Chapter Ten: Who Am I To Disagree?
I would be lying if I said I was thankful that the Christmas season didn't drag on as it usually did, and soon New Year's had gone on its merry way as well. Valentine's Day also proved uneventful that year, and as March approached, I again told Arnold I didn't want anything for my birthday. Fourteen didn't seem like a very big day to me, personally, so when he suggested a quiet dinner at the boarding house with his parents and grandparents—yet again—I jumped at the prospect of the simplicity of it all.
Olga called from New York about a week before my birthday to check and see if Arnold and I would like to come for spring break again, but we had decided to take a trip to San Lorenzo over the week just for kicks. Olga understood and caught me up on how Osias and Eilis were doing—she said that they were past babbling but not yet speaking coherently, but that they were progressing well. I had a picture of their christening on the desk in my bedroom. It had been a sweltering day in the middle of August, and I was very surprised my hair had not been sticking to my forehead. The twins were asleep in my arms, and, at that point, resembled sacks of flour more so than babies...
Mr. Simmons was hard at work figuring out what we should do for our midterms that year, and it suddenly came to him one afternoon during the week of my birthday. His excitement was very nearly contagious, although I was quite positive that Rhonda wouldn't tolerate such a display, so I kept my mouth shut. Mr. Simmons then walked to the front of the class and began speaking to us in that nervous tone of voice of his, telling us to pick a person anonymously to write an essay about, and then turn it in. We weren't allowed to say anything defaming about the person—it could either be a positive or neutral take on them—and we weren't required to show the person themselves.
That came as a relief, and it was a given that I would choose Arnold, because why wouldn't I, really? The very notion that I was not obligated to show him the essay seemed like an added comfort, and I decided to wait and see what my final product was before I decided. After school that day, I promptly went home and got onto my computer to write a rough draft of my essay, the fact that Arnold didn't know my password equally comforting. Mr. Simmons would likely be expecting me to pick Arnold, so I knew I had to be bold with my language and what I chose to talk about within the pages I was allotted. I didn't want to come across like a typical girlfriend, and I knew then that I couldn't be—typical didn't mix with Helga Pataki, and I think even Arnold knew that. Mr. Simmons obviously had to know that piece of information, too, given that he had been my teacher for four years and had to know me—at least a little...
Arnold is different in that when he says he'll do something, he will keep his word unless someone is holding a knife to his throat, or if he is suspended by a rope bridge. He always thinks of others before himself, and never fails to make someone smile when they're feeling down. He is the epitome of goodness, and I know he would never do something to deliberately hurt another person.
I didn't even have to dig into the volumes of books of poetry I'd written about him for any kind of other source information—besides, how was I to explain to Mr. Simmons where some of the language had come from? I was quite sure that he would be shocked at the notion that Arnold made my girlhood tremble, and I most certainly didn't want Principal Wartz to get involved. That would've been a classic case of authority denying young people free speech—while still allowing it for themselves—and we couldn't have that.
I worked for the rest of the week on my essay, wanting to pour as much as I could into it for, other than whatever my final proved to be, it would be my final piece of work to show for my middle school education. I barely listened when Arnold confirmed the time for my celebration dinner, the Saturday before my birthday, at six-thirty at his house. I would have just enough time, I decided, to hurry home and finish my second draft before getting ready the following night. When school ended, I hastily kissed Arnold on the cheek before Phoebe and I walked to our respective homes together, and I said goodbye to her for the weekend and hurried back to my house and went straight to my bedroom.
When five o'clock arrived the following day, I decided to give my writing a rest and saved my document before pushing back from my computer and letting out an exhausted but well-deserved sigh. When a tap on my bedroom door startled me, I immediately got to my feet and answered it. Suffice it to say having my mother standing out in the hallway holding a garment bag was a little shocking, but I thanked her and took it, heeding her words to wear it that night at the dinner. I nodded and thanked her, and she kissed me on the forehead before shaking her head a little, almost as if she was wondering where the time had gone before she left me standing there with the oversized bag.
Perplexed to say the least, I shut my bedroom door behind me and bring the bag over to my bed. Laying it down flat, I unzip the massive black thing with gold lettering upon it, my eyebrows raising automatically when I catch a glimpse of the 1950's style cocktail party dress. It was a powdery pink color, and would look well with my standard bow, or so I thought. Hanging the bag on one of the hooks on the back of my door, I go into my bathroom to take a shower, mulling over what the dress could mean as I wash my hair. Stepping out of the shower as soon as I've finished, I dry myself off with my towel before hanging it up and pulling my bathrobe around me.
As I return to my bedroom to begin putting on my new outfit, I find that there is some bulkiness lurking at the bottom of the garment bag. Upon examining it further, I find that there are a pair of matching kitten heels below the skirts of my new dress. I find myself smiling at whoever bought me this, for even they knew that I would need a pair of shoes that matched this fabulous dress. I went to my chest of drawers and drew out the necessities, along with a pair of white tights and laid out everything on my bed before returning to the bathroom. I picked up my hair straightener and blow-dryer and plugged them both in, drying my hair before I straightened it with a special brush Olga had sent me over Christmas. I managed to clip my bow to the back center of my head as I left the bathroom after a final look in the mirror.
Managing to somehow zip my dress without any formal assistance, I stepped into my new pair of heels and gazed at myself in the mirror. Not too shabby, I thought to myself then. For the first time, I thought I looked somewhat pretty, and the matching purse and pearl necklace—found tucked away at the back of the garment bag—didn't hurt the ensemble either. It was then that I felt a rattling in the purse then and, upon unzipping it, I discovered a pair of short gloves, a pink compact mirror, and shimmering pick lip gloss on the inside. I popped open the compact and spread some of the lip gloss over my lips before popping it back into the purse and pulling on the gloves.
Heading downstairs—as it was after six and I did not particularly wish to run all the way to Arnold's house—I spotted my mother waiting for me by the front door with a smile on her face. She held a pink silk wrap in her hands, which she expertly draped around my shoulders and middle back before opening the door for me, making sure I had my key as I walked down the stairs. She told me to have a good time that night, before wishing me a happy birthday and shutting the door gently behind me as I began walking down the block.
It wasn't completely dark yet as I walked down the block and towards the boarding house. Phoebe's house was well-lit, and I wondered what she and her family would be doing that weekend. It was still too cold to go to the beach, although I did wonder if she and Gerald were at the movies. It was a Saturday night, after all, and lots of young couples found themselves, hand clasped, doing god knows what in the darkness of a movie theater.
Get it together, old girl, I thought to myself. You're officially fourteen-years-old on Monday, and you have every right to consider activities like that, just don't partake in them, because you're not ready and too young...
As I continued down the block, I neared the part of it where Arnold and Gerald would join Phoebe and I on our walks to school. Smiling to myself as I turned down the block in that direction, I kept on going through the setting sun as I neared the boarding house. I reached the final corner, looking both ways out of habit as I crossed the street, and soon I had reached the gray stone staircase. Climbing up them carefully, I drew my gloved hand upwards and knocked, and barely allowed myself to acknowledge the scuffling from behind the door. Arnold opened it, dressed elegantly in a suit and bow tie, and I nearly giggled aloud as his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets at the sight of me, and I tried my best to smile at him as he took me by the hand.
"You look beautiful," he declared.
I shrug. "I don't know..." I said, feeling the flush developing on my cheeks as he pulled me inside. "I guess...maybe..." I was slightly taken aback when I saw the darkness greeting me from the dining room, but Arnold merely pulled me through the house and up the stairs, past his bedroom, and towards the staircase for the roof, which he soon pushed open. I was soon greeted by everyone surrounded by twinkling tea lights—Mr. and Mrs. Shortman, Arnold's grandparents, Phoebe, Gerald, Harold, Rhonda, Nadine, even Mr. Simmons—and everyone else in our class at school.
"Surprise!" everyone shouted, and I nearly fell over in the heels.
"Happy Birthday, Helga!" Arnold said happily.
"Happy Birthday, Helga!" yelled everyone else.
I shook my head. "What's all this?" I asked, gaping aloud at the sight of Phoebe and Rhonda dressed in similar dresses to mine, as well as Gerald, dressed similarly to Arnold in a snazzy suit. "What's going on?"
"It's your last birthday before high school, Helga," Arnold explained with a grin at having managed to pull this all together. "And I thought, I don't know, maybe you deserve something totally amazing and unexpected and—"
I throw my arms around him and hug him, cutting him off, but just manage to hear him chuckle in my ear. "I love it," I whispered to him, soft enough that only he will be able to hear. "I love it so much."
Arnold pulled back from me then and kissed me on the cheek, before he took two glasses filled with sparkling cider from an offered tray, carried by Mrs. Shortman, and handed one over to me. "To Helga, on her fourteenth birthday—which is on Monday, but we're holding it on Saturday because there's no school tomorrow. I mean, what can I say about Helga?" he asks, taking my hand again and gazing into my eyes. "She organized our first trip to San Lorenzo, she helped me and Gerald find the place of the Green-Eyed people, and she briefly sacrificed her locket so that my parents—and the kingdom—could be saved. She is an amazing girlfriend and person, and I couldn't be happier to have her in my life," he says, raising his glass with a smile. "To Helga!" he declares.
"To Helga!" everyone says, raising their glasses to me and taking a drink.
"Whooo!" Harold shouts then, turning around then and pressing the iPod holder behind him. He looked a little shocked as I Only Have Eyes for You by The Flamingos started playing, but nevertheless shouted, "Let's dance and party!" and grabbed Rhonda by the hand and proceeded to dance.
"I'm game for it, if you are," Phoebe says to Gerald, who grins and leads her onto the dance floor, as other couples begin pairing up as well.
"Helga?" Arnold says, and I turn to look at him, seeing his extended hand. "Would you like to dance?"
I nodded. "Of course," I reply, taking his offered hand and allowing him to lead me onto the dance floor. "This is nice," I say quietly as he pulls me towards him, letting me rest my chin upon his shoulder. "Thank you for this, Football Head," I say softly to him. "For all of it...everything," I say, pulling back and gazing upwards at him—he is so tall, but the heels manage to help.
"I wanted you to have a fantastic birthday, Helga," he says.
I grin up at him. "You succeeded," I reply as the song swells around us. "It's amazing, in every way."
"I'm glad," he replies.
"Me, too," I say back, managing to barely extend my legs to tiptoe territory as I manage to take his face into my hands and kiss him.
. . .
Dear Helga,
I was just thinking about your fourteenth birthday as springtime is here at last again in New York. Back when things seemed simpler, before it all went wrong; it was back when Dr. Bliss was around, back before all the fights and arguments that just seemed like they couldn't be helped. I wish I'd tried to talk to you in a different perspective about the whole thing, instead of blaming you about the notion that you didn't want me to have a future. I know you did, and yet I also know that you were afraid of what would happen if I left. I was afraid too, and all my worst fears were realized when I did finally leave, and things fell apart.
One of my professors out here said something interesting to me; he compared a relationship to a house plant. House plants need water, sunshine, food, care, and love—all things humans need from one another, either in a familial way, a platonic way, or romantic way. I think that's why things got lost in translation with us, Helga, ultimately, because we didn't give our relationship everything it needed. I think humans need two things that plants don't—communication and honesty. If I communicated with you a little bit better, and was able to explain in an honest manner what I was feeling, and able to listen to you as well, I think, perhaps, things would have been different.
I remember how pretty you looked in that dress. I remember going to that big department store in Downtown Hillwood with my mom and picking it out for you. I remember laughing when she suggested something a bit more frilly and girly and elegant for you, but something about that dress spoke to me. It was simple and elegant all on its own—just like you are, and just like you shall always be. The pearl necklace was from your father, the shoes from Olga, and the wrap was from your mother. She said she wanted to hand-deliver everything to you; I think she thought it would help make up for all her short-comings towards you all these years, and I can see that, for a moment, at least, it helped. You were so radiant and happy that night, and I wouldn't change that night for anything in the world; it was truly the beginning of the end.
I know things went wrong for a reason, Helga—I just can't fathom why they seemed to unravel so quickly. I'd give anything to change it, but nobody can turn back time, unfortunately. I think we have to make the best of a bad situation, and figure out how to continue on through it.
Your friend,
Arnold Shortman
. . .
The spring break trip to San Lorenzo was unbelievably amazing, and Arnold barely even looked at the Green-Eyed princess while we were down there. He said hello when we first arrived, and goodbye when we left back home for Hillwood. Arnold and I took our annual romantic walk along the stone bridge, and even managed to recreate our first kiss. Everything was as it should be, and as we arrived home, the large envelopes waiting for us made us doubly excited.
I called Arnold immediately, my heart pounding, and he said he had just arrived in his room and found his. "We'll open them together," I said breathlessly.
"On three," he replied.
"Okay. One..." I said.
"...two..." he said.
"Three!" we shouted together, ripping open the envelopes and gazing at what inevitably lay inside.
"You go first," he said.
"No, you," I told him.
"You!" he cried out, laughing.
"Fine," I said, looking over the words. "Dear Miss Pataki, we are very happy to announce that you have exceeded expectations in the enrollment application and are here to tell you that you have been accepted into Hillwood Academy for Girls on a full-scholarship, starting September seventh, with an introductory tea at two p.m. the day before, where you will receive your first-year, or freshman year, uniform. You have our permission to look into class scheduling and go on our website to figure out what books you'll have. A personal promo code is enclosed to make sure that your books are free. More information to follow, Miss Pataki, and again, our heartfelt congratulations as we formally welcome you to the Hillwood Academy family."
"That's amazing, Helga!" Arnold said.
"Now you!" I ordered, never one for ceremony.
"Okay," he said, and I could hear him ripping the envelope on the other end of the phone and gasped. "Dear Mr. Shortman, first and foremost, welcome to Hillwood Preparatory for Boys on a full scholarship! Our term begins on September seventh, and we expect you there for orientation an hour before school begins—promptly at seven a.m. sharp. Your first-year or introductory uniform will be delivered to your address, with an information form for it enclosed in the envelope. Please feel free to go online to our website with the promo code provided to sign up for classes and access your books. We look forward to seeing you at the orientation, and encourage you to sign up online for it. Welcome to the Hillwood Preparatory family, Mr. Shortman. We look forward to meeting you."
"This is amazing," I said softly. "Olga says they only accept four kids from the eighth grade at P.S. 118. I wonder who the other two are..."
"I suspect we'll find out soon enough," Arnold replied.
We didn't have long to wait, because the following Monday, while walking to school, Phoebe told me and Gerald told Arnold that they had also been chosen. It was a wonderful experience, knowing that my best friend would still be at school with me the following year, with our boyfriends just across the street. School began as normal and as the class all piled into their seats, Mr. Simmons took a moment to congratulate Phoebe, Gerald, Arnold, and I on our acceptances to Hillwood Academy and Hillwood Preparatory respectively. Then, Mr. Simmons asked us about our progress on our midterms, we each gave a thirty-second report on how things were coming, and I found I was still debating on whether or not to show Arnold the final product.
I knew what would ultimately happen; ultimately, Arnold would find out or figure out that I'd written about him and convince me to let him see it. I loved that about him—how he allowed me to face my fears like that. As the rest of April dwindled into that little puddle of forgotten early springtime, and as May began, the tension began to mount, as I knew that the results of the New York competition would be arriving in a matter of weeks. Whether or not it was a rejection or an approval, all I wanted to do was know the truth. And as June dawned, and I knew that it was now officially just around the corner, and I grew uneasy as it became completely clear—as before it had merely been a suggestion that we skip it—that San Lorenzo was officially off the table that summer.
I found myself humming to myself one afternoon in the first week of June—four weeks to the day of turning in my second midterm essay—and found myself slightly restless. Graduation was two weeks away, and finals were the following week, also around the corner. It was a warm Saturday afternoon, and as I walked over to my window, I saw that the gang had decided to play some kickball outside —something that Rhonda had said was 'uncool', and had been since we were in the fourth grade. Raising my eyebrows at the notion that she was playing too, I threw down my algebra textbook and ran outside to join them. It was nice just to be carefree for those fleeting moments—before I was a private school girl, before I was Arnold's girlfriend, before we entered the stupid competition...
I was officially snapped back to reality a week later when finals began, and I cursed myself for not going over my algebra in a more complete manner. Suffice it to say I momentarily stumbled on a few questions, and my English and History finals went significantly better. For the final for science, we had to simply write up a lab with the most science terms we could remember—let it be known that 'hypothesis' entered my thoughts more than once. Finally, when I was able to throw my pencil down and rest my hand that Friday afternoon—the final day of finals—all I wanted to do was go home to sleep.
Rhonda's party was that night, and I knew it would look weird if I wasn't there, so I compromised with a nap beforehand. I put on a black dress that night with a knee-length skirt, and found a pair of heeled boots that had once belonged to Olga, made of real black leather which reached my upper knee. I put on my pink lip gloss and straightened my hair again, and for the first time, as I lifted it to position it in my hair, I found myself drawing back my hand and gazing down at my pink bow which had become my trademark for so long. I gazed at myself in the mirror then —my cheeks flushed from the heat and the excitement of starting high school the following year—and shook my head.
Simply running a brush through my hair and leaving it hanging down my back, I returned to my bedroom and opened my keepsake box on my dresser, placing my bow inside it. I stroked its sides for a moment before dashing the momentary tears which entered my eyes before I shook my head a second time. I slammed the box shut and turned my back on it, gathering up my clutch bag—another gift left behind by Olga—and slipped my phone into it before switching off my light and leaving my bedroom.
Arnold didn't say anything about my missing bow, and I was not sure he even noticed it as we danced with the whole gang at the party tonight. He unexpectedly walked me all the way home that night around ten p.m. and I kissed him goodnight before telling him I would see him Monday. Monday afternoon was graduation and I planned to sleep throughout the morning to ensure that I was all in one piece for the ceremony itself. When Sunday passed by quickly and Monday arrived, I got up around eleven a.m. and was surprised to hear a familiar voice coming up through the floorboards and into my room.
Getting up out of bed and straightening my T-shirt and shorts, I gathered my snarled hair into a messy ponytail and headed downstairs, surprised to see Olga in the kitchen, making brunch for our parents. Dad had said that he would take the whole day off of work for the ceremony, but I hadn't been sure whether to believe him or not until now. Our parents greeted me pleasantly, but Olga swept me into a hug and informed me that she wouldn't have missed this for anything, before gently pushing me into a chair and encouraging me to eat the crepe with cream and strawberries she had made for me.
"Thank you," I said, still in shock as I managed to pick up my fork. I made small talk with the family, and Olga gave me a bag from Fifth Avenue in New York and waited with baited breath as I rummaged through the tissue paper to find a pale pink sundress which was very grown up. "Thank you," I said again, nodding when she mentioned it was for the ceremony that day.
I finished my crepe with a third and final awkward thank you before putting my plate and fork into the dishwasher, and snagging a water bottle from the fridge. I took the bag with the dress inside and took it upstairs, placing it on my bed as I went into my bathroom to shower and ready myself for the afternoon ahead. I flat-ironed my hair as soon as it was dry enough before I slid the dress over my head and gazed at myself in my floor-length mirror. My pink, open-toed sandals showed off my pedicure, got over the weekend via a gift card from Olga, and picked up the flimsy graduation gown, weighing it in my fingers.
I turned around then, pressing the home button upon my phone to check the time, and found out that I had half an hour to get to the school. Olga tapped on my door and told me that she had gotten a rental car and could drive me herself so that she could reserve some seats. I accepted and picked up my graduation gown again, putting it on and zipping it up before making a grab for the silk sash which had P.S. 118 printed upon it, and placed this around my neck. Next, I picked up the cap and placed it upon my head, turning the tassel the correct way and finding that I was biting my lip in anxiety before putting on the official necklace which stated that I was a Hillwood Hedgehog, as well as the sash that went around me like some sort of pageant queen, announcing that I was in the honor society.
I went downstairs, after putting my phone and my locket into my pocket for good luck, meeting Olga by the front door. We called goodbye to our parents before stepping out of the house and towards her spiffy rental car, which she opened automatically and allowed me into the front seat. As I settled into my seat, putting on my seatbelt carefully to ensure as little wrinkling as possible to my clothes, I turned and watch Olga stick the key into the ignition and pull off down the street towards my school.
I felt my eyebrows knitting together in a moment of confusion. "So, why didn't Harrison or the twins come?" I asked casually as we drove.
"What, I'm not enough for you?" Olga joked with a laugh, although something rang false behind it.
I blinked, not prepared for this. "Um, no of course you are," I said, stumbling not to offend her. "No, I just meant that you two usually seem to want to travel together—you said so..."
"Have you ever tried traveling with twins that aren't even a year old yet?" Olga asked as we turned a corner. "I mean, please. You wouldn't even want to consider doing it..."
I shake my head. "No, I guess I didn't think about that..."
Olga smiled. "And why would you?" she asked, not unkindly. "It's not something that a fourteen-year-old should be thinking about, anyway..."
"Well, Harrison's family lives out there," I said quietly. "I mean, couldn't his family have watched the twins for a day or two?"
"Harrison and I decided that, for the first five years, the two of us wouldn't travel at the same time," Olga said, her voice encroaching on the impatient territory as we moved closer and closer to P.S. 118. "It's a bonding thing, I guess—I don't know, I mean, his mother suggested it..."
I raised my eyebrows. "Mother-in-law from hell?" I asked.
Olga shrugged. "I don't know—I hardly see her," she says.
"Why? You took online classes to make sure you were constantly around for Osias and Eilis for those first few years..."
Olga sighs. "I didn't tell Mom and Dad, but I guess I can tell you... I got my PhD in January," she says with a smile.
"What?!" I cry out, grinning. "Olga! Why didn't you say something?!"
"You're in your last year at P.S. 118 before going onto high school," she replies. "I know the last few months before that big transition can be full of stress, and I didn't want that for you."
I smile. "Well, I appreciate the consideration, but I think getting a PhD is a much bigger deal than graduating eighth grade," I put in. "Wait... Is your getting your PhD why Harrison isn't here? Is he threatened by it or something?"
Olga sighs. "I got a job offer in Los Angeles," she says quietly. "It wouldn't start until September, but I have to say a definitive yes or no by the end of this month. I got it just after your birthday," she tells me, "in the first week of April."
I sigh, finally finding a fault in my brother-in-law. "And Harrison doesn't want you to take it?" I predict.
Olga nods. "Exactly. He thinks that because his career was established first that I should try to make a go of it in New York. He and his family have friends in ever career division you can think of—medical, law, education, you name it. I guess he thinks he can buy me a career like he can buy me a pair of boots."
"Do you want to take it?" I ask.
"Admittedly, yes," Olga replies, reaching the final block before my school. "But I can't just decide like that..."
"Olga, this is not pre-1920's where women are bound to their husbands," I say firmly, almost as if I am the older sister and she is the younger. "If you want this job, then tell Harrison that. Communication and honesty are the best policies in any relationship," I say, and it is then that I want to slap myself upside the head, for one week ago, I had gotten a letter from the Columbia University Competition for Young Applicants, telling me that I had been hand-picked from the entire stack of candidates, and that I had to formally decide by the second week in August if I was in or out.
"Yes, I know that," Olga said, bringing me back to the present. "But this could potentially break up my marriage. I don't want to think about it."
"Then don't," I reply, my voice quiet. "Don't think about it—not today. Wait until you get home and then discuss it calmly and rationally. I know you'll figure out a solution that's best for everyone."
Olga sighs as she pulls up in front of my school. "Break a leg in there...baby sister," she says quietly.
I turn around and smile at her. "I'll do my best...big sister," I say, leaning in and giving her a fleeting hug before dashing from the car.
. . .
Dear Arnold,
Don't fault me for not writing for a few weeks—things have been pretty hectic here on my end. Before Gerald or Phoebe leak the information to you, I'd like you to be the first to know that, as of last week, I dropped out of Hillwood Academy. I took my GED the day after I signed my walking papers, and got my results within hours of taking the test. I passed with flying colors; now I can take over more duties at the restaurant, and was promoted to assistant manager. I know this wasn't originally intended in the cards for me, but life has a funny way of doing this to you sometimes.
Now I'm going to tell you something that I never thought I would tell you, Football Head, but it's been eating away at me and I can't stand it anymore. You may think I'm crazy, so I sent along the documentation as proof, just so you don't think that I'm a total masochist. The thing is, a week before eighth grade graduation, I got a letter from the Columbia University Competition for Young Applicants, accepting me into the program of my choice. I didn't want to leave you or Hillwood or any of it, so I declined... I declined...
. . .
I kept my mouth shut about winning the competition, because, just like my sister, I just didn't want to think about it. The notion of leaving my hometown, all I'd ever known, and Arnold... I couldn't do it—any of it. I went through the motions of the graduation ceremony; my name was printed in the program of the top ten students with the best GPA's. Arnold and I tied for third, while Phoebe was first and Gerald was second. Since Gerald and Phoebe were named second and first respectively, the pair of them were required to make speeches during the ceremony, while Arnold and I merely had to smile and wave to the crowd gathered together with the group of eight other students.
The rest of June passed like a hot haze, and when July arrived, I knew that I couldn't accept the competition. In July, the fair came to town and I surprised Arnold with two tickets. We went through the Tunnel of Love, and we experienced our first 'real' kiss in that it was different, one we'd never permitted ourselves to experience before. It just felt right, in that moment, knowing that once I told the university what I'd decided, that I hoped he would remember it forever—that, and we got a photo snapped of us, mid-kiss. At the end of the day, I went to a commemorative coin machine and, with that picture, made coins while Arnold was proving himself as a strong man.
That night, after the fair, my mind was made up.
However, my plans would be deferred as mono took over, clouding my every thought and rendering me in bed for over two weeks. Once it finally lifted completely, I drafted a letter to the competition, telling them to give the prize to Arnold, for he was more deserving than I would ever be. I may have used my essay for inspiration, and mentally thanked Mr. Simmons for suggesting that as a midterm assignment in the first place.
I felt my eyes grow heavy with tears as I moved my mouse to the left corner of the email program I used, pressing send before I could change my mind. From that moment, I knew full well what I had to do. From that moment, I vowed to keep my mouth shut...
. . .
I'm so, so sorry I didn't tell you before, Arnold. I know you must hate me, and, to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't blame you. You must think I did this whole thing as a test to see how loyal you were to me. To be honest, the thought did occur to me, and it was a stupid thing to do. I should have never done something like this, and I know that, after all this time, to apologize now makes absolutely no sense.
To think I put you through such hell and then just expected you to automatically forgive me, and to continue to lay on the guilt for over a year... My behavior is inexcusable, and I know, if I were you, I would not forgive me. The fact that I had you and lost you in bad faith...I shall never forgive myself for that—for any of it—and neither should you...
. . .
When Arnold came by three days later—after all the germs were assured to be gone by the doctors—he was gleeful. In his hands, he triumphantly carried the official documentation telling him of his acceptance into the Columbia University Competition for Young Applicants. I had to pretend to be surprised and delighted at everything he told me, and I did my best to channel a young Meryl Streep throughout the exchange. I used my just getting better after mono to get out of the celebratory dinner that evening—I just couldn't face it.
I couldn't face any of it—knowing that I was truly going to lose him in a matter of just two weeks. The terms 'dark room' and 'fetal position' readily come to mind when I think of those dark days, and I would never wish it on anyone. The first week passed and I barely saw or spoke to Arnold—I didn't want to threaten his imminent departure to New York, although it ate me up inside.
I went over to the boarding house at the beginning of the second week; I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to tell him that I'd originally be accepted—I wanted to hurt him, to let him know that he had been the second choice, and that he should leave me, because I didn't deserve him. I didn't deserve any of it, which is why I had asked for it to be given to him. When I had checked my email, I realized that, for the first time, I had not asked for that. At all.
I had named all the qualities of Arnold, without putting a name to the face that I was painting a picture of. By simply going over the applications again, these intelligent people at Columbia University were able to figure out just which one Arnold truly was. And that was how he was picked. That was how—my stupid essay which did nothing but cause trouble.
"Don't do this," I said quietly as I watched him sorting his clothes. I watched as he stopped what he was doing, and turned to look at me. "Don't leave Hillwood. Not before we've finished high school. Don't go."
Arnold very nearly glared at me. "Helga, let me ask you something."
"Anything," I replied, hoping that he would ask if they picked me first, so that I could get off the hook.
"Do you not care about my future?" he asked.
"I—" I found I couldn't answer the question immediately, I was so thrown. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're my girlfriend," he said, striding towards me and placing his hands upon my shoulders from where I stood, leaning against his doorframe, arms crossed to keep myself from physically lashing out. "Girlfriends are always supposed to care about their boyfriends' futures—and vice versa. Can you honestly tell me that you don't care about my future?"
"Arnold!" I cry out.
"Because you're starting to sound like you don't," he says. "Just tell me—do you or do you not care about my future?"
I backed away from him, willing myself not to cry as his arms dropped. "I can't believe you just asked me that question," I whisper.
"Answer me," he ordered.
"Oh, I care," I said, feeling myself trembling as I forced myself not to outright sob at his implications. "I care too much apparently..." I turn away then, looking down at the staircase—where he had climbed with me proudly to show me my surprise party, where we had climbed for our countless study sessions, and where he had climbed solo to find out that we had won the contest for San Lorenzo. All seemed like they were several lifetimes ago...
"Helga?"
I turned to look at him, walking up to him and kissing him on the cheek. "I will see you tomorrow. I'll be over bright and early to ride with you and your parents to the airport," I reply, turning on my heel and running down the stairs.
. . .
I'm not about to say that I was the only imperfect party here, Arnold. The way you treated me was unacceptable, the day before you left. The way you were demanding things of me—how could you ask me if I cared about your future? I cared so much—why do you think I essentially told them all at Columbia to pick you for this thing instead of me?
It's because I didn't deserve it, and you did. Besides, my volumes of poetry about you would have never been able to pass through security. The sensors would have picked up on some of the language, and then I'd been in airport prison. Bad girlfriend prison, maybe, but not airport prison...
. . .
Mr. and Mrs. Shortman made small talk in the front seat the following morning as Arnold and I sat on opposite ends of the backseat. He attempted to take my hand a few times, but I wouldn't allow it. Finally, I allowed him to hold it, but I made no moves to hold it back. We parked in the parking lot, and Mr. Shortman gathered Arnold's luggage from the backseat, Arnold helping to carry some of the weight until we managed to find one of those massive rollers to help do our job for us as we trekked through the airport.
Mr. Shortman and Arnold printed out his boarding pass, and I spoke quietly to Mrs. Shortman during that time. Once his boarding pass was printed, Mr. Shortman paid the fee to allow Arnold's larger bags to be hauled into the separate plane compartment. We then walked with Arnold to security, and Mr. and Mrs. Shortman said goodbye before walking a short distance away, to allow me to say goodbye to Arnold on my own.
"I hope you have a safe trip," I say, and manage to catch Arnold's attention away from the security line, and I know he is thinking of all those times we had to spend in them together. "And I hope you find everything you're looking for."
"Everything I'm looking for?" he asked.
I nodded. "And I mean everything."
"Helga, what are you saying?" he asks, distress in his face and tone at the coldness of my voice. "I don't—"
"Save it," I reply, forcing myself not to outwardly weep and demand for him to stay behind with me. "You'll have a fantastic time, and all that that entails, and I want you to experience everything that New York has to offer."
"What does that—?" he asks.
I straighten myself up then, knowing that I sound terrible, but also knowing that it was for the best. "It means that you don't have to worry about me," I reply. "It means that I'm ending things."
"Helga—"
"No," I say, my voice firm, catching ever so slightly before I manage to keep my emotions in check. "It's over."
"But Helga, I l—"
"Don't say it now," I said, the tears finally entering my eyes. "You never said it before, and an airport security line is hardly the proper time to say it." I dash the tears from my eyes. "Look, Football Head—it was never going to work. I don't want you to cleave to the notion that you have someone here watching your every move. You have permission to see other people, because you won't have me to worry about."
"Helga, I can't help it," he says, attempting to take my hand again. "I'm always going to worry about you."
"Then stop," I whisper, stepping away from him. "Goodbye, Arnold Shortman," I say, and turning my back on him before I disappear through the crowd.
. . .
Other secrets I carried with me, too, Arnold. I think that since so long has passed, and we always preach honesty to each other, I think we should share them. One I can share with you now, because I think a part of you has always known. Always known that it was difficult for me, but also before I knew that losing two people I cared so much about was too difficult to bear...
. . .
THREE MONTHS LATER
"I don't understand," I whispered, feeling myself shaking then as I faced the rather imposing attorney on the other side of the desk. "I was only her patient. Why she would leave me anything in her will is beyond me..."
"You were obviously a great friend to Lisa Bliss," the attorney replied, shuffling the papers in front of him.
"I didn't know it got as bad as it did—the cancer, I mean," I said, shaking my head then as I mulled it over.
"Cancer of the brain affects between one-hundred thousand and two-hundred thousand people every year," he says quietly. "Now, Miss Pataki, I am prepared to let you know what Dr. Lisa Bliss has left you in her will."
"Okay," I whispered. "I'm ready."
"She has left you her apartment," he says. "It's been paid up for another three years or so, but it needs some work..."
I nodded. "Obviously, I can't move in now. I'm fourteen, and I still live with my parents... I could get emancipated, I guess..."
"You could," he says. "It's all preliminary, of course. You just have to authorize it at this point. Dr. Bliss could live another year."
I nod. "Of course. Very well. I'll authorize it," I say, and he hands me a pen, and I manage to sign my name to the document. I leave the office shortly thereafter, the coolness of the winter weather barely phasing me as I pull my coat closer around me and make my way towards the bus stop. I receive a notification on my phone, merely telling me to get to the hospital and quickly, and when I finally arrive, I am told to go to room 110, and I barely make it there in time. "Dr. Bliss!" I cry out when I see that it is her room. "What—?"
"It's going to happen today," she says with a slight smile.
"No. No, it's not," I say, shaking my head. "The doctors—they said another few months, at best. Not today... Not now..."
She continues smiling at me. "I know it's hard—Arnold leaving me and me now on my way out the door. But these things can't be helped, Helga. Life can't be helped, and neither can death."
"Dr. Bliss..." I say, feeling my eyes fill with tears.
She smiles. "It'll be okay. I promise."
"How can you promise that?" I demand, sobbing now as I felt I should have done when Arnold left. "How can you? Everyone I love leaves me..."
"Helga, you're a fighter," she says, taking my hand in hers and clasping it. "I know it seems like darkness is coming in for you, but don't let it." She coughs then, and turns away from me, but I know that I won't get sick—not like this.
"I'm not ready to be on my own," I whispered.
She smiles. "Sometimes we're not. Sometimes we are. All I know is, if you're not ready now, you will be. Soon."
"Don't..." I whisper.
She reaches up then and cups my face, gently wiping some of my tears away. "I know things will work out for you, Helga Pataki. I know they will."
"I need you to guide me," I whisper. "I need you..."
"You did—when you were nine," she replies simply. "Now you're fourteen. I've helped you for five years, Helga, and I've done my best with you. But now I know that, since it's time for me to move on, you have to move on."
"I can't," I whisper. "I can't. Please..."
She shakes her head. "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.
. . .
It was stage four brain cancer that took her away from all of it, Arnold. For so long I couldn't bring myself to say it. She left me her apartment in her will—the place I now call home. Never did I think it, but when I found the adoption papers in some of her things, with my name beside 'Name of Child' and her name beside 'Name of Applicant', I knew her true intentions. She'd brought it up to me in that veiled way of hers, but never did I think she actually meant it. Apparently, she was rejected—I don't have all the details.
That was the problem with me, Arnold—when love came calling, I didn't think I deserved or was worthy of it. Maybe along some lines I wasn't, but along others, I was worthy. It just took me a little longer to see it that way, but even I know that it was a little too late—especially after all that I've told you. I guess the bottom line out of all this is, we did love each other—I knew you were going to say it that day at the airport, but I didn't want to hear it.
We loved each other, that was a given, although I cannot fathom why you never felt the need to say it. I knew it, for sure, but it would have still been nice. Maybe the point of all this is, is that we weren't ready for all of it. We jumped into things and thought that that was it—that we would be together forever. I guess getting ready for things is important, because we weren't...
Your friend,
Helga Pataki
END OF SEASON ONE