Chapter Eight:

Stretching for a moment, I gaze up through the small clearing into the sky at the last wisps of golden sunrise; its orange glow dissolving smoothly into an ever brightening, deepening blue. Breathing in the refreshing chill of an early morning breeze, I hear the quiet sounds of the animals in the jungle awakening and the quiet distant conversations of my teammates, preparing for the day's adventure.

I'm really beginning to see some of the reasons my parents loved it here so much. The rich green of the massive expanse of jungle, the warm, luscious earth, and the stunning brilliant blue skies. So far the local people were helpful and welcoming; something that was not always the case in Egypt, a place full of differing peoples and religions and political turmoil. The animals and birds here are definitely striking in their arrays of exotic colors and coats. The endless canopy of leaves and other flora spreading as far as I can see, and casting a greenish glow to everything.

All in all, so far I'm was really enjoying this beautiful and peaceful morning.

"Hey, Walter Mitty, are you gonna join us or just continue daydreaming?" Helga's demand draws me back to focus. While the others are getting ready for our inspection of the temple, she volunteered us to play with the boys until it's time to go.

Don't get me wrong, I don't mind playing with the boys, in fact, I did it all the time before Helga joined the group. But Helga's decided that we're going to teach them baseball. Not that there's anything wrong with baseball. I mean I've loved baseball since I was a kid. We played together in elementary school. But Sawyer and Ramses are six and three, respectfully, and I'm just thinking she might have been a little optimistic about their abilities. She waved me off when I told her so though, and informed me that she always carries a bag of gloves, balls and a bat or two with her, just for such occasions. Apparently she's played with many a group of kids on the streets of South American cities.

"Alright, name of the game's baseball," Helga begins in an authoritave voice, drawing the attention of the little boys. She's wearing a baseball hat—pulled low and dramatic over her brow—a glove on one hand and a ball in the other, and an arm around each of the boys. "Ever heard of baseball?" she asks them.

Sawyer nods vigorously. "Yah. You throw the ball and someone catches it." His eyes light up as he looks into her face. "Right?"

Helga purses her lips thoughtfully. "Well, that's some of it, Short-Stuff. Arnold and I will teach you the rest. What about you?" she asks, turning to three-year-old Ramses with a faux-serious face. "Can you throw a ball?"

The little guy pauses, a deeply pensive expression on his face. Then he jumps up, wraps his arms around her neck and yells, "yah, I throw ball. Wanna see?" He pulls away from her and reaches a little hand out for the ball.

Helga stands, handing him the ball. "Okay, show me. Throw the ball to Sawyer." Crossing her arms across her chest in her usual fashion she nods down at him. "Go ahead."

With great excitement Ramses pulls his hand back and readies it for the follow-through. With a great grunt he flings the ball, which quickly rolls off his fingertips sideways instead of straight. It's all I can do not to burst out into laughter when the ball hits Helga right in the stomach before landing on her foot. But when I realize I'm not really sure how this new, adult Helga will act from the mishap or my apparent amusement, I step toward the boys, ready to shield them from whatever Pataki rage might ensue.

She doesn't really move, surprisingly. She just sort of stands there with a crooked smile before finally speaking—which leaves me feeling a little silly for over-reacting. Of course she isn't going to freak out; she's an adult now. I have to stop thinking of her as the young bully, or even the grouchy teen she once was.

"Alright, seems I've got my work cut out for me, team," she states, brows furrowed, voice serious. "Have no fear; I'll kick this bunch of chuckleheads into shape in no time—just like I did, single-handedly, with my team growing up." She stands up straight, hands on her hips and a haughty look in her eyes as she directs her attention to me. "Why, if it wasn't for me, Shortman over there wouldn't be the shockingly talented baseball player you see standing before you today," she quips, a smile playing on her lips.

I shake my head, eyes half-lidded in amusement and a smirk on my lips. "Right. None of my talent is natural skill, it's all Pataki-brand training," I reply, my words dripping with sarcasm.

"You know it, Shortman." She adjusts her hat again, and then squats down once more to look Sawyer and Ramses in the eyes. "Now, what's our team name going to be? We need something that will strike fear into the hearts of our opponents. The T-Rex Squad? Or maybe Knights of the Jungle? Oh I know!" She shoots me a meaningful gaze ripe with arrogance. "How about The Crackpot Mummy Capers?"

"I think a better fit would be Libelous Journalists," I reply, deadpan.

She glares at me playfully, and Lincoln steps up to put his face in front of hers. "No, we are gonna be...The Silly Team."

"The Silly Team?" she exclaims, her arms flinging out at her sides. "How in creation does that strike fear into anyone's heart?"

I hide a grin at her dramatics. "Just go with it, Helga"

"Fine." She folds her arms across her chest and grimaces slightly. "The Silly Team. Gather round...Sillies." You'd think she was going to throw up or something from the face she makes each time she says that. "Here's how to play the game. And let me remind you, rookies, there will be no funny business."

I snort, attempting to hold back the laughter bubbling in my throat. "But, Helga," I say, turning on my most innocent charm, "aren't we The Silly Team?"

"No more comments from the peanut gallery, please, peanut gallery," she quips, a slight chuckle escaping her lips. "Seeing as it's hard enough to carry around balls, gloves, and baseball bats, I'm afraid I'm all out of plates. But we'll make-do. This X that I've so artistically drawn in this dirt patch is home plate. That rock is first base, that bush is second, and that bigger rock is third base." Possibly too quickly she glosses over the basic point of the game—getting all the players home, how to get a player out, how to hit the ball etc. Then she turns to Sawyer. "You ready? I'll toss you the ball and you'll hold this bat, got it Short-Stuff?" she directs, looking down at Sawyer.

"Got it, coach," he says, standing up straighter, and nodding his head in agreement.

A smile plays at the corner of her mouth as she hands him a baseball bat. "Now, that's what I like to hear. Alright, Short-Stuff, when I throw it to you Arnold's gonna help you hit the ball with the bat...and you run as fast as you can to first base, got it?"

"Okay!"

This time she does smile broadly. "Perfect. After you hit it, I'm gonna try to get the ball and tag you before you get there. If I get you, you're out. And Pipsqueak?" she states, turning her direction to the wide-eyed three-year-old.

His brow creases into a frown and he scrunches up his mouth. "I not Pipsqueak. I Ramses," he states, meeting her gaze confidently.

"Pipsqueak is just a nickname, ok?" she teases as she pinches his chubby little cheek.

"I not Pipsqueak, I Ramses," he repeats again in an irritated voice, the crease in his brow somehow managing to deepen even more.

Helga sits back on her heels with a chuckle. "Well, you're cute that's for sure."

"I not cute, I Ramses!" he fumes at her.

"Okay, okay. Keep your shirt on," Helga replies, taking off her hat to fix her ponytail and heaving an overwhelmed sigh.

"His shirt IS on, Miss Pataki," Sawyer states from his obedient position on home plate.

Helga smacks herself in the face dramatically. "I know his shirt on. It's a figure of speech, kid." She takes a deep, calming breath before letting it quickly out. "I'll tell you what, your parents are saints. Okay, Ramses, Arnold will help you hit the ball next ok?"

"Okay!" Countenance once again chipper, he runs over to stand next to me. With care, I help him move a safe distance away from the arc of the bat before going back to stand with Sawyer.

"Hey, batter, batter, batter! Swing batter, batter, batter," Helga goads playfully, pulling her baseball hat down farther on her head and smacking a fist into her glove.

"Throw pitcher, pitcher, pitcher," I tease back, hoping to get a playful response from her.

She chuckles and rolls her eye, causing a warm feeling to grow in my chest. "Sorry, Shel Silverstein, I don't think that has the right ring to it. Good try though," she guffaws before tossing the ball gently to Sawyer.

Effortlessly I help him hit the ball and remind him to run for first base.

"Run, Forest, run!" Helga yells from her pitcher's "mound".

"His name not Forest, it Sawyer!" Ramses yells at her from beside me and I cover my mouth to stifle a laugh as she rolls her eyes and chuckles lightly.

It's surprisingly fun watching Helga interact with the kids. It's both reminiscent and refreshing. I can remember back in our elementary school days she'd take it upon herself to aggressively get us ready for an upcoming game against another school's team or a gang of bigger kids. She was rough and tough and no nonsense back then. She'd scream at us, berate us, call us names. But, alternatively, here she is joking around and patiently helping these two very young boys learn to play her favorite sport. She is doing a great job at it. Sawyer obviously thinks she's amazing. The look at his face as he waits on first base for her to get the ball is pure admiration.

"Run for second base, Sawyer!" I holler, as Helga leisurely "runs" toward the ball to get it. "You can make it! Go! Go! Go!"

Helga reaches the ball and picks it up, spinning around to face Sawyer as he runs toward second base. She reaches up to throw it, but then bites her lip and "accidentally" drops it again. My cheeks are starting to hurt from this constant smiling I'm doing about Helga. This display is both hilarious and endearing; and so different. She would have died before letting someone else beat her when we were kids, but here she is making a fool of herself so Sawyer can win. It's probably one of the cutest things I've ever seen.

He makes it to the base just before she's able to tag him. "Crimeny! I guess you're safe, Short-Stuff," Helga smiles down at him. "High-five?" she asks, before giving him a huge high five. She turns back toward me and heads to the pitcher's spot again.

I can't help the grin that's spreading across my lips. "I saw that, Helga."

"Saw what?" She raises an eyebrow innocently at me. "I'm getting older...not quite as fast as I used to be. It's called old age, Hair Boy."

"Uh-huh," I reply, still smirking.

She bites her bottom lip in an attempt to hide her smile. "Wipe that dopey-eyed grin off your face, Football Head. This is baseball. It's a very seriously game."

Turning to face Ramses, I laugh under my breath and can't help the pterodactyls suddenly flying around in my stomach. (What? Pterodactyls sounds way more masculine than butterflies...go with it.) "Whatever you say, Coach Pataki of The Silly Team."

"Heads up!" she yells suddenly.

I barely have time to react and catch the ball, just before it would have hit me square in the forehead. I glare at her in annoyance. "Thanks for the warning, Helga."

"Why don't you throw the ball and I'll help Pip—Ramses hit the ball," she says, ignoring my comment and walking over. "Then you can pitch it to me and I'll show these little guys how it's done." Her fingertips skim lightly over my skin as she takes the bat from me. Without warming, I feel that strange overwhelming heat again and there's an audible gasp from me from the extreme warmth at the place where her hand touched mine.

Using the switch as a chance to hide the burning of my cheeks, I turn my back to them and head back to "pitcher's mound" before doing a few neck stretches and shoulder shakes to get loosened up while Helga gets Ramses into position. Turning around I watch through my lashes as she carefully shows him how to hold the bat and where to put his feet. Seriously, this side of Helga—this kind, patient, good-with-kids side—is adorable.

"Alright, enough with the stretches over there, Arnold, this isn't the Olympics. Get on with it," Helga huffs from behind Ramses.

Winding up I send the ball gently to them. She and Ramses bunt it carefully and then she helps him run to first base, simultaneously telling Sawyer to run to third. After directing Ramses to stay on first she heads back to home plate.

"Okay, Team Silly, Coach Pataki's up, and you're about to see some serious…stuff," she makes an awkward face at her almost slip-up before continuing. "Listen close…when I hit it; Sawyer you run back here and Ramses you run around to each base and head back here and I'll follow behind-"

"What? You're just assuming you'll get a home run?" I exclaim in exasperation. "Just like that? How do you know I don't have a mean slider up my sleeve or something, Pataki?"

"Isn't it obvious?" she asks, leaning forward and moving her arms out with a provoking head shake. "Pataki verses Shortman. There's no question. You've never outpitched me a day in your life, Hair Boy."

I scrunch my lips in annoyance. Apparently, her trash talk can still get under my skin. "We'll see about that," I whisper under my breath.

She tosses me a smug smile as she swings the bat behind her head, bending her knees to get closer to the ground. With that, I wind up and at the top of the throw, snap my arm and wrist in a downward motion sending the ball top-spinning forward at a stunning speed. Honestly, it's got to be one of the most perfect curveballs I've ever thrown.

Just as I think she's going to get a strike, I hear the crack of the bat hitting the ball and immediately look up to see it soaring over our heads, toward the tree line. I feel myself cringe. Crap! Home run!

"Run, boys, run! Pataki's serving up a win!" Helga exclaims, throwing the bat off to the side and racing toward first base.

Without a pause, I dash toward the direction of the ball, searching frantically through the foliage and finally finding it in a bush-Sawyer's already made it home and Ramses is on second…if I can just get back there and tag Helga out-

She already has her arms up in victory as her foot makes contact with second base and Ramses hits third. My blood's heating up in my veins, adrenaline pumping through me as I run back toward them as fast as I can.

"Yay, Ramses!" Sawyer cheers as Ramses hits home base. I snap my head quickly to look in Helga's direction; she's just hitting third and I've practically caught up to her. Pushing myself with every last ounce of strength I come up behind her.

"Not so fast, Pataki!" I yell, diving with the last of my energy and pummel into her midsection, knocking her to the dirt. I'm immediately greeted with an elbow to my face, and then one to my chest as she struggles to break free. Burying my face between her side and my arm, I attempt to protect myself, while simultaneously searching for the baseball.

I swear under my breath and Helga stops struggling for just a split second to look at my in shock, before throwing all her strength back into crawling toward the base, pulling me along with her and leaving the ball farther out of reach.

"No, you don't!" I exclaim, pulling her from the waist in the opposite direction.

"Just three more feet and I win," she grunts, kicking at me from her awkward position. "By the way…where's your…ball?" she manages to taunt through gasps for breath.

"Shut up, Helga," I grunt back, using every muscle I have to hold her back and simultaneously reach for the ball that's just a breath away from my fingertips.

"Not…on your…life, bucko," she quips, breathlessly and continues her excruciatingly slow crawl toward the base.

She's pulled me out of reach of the ball now, but I've got this. With caution, I swing my leg in an arc, encircling the ball with the top of my shoe and immediately sending it of the tip of my shoe toward me. Helga continues to painfully drag us both, inching closer to the plate. She's not going to make it. Not on her life. Not on my life.

Grabbing the ball with one hand, the other arm still wrapped around her waist and pulling her back and away from home, I reach over to tag her with the ball. With reflexes like lightning she rolls away out of my grip and pulls herself up, stepping toward the base.

"I don't think so," I cry tackling her again and tagging her with the ball.

"Oh, yah?" she asks, turning in my grip around her waist and smirking. "Look where we landed, Shortman. Home plate."

I shake my head back at her and glare into her eyes, still keeping my fierce grip on her, as if that will keep her from being right. "Oh, yah? I tagged you before we landed so you're out."

She moves her head closer to mine to glower into my face, our tangled position only increases in awkwardness as she does so. "You'd be incorrect on that one, we landed, and then you tagged me."

"Psh. Whatever. You only got home because I tackled you—with the ball—onto home."

Both of us exhausted, out of breath and struggling to speak leaves us paused long enough for me to take notice of our...precarious position. I'm on top of her again, just like her first day here, only this time my arm's wrapped securely around her waist, and her hand somehow ended up on my chest. Glancing down at her hand, I feel a hot flush rise to my cheeks, my eyes sweeping over the soft strands of hair falling out of her ponytail and framing her face, to her eyes—the color of the lapis lazuli stones the Egyptians loved to much—and finally resting on her lips. A feverish heat courses through my veins and it's all I can do not to reach out and touch those curls of hair or run my finger across those soft, red lips—

What is wrong with me?

"We sure end up in a tangled heap a lot, don't we?" Helga states, drawing my attention back to her eyes, the heat in my cheeks only increasing, as I realize she's completely unfazed by me or our strange, twisted position.

Arnold, you idiot!

"I thought you guys were going to teach the boys how to play baseball, not wrestling."

I tear my eyes away from Helga to see Sandy and Soren standing above us. Sandy's got her hands on her hips and an attempt at a stern look, barely masking her actually amusement. Soren looks pleasantly entertained as his eyes slowly appraise our awkward position.

"See, Mommy, I told you they were fighting!" Sawyer states proudly from his spot next to his mom.

"Yes, I see that, sweetie. Seriously, you two..." Sandy's voice trails off as she shakes her head.

"We were just teaching them how to be a real winner and go for the gold," Helga replies casually, pushing against my chest, so I'll get off her.

"Oh, is that what they're calling it these days," Soren asks, nodding slowly, his eyebrows raised smugly.

"Soren!" Sandy chastises.

Clumsily, I roll off to the side and sit up, my face still feeling hot, and now-familiar tingling in my inside me and I swear I can still feel Helga's warm hand on my chest as I glance at her briefly before turning back to Sandy and Soren. "A little competition never hurt anyone," I smile up at them. Especially in this situation…

"Uh-huh..." Sandy replies, obviously unconvinced.

"Hey, Sandy," Soren says, putting his arm around his wife's shoulders and gracing her with a suave grin, "wanna go play 'baseball' with me?" He raises his eyebrows meaningfully.

With a quick, surprised gasp she smacks him on the arm, and rolls her eyes, but Helga and I exchange amused looks when Sandy bites her lips to cover up her delighted smile.

"What?" he laughs, trying to appear innocent, but failing miserably. Sandy shakes her head, her cheeks pinking lightly.

I shoot him a thumbs up with a slight chuckle. But then Helga smacks me before breaking into her own laughter as well.

"Eduardo's meeting us up at the temple soon, so let's get moving guys. Chop, chop," Sandy calls, already on the move back toward camp. "Come on boys, you're gonna play with Antoinette while we're gone. Ready, set, go!" she yells to the boys before racing to the campsite with them.

"Antoinette's not coming with us?" I ask, matching step with Soren as he trails slightly behind his family.

"Nah, she wanted to stay behind," he replies with a shrug.

"I'll just clean up and catch up with you guys," Helga calls from behind us, and Soren waves an absent-minded response.

"If you ask me," Soren says, lowering his force secretly, "I think Antoinette just wants an excuse to have a break from Richard's constant advances." He chuckles to himself as we continue walking back toward camp. "That poor girl hasn't had a break in a week."

I nod in response, chuckling to myself as we reach the campsite. Yep, that observation is one-hundred percent accurate.


"Arnold, where's Helga?" Sandy calls approaching me as she puts a largely brimmed hat on. "We're ready to go."

"You guys go on ahead, I'll find her and we'll catch up."

After searching the entire campsite and not finding her, I decide to head back to the top of the hill to look for her. I'll be honest: at this point, I'm beginning to be slightly worried that she got lost on her way back to camp.

But no, I find her leaning against a tree talking to herself in a language I'm not really familiar with. She's talking intensely and throwing her arms around her vigorously, her voice dripping with deep feeling. I've never her seen her quite this…dramatic and emotional—at least not in this more soft, almost forlorn sounding way.

The unknown language falls swiftly and smoothly off her tongue at a outrageous speed, and there's no way I'll figure out what she's saying. Some of the words sound familiar...similar to some Spanish words I know. But the rest...sounds like rapid gibberish to me.

Finally giving up on figuring out what she's doing talking in a foreign language to herself, I speak up, "Helga? What are you doing?"

She looks over in surprise at me, her eyes even bigger than usual. "Uh...what...do you think...I'm doing?"

"Talking gibberish...or possibly Portugese but I don't speak either so I wouldn't actually know," I reply with a casual shrug, but it's driving me nuts.

The usual smirk returns to her face and she laughs. "Wow, maybe you do have some knowledge beyond ancient cultures in that funny shaped head of yours."

I roll my eyes but smile back in response to her teasing smile.

"It's Portuguese. I was…" she stumbles over her words for a moment before finishing, "I was reciting a poem I read once and wanted to remember." Swinging the bag of baseball stuff onto her shoulders she walks beside me back toward camp.

"You speak Portuguese?"

"Well, doi. I have to cover Brazil, don't I? Besides, I have a knack for languages."

I glance up to her face in a bit of surprise. I have yet to meet anyone who can speak as many languages as I can. And I'm constantly surprised by the amount of similarities I share with Helga. Growing up most of the time I felt like of all the people I knew, I had the least in common with her. "What languages?"

"I can also speak Spanish, French, and most recently Green Eyes."

"Wait, what? Green eyes?" I sputter. Is there actually another person who spoke it?

"Okay, in all honestly I just started learning. But I'm becoming quite adept. Sandy lent me this book by some goof named Arnold Shortman and it teaches you all about their language."

I feel my cheeks flush. Why had I published that stupid book? And more importantly, why did I decide that lending it to Sandy was a good idea? Okay, obviously, I know why. But still, now I just feel like a big dork, especially the way Helga is watching me with that mocking expression on her face right now. "Aw, you think you're so funny, don't you?" I finally say. "Anyway, do you want to come with me to check out the temple?"

Oh crap, that made it sound like it'd be just the two of us. I need to add something, pronto. "Soren and Sandy have already headed down there and I thought you might want to see it..for your article." Well, that sounded lame, I realize I just made it feel even more uncomfortable.

Helga doesn't seem to notice and only nods excitedly. "Sure. I'll grab my camera and we can go. It's gotta be a lot more interesting than your boring dirt site back at base camp," she mocks, breaking into a run, leaving me behind, alone with nothing but my thoughts.


Even though it's one of the smaller ancient temples of the Green Eyes, and long deserted by their people, it's an impressive sandstone building. While the outside is weather-beaten and disintegrating, the inside is in relatively good condition. Colonnades line the large entry court, culminating in delicate, crumbling lotus blossom designs. Faded, once-bright colors cover the columns and walls. The artistry and style, of course, is reminiscent of the Egyptians, but on a much smaller scale. Faint sunlight streams through the windows, twisting vines, and crumbling holes casting a surreal feel to the place. Faded moss-covered murals, writings and carvings cover all the walls leaving me with the feeling that this was a grand, masterfully painted temple in its heyday.

As we slowly walk through the main court, one mural catches my eye. A green-skinned figure spans a space on the wall from floor to ceiling. His brightly colored robe, necklace, and feathered crown and scepter still flaunting its once-vibrant beauty. Leaning closer to study the adjacent words, I marvel at their carefully crafted lettering of each hieroglyph.

"I'm always amazed..." I mumble, but trail off as I rub away the moss covering some of the words etched there.

"Well, thanks," Helga states, causing me to look away from the wall to her direction. She leans her back against the wall next to me and begins fiddling with the settings on her camera. She's been snapping pictures since we started the hike up and was obviously adjusting for the lack of light inside the temple. "I hadn't thought I'd done anything amazing yet today. But, I guess it just comes naturally," she says with mock humility. With that she shoots me a wink and strikes as pose as if she's modeling for a magazine.

I try to ignore the immediate heat that rushes to my cheeks, and instead hastily think of a good response. "The day's still young," I reply casually. "But I don't think it'll be as amazing as the similarities between the writing of the Green Eyes and the ancient Egyptian writings."

She fakes offense before looking at me through the view finder of her camera. "You're amazed by it still? Aren't you the genius who figured it all out?" she scoffs.

"Well, yah, I guess so," I chuckle, watching her as she leans back against the wall to adjust the settings on her camera once more. "Even still, it's kind of an incomprehensible thing-that an ancient people traveled all the way from the banks of The Nile to the Jungles of Central America and began an all new civilization. Astounding."

She shrugs and pulls the camera back up to her face and snaps a picture of me. "Columbus did it, didn't he? You know, traveled the ocean and discovered a 'new' land." She moves to take another picture of me but I turn away, simultaneously hiding the ever increasing flush to my cheeks. I think I prefer the dry desert heat to this humid, jungle heat.

"Yah, but about 3,000 years later then Wadjmose's family and with much more advanced technology." I shrug casually. "Far less impressive if you ask me."

"Well, if you ask me, he was of an ancient civilization compared to us. So still impressive," she says, looking down at the camera in her hands and pushing buttons, turning dials. "Someday, in the future, people in spaceships will be just as impressed with Columbus as you are with What-ja-hottie, or whatever his name was."

I snort in amusement. "What-ja-hottie?"

She shrugs and lifts her head slightly so she's looking at me through her lashes. I can see a twinkle reflected from the light of the lantern and I can't help but stare. "Yah...I mean, he was an Egyptian prince, right? Everyone knows they're sexy, even if they look a little too cookie-cutter on the wall..." she trails off for a moment and pushes another button her camera.

I can't help but snicker. "I think you've seen one too many Hollywood interpretations. In fact, with all the inbreeding, they probably weren't very attractive at all."

She just scoffs. "Whatever, Football Head. You're probably just jealous." There's a slight smirk and suddenly she's showing me a picture on the camera screen. "Although this one would probably give What-ja-hottie a run for his money. Pretty sexy shot, if I do say so myself."

I'm only able to see the picture of myself for a moment because suddenly I'm staring at her instead with a jumble of mixed emotions. What? Did Helga Pataki just call me sexy? Did I just jump to a parallel universe or something? What is going on? I'm shocked, flattered, and speechless. And also…strangely thrilled by it.

Helga moves the camera back toward her as if she's going to look through it again, but instead, continues to smirk at me. "Of course, the photographer is to thank for that. We can work wonders, you know."

I'm surprised at how quickly I respond and smirk back at her. "Photographers like to say that, but we all know if you take a picture of a pile of crap, it's still crap. It's all about the model."

"Oh, so you're a model now?"

"Only for you."

I blink in surprise and my smirk falters. Did I really just say that? For the umpteenth time today, I feel my face heat up and am thankful for the dim light. "I mean, since you've been taking pictures of me all afternoon..." I add in a hurry, but then trailing off uneasily.

Raising her eyebrows, she purses her lips in amusement. "Well, Casanova, what's it say anyway?" she changes the subject, pointing back to the wall I've been pretending to study, while, in truth, I've actually just been studying her. "I mean, I haven't had time to completely study the brilliant works of Arnold Shortman, so I still can't read their language. Why don't we try a more...classroom type approach to this whole Green Eyes language-learning thing? Read on, Professor."

I laugh nervously, sweat suddenly forming on my forehead, my pulse speeding up. I would think I'd be plenty cool in this rather dank, shadowed temple, but apparently I'm not. And apparently I'm suddenly a speechless dork who has forgotten the Green Eyes language…and possible forgotten English as well.

She turns back to me and eyes me suspiciously. "Unless, of course, that's all phooey and you can't actually read their language. Which by your long pause I'm starting to suspect."

Come on, Arnold. Speak. You know how to talk…come on…you can do it.

"Long pause? I've already started translating," I lie and attempt a casual chuckle, but it comes out as more of a deranged cackle. So I promptly clear my throat and play it cool. "It isn't a fast process, though. Not to mention, I'm a little rusty since I've been reading Egyptian so much lately."

"Eh, I got time. Where am I gonna go? Paris? I'll snap some pictures of the temple—or your sexy face again-while you work on it."

Oh, like that makes it any less stressful. But I can't help the excited thrill that runs through me at the thought of her calling me sexy—again!—and implying she wants to take pictures of me. So what if it's just for The National Geographic?

I set to work studying the characters and the phrasing, writing each translation down in my notebook, mumbling to myself as I do so, trying to drown out the overpowering nerves I still feel as Helga snaps pictures and wanders around the room examining things.

"Okay, I think I've finished." Finally, stepping back I gaze down at my notebook, the words long ago written by a Green Eye scribe whispering softly around me. Words that have likely not been read for at least a couple hundred years.

"You did? Or you think?" she quips, slinging her camera onto her shoulder and grabbing a water bottle from her bag.

I shoot her a playful glare before looking down at my notebook.

"Glory be to Netur-Wahje, The Great Green Father, the great god, king of eternity, lord of the everlasting, who passeth through millions of years in his existence. Eldest of the womb of Mulnefer, lady of wisdom and light; engendered by Eymun, lord of the sky and the air. As prince of gods and of men, Netur-Wahje hath received the crown and the divinity of the divine mother, Mut-Wahje. Through him, the world waxeth green and bounteous and full of life. Bless thy children for all eternity, grant us endless blessings and eternal rewards, we pray. Praise thy name, O Netur-Wahje! Thy body is of gold, thy feet are of amber, thy head is of turquoise, and emerald light shines from thine eyes forever and ever."

Helga lets out a sardonic whistle. "Wow, they had quite the flair for the dramatics, didn't they? Ancient Shakespeare perhaps?"

I roll my eyes and chuckle. "It's very reminiscent of the Ancient Egyptian style actually." I turn to her and narrow my eyes. "You mock it, but I think you like all the poetic descriptions...you know unless of course you're no longer the talented poet you used to be," I provoke, hoping to get under her skin. I could finally have my revenge for what she's made me go through today.

…But she appears unfazed except for a slight pink tint to her cheeks—almost indiscernible in this shadowy light. Perhaps, it just a slight sunburn from the morning's sun exposure, and my mind only wishes I was succeeding in making Helga blush.

"Eh, I still dabble in it now and then," she replies with a casual shrug.

"That's good. I always thought you were a great writer," I reply honestly. She'd won a few local awards and contests back in Hillwood during our high school days. How long before that she'd been writing, I don't know, but I would guess it was for a good long time based on her talent.

She stares at me for only the slightest moment with a rather shocked expression on her face, but then her eyes dart back to the wall before us. "So who was this Not-a-wad guy?" she asks without looking at me.

"Netur-Wahje," I correct out of habit. Apparently I'm surrounded by people incapable of trying to accurately remember the names we come across in our line of work. "He was one of the primary gods in the Green Eye culture and believed to be the first god-king of their people. See? More Egyptian similarity," I add, shooting a look in her direction, but her eyes are still ahead as she traces the words with her finger. "They believed their kings were part gods—just like the Egyptians. And they were thought to be direct descendants of the god Netur-Wahje. And Mut-Wahje was the other primary god, believed to be Netur-Wahje's grandmother. Similar in mythological role as the Greek goddess Gaia—the ancestral mother of all life. Mut-Wahje and Netur-Wahje, respectively, translate to Green Mother and Green Father. I've always found it interesting that they call the grandmother and grandson the mother and father, but I'm sure somewhere in their mythology there's a reason."

"Beep. Beep. Information overload. Malfunction...malfunction," Helga quips in a robotic voice. "Can't…compute." She pantomimes a robot turning off and slumps forward stiffly, leaving her arm swinging back and forth like the slowing pendulum on a clock.

I roll my eyes in slight annoyance. It's as if the woman can't take anything seriously. "Aren't you supposed to be remembering all this for your article? I thought it'd help you remember their names if I told you their meaning and mythology."

"Oh, I remember the important stuff," she mocks with a smirk. "Like I remember there's a god named Ankhresut. Tell me about him," she demands. "Is he on the walls anywhere in here?"

"Well, you can't seem to remember Wadjmose's name. I'd say that's pretty important." Looking back at the walls, thinking that maybe I missed something while translating I ask her, "and who are you talking about?"

"The Green Eye god Ankhresut."

I glance back at her still confused.

"Wait...you don't know about him? Score one for Helga," she replies doing a little victory dance before continuing. "Two years ago when I snuck in—I mean, accidentally walked into the off-limits Green Eye area, I talked to some local Guatamalans to get some information. They mentioned the disappearance of the Green Eyes, of course, but they also talked about the Green Eyes' god Ankhresut who was supposed to be their protector...or something to that effect."

The tickly pins and needles swirling around inside me are completely distracting as I stare at Helga Pataki in awe. To remember that—including the god's name, she really is obviously very interested in different cultures, just like she said. And that fact is sending me over the edge with excitement and thoughts—subjects to talk about with her; things I would love to hear her opinions on—overwhelming in my mind.

"I'm impressed you remembered his name," I confess, finally with a slight raise of my eyebrows. Then quickly add, "Since Wadjmose and Netur-Wahje both seem to be so hard for you to remember. I honestly know very little about their mythology," I continue glancing back at the mural of Netur-Wahje. "That's one of the things I really want to find out by studying these temples and other sites."

"I'm a well-known selective genius, Football Head," she jokes with a laugh. "I'll be honest though, I had to repeat it like fifteen times to get it right. The locals kept laughing at me. That hard A and then the H in the middle…ugh."

"Yes, there's a similar sound in Egyptian, it definitely took some practice," I reply, reaching up to touch the faded relief on the wall. "There was this one time that Soren..."

My hand traces the elegant mural adorning the temple wall. A tribute to the god Netur-Wahje my father painted nearly fifty years ago…before our people had been almost wholly swept off the face of the land. A work of art commissioned by the former king, His Majesty, may Ahnepu bless him for ever and ever in the afterlife. He had been an honorable king of grace and peace, who had loved his people with all his strength and raised two sons…two sons so exceedingly opposite indeed. Brothers much like the god Ahnepu and his brother Binukhet...eventually following a comparable end.

Light from my torch flashes across my ring—the rare lazurite stone set in a gold band—a gift from his majesty. The symbol of the king's own scribe. A royal office I was usually most pleased to hold.

"Scribe Khamwazet, hast thou heard a word I've said?"

The voice surprises me and I look up to see Grand Vizier Ptahu-Shepses, dressed in his colorful robe and gold-laden belt and feathered headdress. The light from the torch in his hand makes the gold and turquoise of his necklace and arm bands shimmer faintly.

"Yes, Grand Vizier, I apologize. I was engrossed in thoughts of my work on His Majesty's new temple. I did not mean to disregard thee." Quickly, I bow my head in respect.

The tall, acicular vizier nods, his black hair swinging down over his shoulders as he does so, the gold beads entwined around each small braid clinking softly. "Aw, Khamwazet, thy dedication is unmatched by any other scribe in all of Wahje. We would not have it any other way. His Majesty, like his father, may he live forever, is always pleased with thy work." He glances to the mural of the great king-god Netur-Wahje forlornly. "I am only sorry that these beautiful murals of your father's must be abandoned."

I nod in response, touching the painting one last time, before sliding my hand away in despair.

Grand Vizier Ptahu-Shepses turns to me and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. "It is time, Scribe Khamwazet. Priestess Ankhesen-Wahje has asked to see thee in the burial preparation chamber. It is time. B—" his voice falters briefly, not wanting to give power to the owner of the name he had almost spoken. "He has been prepared for the burial ritual. All will soon be well once more, praise Mut-Wahje, may she live forever and ever. Thou knowest what thee must do, correct?"

Trepidation and fear flows through my veins. In all the history of our people no scribe has ever had the responsibility that I will carry in mere moments. All the events and fear of the past year or so, wash over me anew. Can it really ever be over? Can the reign of terror and evil ever really end? What was it the history of the gods says? "He would toil for eons, working to destroy the happiness of the Wahje People until Ankhresut shall come and free them." Something like that. I had best not let His Majesty know I do not remember all of the tales of the gods if I am to keep my job as royal scribe and artist for the new temple.

Lines of fear tremble throughout my body as I follow The Vizier deep into the corridors of the temple. Dim light casts itself down from the sconces and torches along the walls, painting macabre, elongated shadows across our path. The smoky, sweet smell of copal incense and the soft scent of The Sacred Lotus, increases in strength the closer we get to the burial preparation chamber—both are appeals to the gods to protect us from the evil that shall hopefully soon to be far behind us and shall not come again in our lifetime.

Rounding the corner, I spot Priestess Ankhesen-Wahje waiting for us at the top of the stairs that lead down, incense flowing around her like a haunting mist. She rubs the gold arm bands at her wrists nervously for a moment before looking up at us. Those strange blue, kohl-lined eyes peer up at us solemnly, meeting mine in a look mixed with an array of emotions I can only begin to guess at. She is beautiful; and young to be the high priestess of our people, but many have had to take on more responsibility in the past few weeks at younger ages than ever before. Finally, she pulls her eyes away from mine and nods to The Vizier.

"Come." Her whisper echoes eerily through the corridor, the thin white dress of the priestesses flows softly around her feet as she turns her lithe figure to lead us down the staircase into the darkness of the burial chamber. Taking a deep breath I—

"Arnold?"

I can hear a voice…faintly…as if the sound is traveling over a great distance. My head feels heavy and my mind muddled. What was I thinking about just now? Something evil…something sinister…

"Arnold?"

It's that voice again…a dull pressure in my head is making it impossible to focus. What was it I was supposed to be doing?

"Priestess Ankhesen-Wahje," I mumble, before blinking and becoming aware of a faint glow of light in front of me.

"Huh? Is that something you read on the wall?"

"What?" I ask, blinking away the confusion that clouds my mind. The world is swimming in and out of view.

"That name you just said. Was that written on the wall?"

My eyes clear slightly and focus on her face, her fair hair falling softly on her cheeks.

"I-I-I don't remember." The faint glow of lantern light finally breaks through the veil covering my mind; her lovely face gazing back at me.

"Arnold," she says softly, her voice a mix of sincerity and concern, "are you okay? You spaced-out midsentence and your eyes dilated so much they looked practically black. I was afraid you were going to have a seizure or something. What happened?"

She moves even closer, putting a hand to my forehead, and suddenly I'm surrounded by her. Her breath washes over my face, tickling my senses and clearing away the last of the blurry residue of the dream. My heart starts to pound and I glance at her lips, suddenly wanting nothing more than—

"Arnold?" she says again, louder this time and snaps her fingers in front of my face.

"Helga?" I ask, the fog finally gone as I look around at my surroundings once more fully aware of where I am—of who I am.

She stands there, arms folded across her chest, eyes searching mine curiously. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," I reply, still fully rattled from my latest daydream.

This one was almost too real—the sights, the emotions-and felt almost impossible to pull out of. Almost like being startled awake by a loud noise during the deepest sleep cycle, only capable of being partially coherent because the grogginess of sleep lingers still and it's impossible to think straight or move without being clumsy.

She's eyeing me suspiciously and I heave a sigh. "I-I'm fine. Can we just drop it?"

She moves her face close to mine, looking into my eyes warily. My eyes drop to her lips again, and heat sears through me as the sweat pools on my forehead, remembering my slightly hazy moment of wanting to kiss her. Great, now my daydreams are making me so foggy-brained it's actually putting thoughts of kissing Helga in my mind.

But she steps back and shrugs lightly. I force myself to take another step back. I'm starting to realize it's not the heat that always seems to have this effect on me—it's her. "It's too hot in here."

Before I even know what's happened, Helga starts singing and bouncing her shoulders slightly to her own rhythm, "I'm too hot, hot damn! Call the police and the firemen, I'm too hot—hot damn, say my name you know who I am, I'm too hot—"

Oh, man, I'm still recovering from my delusions of kissing her and now she's shaking her hips and pursing her lips as she dances to some made-up song. How much is a guy supposed to take? "Helga, what are you doing?"

"What's it look I'm doing? I'm trying to lighten the mood by showing off some sweet dance moves," she replies, throwing in a little Michael Jackson style "whoo!" and moon walking away from me.

"Did you just make that song up on the spot?" I ask watching her as she still continues dancing to a beat only she can hear.

She stops short and stares at me in derision.

"What?" I ask, confused as to why that simple question would cause her to look at me that way.

"Please tell me that's a joke," she replies, moving to stand in front of me again, a hand on each hip, a sharp eyebrow practically sky-high.

Don't look at her lips. Don't look at her lips.

"No…" I finally reply, looking at her eyes.

"Bruno Mars?" she says.

I have no idea what she's talking about, so I take a chance. "Is that the name of the new Mars rover or something?"

"No, you dingus! Bruno Mars the singer! 'Uptown Funk'?" I just stare at her in bewilderment, I literally have no idea what she's talking about. "You've got to be kidding me? Where have you been the last couple of years?"

"Uh...the University Library...and the Egyptian desert?" I reply with a grin, feeling a little more like myself.

"You nerd," she laughs, her eyes sparkling with good-humor. "First thing we are doing when we get back to the tents is listening to 'Uptown Funk' on my Ipod."

I nod, feeling like a total moron as we amble down the hallway. Great. Now she just thinks I'm some big loser with no taste in music and no social life.

"Seriously though, Arnold, you're okay right?" she asks me again. "You kind of creeped me out back there with that wicked spacing-out you did earlier."

Honestly, I'm still unnerved enough by it all that I would rather not talk about it. But as I spin around to face away from her, I see the hallway from my…daydream…and can't help but wonder if that staircase is really there-just around that corner—leading down to what?

Burial Preparation Chamber, my mind whispers to me.

"Hey, let's go over here and see what's around the corner."

"Don't change the subject," Helga snarls. She's probably glaring daggers into my back, but I try to ignore it as I move forward. The faint thud of footsteps behind me shows that she's still following me. "Seriously," she finally says after she catches up to me, her stride matching mine in an instant. "I swear I was starting to think you were possessed by some mummy curse...like maybe," she pauses, her eyes growing wide and mock-spooky in the lantern light, "one of those Egyptian mummies you discovered wasn't so happy to be discovered and put an ancient curse on you."

I give her an eye roll. "Mummy curses aren't real, Helga. That's just superstition invented by the Egyptians to deter would-be grave robbers. Or even more likely it started in the Victorian time when everyone was really into the supernatural and the unexplained."

"What about Howard Carter and all the deaths that surrounded Tutankhamen's discovery? Wasn't there like a string of deaths following it?"

Usually only Egypt nerds would remember the name of the man who discovered Tutankhamen's mummy, and I have to admit I'm impressed. "Really Helga?" I exclaim, less impressed, however, by her apparent belief in superstitions. "That's because of mold spores and other dangerous germs within the bodies and once unwrapped they were set free, or," I add, "even more likely plain and simple coincidence."

"Damn it!" she cries, dramatically. "You're not the fruitcake archeologist my editor made you out to be."

"Thanks, Helga. Glad we could clear that up," I quip, turning and heading back down the long corridor.

Neither of us say another word as we continue down the hallway. It's funny, I would have thought the following silence would be awkward, but it isn't and I find myself feeling really content with just the fact that she's there. We each step down the hallway our steps become more in sync and once when our arms brush, I feel that familiar ripple of goosebumps run up my arm, and honestly, I'm kind of beginning to like it.

"You're sure it wasn't a mummy possessing you?" she asks again as we're about to round the corner.

I heave a sigh of slight annoyance before turning to her. "Yes, Helga, I—"

Helga shoots her hand out in front of me, smacking me in the chest and halting me, mid-step. "Helga, what the heck—"

"Shh!" she says in a voice much louder than the whisper she's going for. She nods in the direction around the corner, so I peer around to see what she's being so obnoxious about.

Soren and Sandy are standing there. He's standing in front of her, but slides one arm from around Sandy's waist before he turns to face us, leaving his other arm propped in a flirtatious manner next to her. She stays against the wall beneath his lingering position.

"What are you guys doing hiding over here?" I ask, ignoring the fact that Helga face-palms dramatically next to me. What's her problem anyway?

"Uh..." Soren says, glancing at Sandy hesitantly before look back at us. "Nothing?"

"Kissing. What's it to you?" Sandy asks, a grin on her face.

"Yah, kissing. What's it to you?" Soren asks, confidently this time.

"Uh wha-uh..." I kind of fumble over my words a little thrown off by their blunt candor.

Helga's unfazed. "Aren't you two supposed to be checking this place out to see if it's worth coming here next? Is this really the best use of your time?" she adds with a teasing smile.

"Definitely," Soren replies with a cheesy grin.

"And we are. We just took a little break," Sandy replies flippantly. "So sue us."

"Since I couldn't play baseball with Sandy it seemed like a good idea," Soren adds, pulling Sandy dramatically into his arms and dipping her before kissing her.

"Nice," Helga laughs. "Take note, Arnoldo, that is how it's done."


A long day of exploring the temple and surrounding area has finally come to an end. The sun is hanging heavy and low in the sky, and the heat of the day lifting in the shade of the trees around our campsite. After a little afternoon nap for some of us and quiet meditation for others, and Helga introducing me to the magnificence (her words, not mine) of Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars performing "Uptown Funk", the little ones had talked us into playing a game, their newfound love—baseball.

"Alright, team captains are me and Arnold," Helga says, pulling out a seemingly endless supply of baseball gloves and tossing them to each of us.

"You just want to be against him so you guys can wrestle again," comments Soren from the sidelines with a snicker and a childish elbow to his wife's side. She shakes her head at him condescendingly but an amused smile twitches across her face.

"Whatever," Helga replies rolling her eyes. "Arnold's just the only legit competition in this band of blockheads." Then as an after-thought she adds, "No offense."

With good-natured replies from everyone else, we commence the team picking. When everyone is finally in position, I get up to bat I hear but turn back around when I hear commotion behind me, coming from my teammates.

"This morning you said you wanted to play baseball," Sandy is telling Soren, innocently, trying to hide a satisfied smirk.

He huffs in response. "You know this isn't what I meant."

"Yah, well, don't worry. This will be more fun anyway," she replies, turning her back to him and laughing to herself.

There's a pause before he exclaims, "Wait! What?"

Still trying to hide her laughter and play it dead-pan, she turns back to him, "quit your whining and play ball."

With a dejected and somewhat childish kick at a nearby bush, he mumbles, "but I hate baseball."

"You better not have said what I think I heard you say," Helga yells from her spot on the pitcher's mound.

"I said I love baseball," Soren calls back, faking a jovial smile. "It's my most favorite sport ever. Baseball, baseball, baseball! Yay!"

"He said he hates baseball," Richard hollers from his spot on first base.

Soren glares at him. "Rich, what the heck, man? I thought we were friends."

"I ain't friends with somebody who insists on calling me 'Rich'," Richard quips in response, and grins cheekily when Antoinette high-fives him.

Helga throws a ball at Soren, hitting him squarely in the arm.

"Ow! What the heck? What did I do?" he asks, rubbing his arm. "Did you see what she did?" he asks Sandy, who just shrugs nonchalantly.

"Say that you hate baseball to my face, geek-bait," Helga says, walking toward him in her most threatening saunter.

"Uh..." he mumbles backing away slowly, glancing to Sandy for help.

"Uh-oh," I chuckle, leaning onto the bat, "you brought out the Pataki. Back in the day she would be threatening to pound you with her fists…which she had names for, by the way."

"Look I don't fight girls," Soren muttered, looking slightly unsure of the upcoming outcome.

"Well, I guess this is the end then," Helga laughs. "Crazy Arnold is the only person who knows the only way out of it," she says, staring Soren straight in the eye.

"That was when Harold was going to beat me up, not you," I reply, laughing to myself at the memory of when one of the bullies in our fourth grade class threatened to beat me up.

"Same difference because it would have worked on me too," she laughs, turning to me as I walk over to them.

"Dang! I wish I would have known that then," I reply, still chuckling.

"Well, now's your chance, Hair-boy. Save your friend," she says, pointing a thumb at Soren.

"Don't hit me...I'll hit me! I'm crazy," I sing, dancing around Helga and Soren while slapping my face crazily. And then with a wink to Helga I scat a little bit until I start singing, "I'm too hot, hot damn! Call the police and the firemen, I'm too hot—hot damn, say my name you know who I am, I'm too hot" while dancing up next to her.

Helga grins proudly and joins in the song, joining me in my dane. Pretty soon we're joined by Sandy and Soren.

"Alright, enough, let me show you people how it's done," Antoinette laughs, coming to join us and pulling Richard along with her.

"Uptown funk you up, I said uptown funk you up..."

"Vamos a jugar béisbol o de lucha?" Eduardo calls from his spot on third base. "Lets play!"

"You ready, Shortman?" Helga asks, coming to dance in front of me briefly with a wink, before she heads to the pitcher's mound.

"Oh, I'm ready, Pataki." For your teasing, your laugh, your temptation, your everything. "Hit me with your best shot."

She smirks as she throws the baseball into her glove. Even from my distance, I can see the way her eyes sparkle with mirth. I'm ready for that too. "Oh really? I don't think you are. Don't brag about it, come show me, dude."

I snort as I lift the bat in the air, practicing for my first swing of the evening. She'll never give this song up, will she? Well, I guess I'm ready for that too. "Don't believe me, just watch, Helga."

The moment her laughter reaches my ears, my heart skips a beat in resolution. I know what's happening when my cheeks flare up, when the sweat pools at my temples. I know and I am so ready.

This could be an even grander adventure than any I'd ever been on, and I can't quite decide if that excites me or scares me.

But either way. I'm ready.


A/N:

Aaaahhh! Didn't you just love this chapter? I really hope you did because I'm in LOVE with it! Tell me what you thought! Everything! I want to know it all! Favorite part? Favorite line? Tell me tell me!

Now, that first scene, the baseball scene was literally based on my two kids. I even asked my 6 year-old "Do you know what baseball is?" to get his answer and then I asked him for a team name and he said, "The Silly Team" and so the dialogue was born. And the part where Ramses refuses to be called anything but Ramses is totally my 3 year-old. If you call him a nickname or an adjective like "cute" you shall unleash his tiny fury. In fact I came downstairs today saying that our cat was "a big piggy" and he looked at me and in his stern, reprimanding voice said, "Bianca is NOT a piggy!" I was in BIG trouble. And the "keep your shirt on" part where the older boy took it literally...is again my 6-year-old, he is just like his dad—totally a logical thinker so he takes everything literally—too literally. And that baseball scene was probably my favorite thing to write yet, especially the last part with Arnold and Helga fighting for the win. Haha! Oh man! See I told you I loved this chapter!

Now, this is important... Here's a HUGE shout-out to my beta and friend AibouFTW! I'm kind of a lame person and I always forget to thank her in my A/Ns. But guys, she is so awesome! She will literally drop everything if I need her to beta this fic in only a few days and I couldn't be more grateful. And I actually keep and cherish her beta docs because they are so fabulous! And her hilarious commentary keeps me writing! I've gotten to the point where I sometimes write the chapters just to see what her commentary will be! She's the bomb-diggity, ya'll!

And a shout-out to Marie Allen, because she was super awesome and willing to read the ugly, skeletal beginnings of this chapter for me because I was totally in a panic about it and afraid it wasn't going where I wanted it! Thank you thank you!

This was an extra long chapter, so give me an extra long review, eh? Tell me what you thought? How much do you love Arnold and Helga? And those OCs because they are a joy and a half to write! Your reviews are the only reason I keep updating so send a sister a nice word, kk?

XOXO,

Arnold's Love