunctional non-relationship with Arnold could be shared with her parents. Honestly, she didn't really want to share any of that with them.
"I just got nervous about people seeing my art," she said. "I was worried they would judge me." It wasn't the whole truth, but it wasn't a lie either.
"But you won first place, Helga. Obviously they thought it was better than the other entries. And I thought your little sculpture looked great, personally – it one of those things you always keep in your closet, right?"
"What? How did you know that?"
"Helga, your mom cleans your room and does your laundry. Well, sometimes she does. But it's not like those things are well-hidden."
Helga scowled at the thought of her parents knowing about her shrine to Arnold. In retrospect, perhaps it was in plain view for anyone who chose to look inside her closet.
"So, did you mean what you said to me earlier?"
Helga shrugged. "I don't know. Kind of. Maybe I was a little harsh."
Bob thought about the accusations Helga had flung at him before she had stormed out the house. She had told him that all he cared about was winning, and that Miriam, Olga, and herself were only there to make him look good. He knew that wasn't true – Bob loved his wife and his daughters, even though he often had trouble showing it – but the first part of her accusation had hit him a little too close for comfort. And to be honest, while he loved his family, maybe he sometimes focused on the wrong things about them.
Bob was very focused on his beeper business, on being successful. Being the Beeper King was something he was proud of. You had to be successful in life, to work hard and compete with other people. Otherwise you would just get walked on. It was an attitude that had gotten him through what was sometimes a rough life. Bob believed in his philosophy on life, and he wanted his children to grow up to be successful as well, but he knew that sometimes it clouded the way he saw the people he cared most about.
"Helga, I know I don't say it that much, but I love you."
His daughter was silent.
"And I'm proud of you. I mean, I'm proud of you for winning first place, but you didn't have to. You could have just won second place, for instance."
Helga rolled her eyes, and Bob knew he needed to go a little farther.
"Well, not just second. You could win third, or a honorable mention. Wait, that's not what I mean. You could come in last and it wouldn't matter. Look – Helga, I'm just proud of you for who you are." Bob ruffled his daughter's hair, a little nervously, but affectionately. Helga's pink bow hung lopsidedly from her head as a result.
"Thanks dad," grumbled Helga as she readjusted her bow. "I love you too."
Bob felt the unexpected weight of his daughter as she leaned over and gave him a hug. It was not often that his daughter hugged him. He smiled and returned the embrace, adding a pat on the back in an effort to make the whole affair a little less mushy.
"Alright Helga, time for bed I think. It's getting pretty late."
"I couldn't agree more," said Helga. She got up from the couch and grunted as she lifted up the heavy shrine, which was still standing on the coffee table where it had been on display during the party.
"You want any help with that thing?"
"No, I got it."
Helga made her way up the stairs and fumbled with the doorknob before slipping inside her bedroom, although not before she smacked the stone effigy loudly against the wall. Turning the light on, she took her makeshift shrine out of the closet and put the real one back where it belonged. After changing into her pajamas and turning the lights back off, she opened her closet door one last time and flipped on the Christmas lights strung up around her altar. Helga wanted one last look at her idol before she slept. Too tired to chant any mantras or perform any supplications, she stood and stared at her creation.
Her beloved, and her despair. But perhaps her redemption.
XX
Notes - one chapter left. It will be a sort of epilogue, taking place at the start of the next school week.
