No Competition

By Arnold's Love & Pointy Objects


Chapter Eleven: Kale with a Chance of Tofu

As soon as I see her enter the library, I begin looking for a safe place to hide. Not because I'm scared of anyone, let alone some arm-candy of Arnold's, but the last time I saw her, Arnold had managed to get a leg up on me and I didn't have enough time to prepare for a head to head battle with her, whose name I forgot and didn't care to learn again. Abbie? Who cares? All I know, is I don't want to see or talk to her, and standing behind the checkout counter wouldn't help me at all.

I search the library for a hiding place? Reference section? Nah, the shelves are too low; I'd have to crawl around to escape being seen. Autobiographies? Nope; there's a freshman class there scouring the bookshelves for research materials. Settling on the Sciences section, I duck into the empty area and sigh, hoping I wasn't seen by kindly, old Mrs. Woods, the head librarian. She's nice enough, but she knows I won't say no to her and sometimes likes to use that to get me to do things I don't want to. Like talking to people. Or helping them. Ugh. Besides, from what I've seen of this girl, she's no rocket scientist. For all I know, she probably didn't even mean to walk into the library. Maybe she thought this was a big bathroom and has already left. Arnold never really goes for the brainiacs (case in point, why he hasn't fallen for yours truly…yet), so, if anything, Allie or, whatever her dumb name is, won't be here long.

"Helga? This young lady needs help finding a book…"

I know that tone. I've been Mrs. Woods' aide for a few months now, and her tone clearly means 'this young lady needs help finding a book and if you want that college credit, you'll be the one to help her'. Good thing I went through the trouble of hiding…

"Sure…" I drawl, trying to plaster on a smile for the sake of no one else but Mrs. Woods, who has no idea she is sentencing me to no less that ten minutes of escorting her around the school's library, a.k.a. actual physical torture. As soon as she walks away, I eye Andi (or whoever this airhead is), for the first time. I suppose the color of the day at the Idiot Asylum is blindingly bright blue, because I need some sunglasses if I'm going to stand within ten feet of this girl. Somehow she even found sparkly, blue shoelaces to match her hideous crop top and mini skirt ensemble. I might just have to alert Rhonda, until I realize that would mean I would have to talk to her. And since she started dating Gerald (if that's what you choose to call it), I've been resisting the urge to punch her on my best friend's behalf.

"Magazines are in the front of the library by the computers." I say, turning back to the task at hand; that task being pretending to look busy and straightening up books/hiding.

"Actually, I need help finding a book. A history book, actually," she says, her nasally voice making me want to grind my teeth. It sounds less squeaky and whiny than the other night at The Pearl, but it's still annoying.

"History?" I ask. Of course I have to go and hide in the section she would be looking for. Maybe I'm the idiot. I motion for her to follow me. "What kind of history?"

"What…kind?"

Oh crimeny! I've got a regular Einstein on my hands here. Something tells me she was expecting to waltz in here, find a book entitled "History", and waltz right on out. I don't need to know this girl to know that she's probably just another airheaded bimbo. "Yeah. Like United States History, World Civilizations, Colonization of the Western World, Trade History,-"

"Gosh, I don't think I want any of those. More like...like a famous person in history. Or people. Or something like that," She says, sheepishly. I'm kind of disappointed. I had at least five more history subjects I wanted to run through to confuse her with. Making a hand motion for her to follow me again, I lead her to the next row in the line of mahogany shelves, and point down the aisle.

"Here you go…history. Have at it," I announced, looking to make my escape.

"I didn't realize there would, like, be that many…"

For cripes sake, does she need a bottle and a bedtime story too?! "Well, this is the library…"

"You can help me find one, right? Like a really good one?" she asks, sounding almost sincere. I can almost understand why Arnold is falling at her stupid, tiny feet. She is somehow managing to sound sincere, but look stunning all the same, save for the bright orange tint to her skin. Why does she even need a history book, anyway?

"Fine," I huff. "Are you writing a research paper, or something. Gimme something to work with here."

"Well, there's this really cute boy…"

Oh no. She's not talking about Arnold, is she? She can't be. With that blonde hair, and that tan, and those long legs, she's probably got half of the student body chasing after her.

"…and he's like really smart…."

That's fine. There are lots of smart boys in this school. She could be talking about anyone. Besides, Arnold is dense, at best.

"…I mean, he's like in all honors and advanced classes…"

So many guys qualify for honors classes. This guy is so not Arnold.

"…he's even in the Debate Club, or whatever it's called…"

It's called Speech and Debate, missy, and I'm still not convinced she's talking about Football Head. I should know how many guys are in Speech and Debate, as I'm the Vice President, but I can think of at least 10 off the top of my head. Totally not Arnold. This is actually perfect. I can help her land some other dweeb, leaving Arnold all to myself. This is great.

"…actually, I think he's the President of the Debate Club."

Well this sucks.

"Anyway, I really, really, really like him, but, I think he's only into smart girls…" I have to keep myself from snorting angrily. This girl and her copies of Preteen Miss is having more luck than I am. "So, I thought maybe I could read up on some subjects he likes and we would have stuff to talk about. You know, like on an intellectual level." She finishes, perking up at the end, like a perky little rabbit out of its dumb, little rabbit hole.

On the one hand, I already hate her a little bit. Here she is, trying to get Arnold to like her (which he probably already does, if her looks and his behavior at The Pearl is any indication), and she doesn't even have to. She can prance around him as much as she wants, without killing herself to make conversation or find a reason to talk to him, or touch his arm. And even if she was bending over backwards, he probably wouldn't even notice. Whereas, I have to work and slave, day in and day out, and what do I get? I'm his rival and sometimes "friend". Practice makes perfect, my butt. More like practice makes me tired.

On the other hand, I kind of have to admire her effort. In retrospect, she isn't doing anything I haven't done. I dressed up like his French pen pal (with little grasp of the language), his former crush (with little grasp of how difficult it would be) and nearly got myself banned from Chez Pierre (or is it Chez Paris?) for trying to be sophisticated and ordering a bunch of smelly cheeses and French dishes, and while her tactics lack my signature style, they're less extreme and, as much as I hate to admit it, they kind of work.

"Well", I begin, looking around the shelves, thoughtfully. "While I'm a big advocate of being yourself and all that other phony, Dr. Phil mumbo-jumbo, if you want to read up on history without making your brain explode, stick with the 'basics'. What historical figure are you looking for?"

"Umm...do you have, like, any books about super romantic famous couples?"

Oh, crimeny, is that your game Andi? And here, I thought we were on similar levels in the area of trapping Arnold. Desperate as I sometimes am, I'm never that obvious. I mean, I left a laughing-gas induced message on his answering machine and had to break into his home to get it back, and I guess the locket was a little desperate, but it was never meant to be seen by him. But aside from those, I was never this desperate. I almost feel bad for her.

"Like Romeo and Juliet?" I ask. Oh yeah. I did sort of sabotage a few of my classmates to get that role. But, that doesn't count, really, right?

Abby shakes her head and makes a face like she smells spoiled milk. "No way! I heard they died at the end of that story. Blech!" She says that like she isn't sure, and my esteem for her falls down another step. The play was required reading in the 9th grade, and clearly, she took some liberties with the requirements for passing that grade.

"Play." I correct. "And they do. Everyone dies, actually. What about Romeo and Rosaline?"

"Rosaline? Who is that?"

"She's the girl Romeo is engaged to before he met Juliet."

"That doesn't sound romantic at all."

"Well, she survives the play and that sounds pretty romantic to me." I'm glancing at book titles, looking for something that will make her leave...quickly. For a second, I consider sabotaging her efforts completely, in true Helga fashion. After all, I know Arnold better than she does. Even if he did walk her home, she doesn't know exactly what he likes, right? That's why she can't pick out a book on her own. I know that he likes science, not for the theories or complicated formulas, but because he's a dopey, do-goody daydreamer. He doesn't care about the science behind the lifestyle of a Malaysian beetle. But he likes them, for some odd reason, so he knows everything about them. But, I figure, what would it get me? If this girl already has a leg up, would giving her a wrong book really make that much of a difference? This is an uphill battle, and I don't have enough ammunition to take her on right now.

I'm about to give up and resign her to the computer card catalog to find a book herself, when I find it. And, I have to give it to myself, I am a genius.

Pulling a thick book off of the shelf, I hand it to her and watch her blanch at the size of the book.

"This is...um, big." With some difficulty, she turns the book over and reads the cover. "Bonnie and Clyde?"

Despite the anger that comes from realizing that a girl so stupid, so dim-witted so...idiotic, somehow has a hold of Arnold, I have to laugh. If she doesn't know who they are, my almost-sabotage was complete.

"Yeah, you've never heard of them? They're only one of the most famous couples in history." I say, trying to sell them on her.

"Really?" she says, inching closer and further blinding me with her attire. Got her.

"Yeah, they were each other's first loves, and they were driven out of their towns by angry and jealous ex-lovers, and they had to travel from town to town to escape their oppressors."

"That sounds awful," she says, sadly. "What happened to them?"

"They died," I answer bluntly, almost forgetting to sugarcoat the details. "Heroically, of course. In each other's arms."

"That is like so totally beautiful. Thanks so much for helping me…" she says, her mood switching within a split second, as she holds the book to her ample chest.

"Helga," I finish for her. I thought about giving her a false name, but Mrs. Woods already said my real one, so there was no getting around it if she were to remember it.

"That sounds so familiar. Have we met before?" she asks, tilting her head like a puppy.

"Well, I do spend a lot of time in the library, so I doubt we've ever met." Haha. Zinger for me. Take that, Angie.

What? I helped her get a book; we're not going to go skipping off through a valley, holding hands and braiding each other's hair.

She shrugs, not picking up the insult. "Thanks, anyway." She walks away, bouncing as she walks to the checkout counter.

Just as I'm about to leave and return to my post (and hopefully avoid being cornered by anyone else), around the next shelf stands, none other than Brandon, looking far more excited than most people who enter the library. My stomach does a weird flipping thing, and it didn't help that it was currently empty, a feeling I'm unfamiliar with. The flipping, however, is, except when I was around Arnold for too long. Before I can think on that for too long, he speaks, and for a half second, I remember that I like the sound of his voice.

"Hey. Hello. Hi." I say, trying to make up for what was more than likely an odd look on my face.

"Hey. I was looking for you," he says, looking right into my eyes. It's freaking me out.

"Oh. I was…helping someone find a book," I respond, gesturing over my shoulder, and trying to conjure a facial expression that lets him know that, while I spend a lot of my time in this library reading and hiding from conversation with people, I wasn't exactly hiding from him.

"I thought you liked helping people find books…" he questions, crossing his arms. Nice arms. Focus, Helga, focus.

I shrug. "It all depends on who I'm helping." Whoa, Helga ol' girl. Be careful with that. That sounds suspiciously like flirting, and we are not good at flirting. "So, why were you looking for me?"

"Well," he begins, uncrossing his arms and shoving his hands into the pocket of a brown jacket, with many pockets and a black patch on it with the letters 'NPR" embroidered on it. I want to ask him what it means, but he was clearly not finished talking, and despite the tone of his voice and the niceness of his arms, I kind of want him to get on with it. "I was wondering if you'd want to go outside with me."

Outside? What on earth is outside? The library is sort of in the middle of the school's campus, in its own building, but aside from….other buildings and a few grassy knolls, there isn't much to see. For a moment, I suspected that in helping this guy find a book, I may have signed my death warrant. Isn't that always how it happens in movies? A girl does something perfectly normal and nice, and sometimes just her job, and some guy, whose one French fry short of a Wally Meal, takes it the wrong way and follows her home and collects her hair, and next thing you know, she's a Wednesday morning Lifetime movie. Not today. Not Helga G. Pataki.

"Just for a minute," he says, somehow following the train of my thoughts.

For some reason, I follow him, considering who they'll hire to play me in the movie of my imminent demise. Hopefully no one with a police record.

I ask him if I should get my stuff, but he says I won't need it. I'm seriously starting to worry about this kid. Maybe I can pretend to follow him and make a run for it. Once outside, I immediately start searching for A) whatever he seems to want to show me and B) a way to escape. Turning the corner around the library building, I have to admit that I was wrong. Irrevocably, entirely wrong. I'm not going to say it out loud, but I was.

I'm sure the look on my face is nothing short of shock/awe/mimicking an anaconda attempting to swallow a zebra whole. In a grassy area of the school's empty courtyard, brightened by a single patch of sunlight through the clouds is a typical red gingham blanket and a light-brown picnic basket.

"Wha-what-" I try to say, and in response, Brandon smiles and leads me over to the clearly planned picnic.

And by 'leads me over' I mean, he takes my hand and walks me over! And doesn't let go until I sit down on the blanket next to him! Crimeny, why is it so hot out here? That's the only explanation to all this sweating I'm doing.

"I asked around, and I found out that you're a library aide during your lunch period. So, I thought I'd bring you some lunch," he says, immediately taking charge and removing eco-friendly-looking plastic containers from the basket. I feel like such an idiot. Here I am thinking he was going to brutally murder me, and all he wanted to do was be nice. Nice going, Helga. "I hope you don't have any food allergies, or sensitivities," he says, almost nervously. Why was he nervous?! I'm the one sweating buckets over here! He should quit being nervous and start gathering animals, two by two, with all the water pouring down my back right now.

I laugh as naturally as I can (not very naturally) and wave a hand at him. "Just strawberries, but not as much as I used to be. And, no food sensitivities…I'm not like, a vegetarian, or anything." This makes me laugh. A real laugh. I mean, come on, Helga G. Pataki…eating rabbit food. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind a salad every now and then. But only if it's the side dish to a slice of huge, cheesy, pepperoni-y pizza. Oh, pizza…I can almost smell it now…

Between laughing and smelling, I notice that Brandon is very much not laughing. Like, not at all. Uh oh. I've done it now. Open mouth, insert foot.

"Are…you a vegetarian?" I ask, tentatively.

Brandon shakes his head. "No..." Before I can release a breath of relief and smile, he finishes. "I'm vegan."

I freeze. Oh geez. This is exactly what would happen to me. A nice looking boy, who for some reason likes spending time with me, and so far, we have so little in common. For a minute, I steal a glance at the plastic container closest to my leg, and wonder what's inside it. What kind of food could he have brought? I'm still thinking about an ooey, gooey, cheesy pizza, and I just hope that he can't smell my thoughts. Oh pizza…

"Oh .Well…that's cool." I say, smiling, half-heartedly.

Instead of further questioning me, Brandon smiles again (unaware of the non-veganness of my thoughts, thank goodness), and goes on speaking. "Yeah," he says, entirely casual. "I just figure, if I can be compassionate, why not?"

"Exactly," I say, agreeing with him, but still longing for pizza. Oh pizza.

"Are you?"

"What? Compassionate?" I ask. I'm not trying to be rude, but you can't tell a girl that you've brought her food and then spend the whole time talking. I'm so hungry, I might go full on Walking Dead and try to eat one of his very nice arms.

He laughs. He has a nice laugh. Not loud and boisterous and maniacal like mine. "No; I mean vegan."

I wrack my brain. Of course I'm not vegan. I'm the daughter of Big Bob Pataki, Mr. Meat and Potatoes. I've had a salad or two, of course but, does that count? "Uh…I tried it once," I say. If by "once", you mean the time that my father entirely lost his mind and tried to get me to eat tree bark in a yurt in Oregon, then, yes, I have tried it. And I have hated it. I hope there's no tree bark in any of these containers, because I might just give up on this guy and high-tail it out of here.

"What do you say? Give me and veganism a chance?" He gives me the most charming smile I can even imagine.

"How can I resist a request like that," I laugh. "Okay. I'll give it a try."

Brandon seems excited by this. "That's awesome. I hope you like what I made…" he says, opening container after container and explaining each dish. He uses words I've never heard of; quinoa, superfood, vegan bacon?! I smile, but subtly move that container away from me while he is digging through the picnic basket for utensils. I respect anyone's right to not eat meat, but please respect mine not to eat fake meat.

All in all, it isn't that bad. I picked a salad with gelatinous white cubes in it, and when I'm not moving them out of the way of my fork, the salad all on its own is pretty good. Brandon doesn't speak much while he's eating, which is nice, and without realizing it, we've fallen into a happy silence, and I remember why I don't hate him.

"So, why did you do this?" I ask him, setting down my container, now empty save for the offending cubes, whose taste I could only equate with hardened glue. "Not that I mind…are you a humanitarian, or something? Feeding the lunchless and perpetually nerdy?"

He smiles before answering, and it makes me smile. This is so weird! Why am I sitting in the grass, smiling with some boy who is not Arnold! Is this a thing? Is this something normal people do?! "Something like that," he says, cryptically.

"Oh come on; what is it?" I ask, using my free hand to push him in the shoulder. This was a decidedly 'Helga' gesture that I resolve for people whom I know won't be offended by it, and Arnold. Maybe he doesn't like being touched, but then again, he did hold my hand earlier.

"I like you."

I don't know what to say. What am I supposed to say? What kind of 'like' does he mean? I can't say with any assurance that I've ever liked anyone but Arnold. And I've definitely never spent this kind of time with anyone, mostly because, even if some half insane boy did like me, he would probably be too scared to tell me, and I'd be too distracted by a certain Football Head to notice. And while there will always be a sort of vignette around the thought of having a picnic with Arnold as we feed each other real bacon and pepperoni pizza and cheeseburgers, this is actually not that bad. I guess that counts.

Either way, I don't know why he would say that, and my first thought is to ask him why, and implore him to explain in full and elaborate detail, so that I don't confuse what he said with anything that might embarrass me later. I have to tread lightly, not looking too desperate or too self-deprecating, because either of those would inevitably scare him away, vegan lunch and all.

"Huh?" Nice going, Helga.

"I like you," he says, simply. "You're funny and smart and kind. I like that."

It's so cloudy out, and the sun is gone, but it's so humid out here, I think I might jump into the nearest body of water, even if it's the swamp two blocks over.

"Wow. Well, thanks, and all. But, I think you've got the wrong girl," I say. So much for not being self-deprecating. Just take a compliment, Helga!

"Have I?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, and leaning forward, resting his weight on one of his nice arms. Oh, no you don't, mister! You lean right back over to your side of the blanket! That is a sneaky, sexy move, and I cannot take it!

"I'm not kind," I say, hating how my voice wavers. "I mean, I'm not a villain, or anything. But no one who knows me would say that I'm kind."

"Well, I think you are. Or, you can be," he says, leaning closer now, and for the first time I notice that Brandon does not have green eyes. I've always liked green eyes, for obvious reasons, but his are not. Not green. And he draws closer and they start to fall shut, I have to admit, I don't mind.

Before I can enjoy the moment (or genuinely freak out, like I want to), something cold and distinctly liquid 'plops' onto my forehead and slides down toward my eye.

I swear, if a bird poops on me when a decent-looking boy, who is not Arnold, but still pretty good-looking, is about to maybe kiss me, I will literally kill someone. Kill someone.

Within the span of literally four seconds, the skies go from grey and cloudy, to absolute deluge, and I think again that maybe Brandon's time would have been better spent building that ark. But then again, he'd probably get mad if I threatened to eat one of the cows via cheeseburger, so maybe it's best that he didn't. The rain that is falling in sheets, and drenches us head to toe, as we try to gather the food containers, blanket and find a place to seek some refuge from it. The closest building is only a few feet away, but by the time we get there, every stitch of clothing on our respective bodies is clinging uncomfortably and, just our luck, the rain is falling sideways, so the space isn't quite wide enough to shield us completely. I try saving the food he made (it wasn't great. But he worked hard on it), but rainwater gathers in every single container, ruining all of it.

"Sorry about your-" I start, pouring out the remains of a "chicken" stir fry out on the grass nearby. "-food."

"Thanks." The meal was so similar to grass that, aside from the bits of "chicken", "bacon" and rubbery white stuff, you wouldn't even know anyone poured it out. I can't help but start laughing, and I'm glad that, this time, he joins me.

Brandon smiles and shrugs again. "It's fine. Maybe we can try this again. Maybe...this Friday?" He is doing that nervous, fidgety thing with his hands gain. I guess he catches it too, because he tries to put his hands in his jeans pocket. But seeing as they are already on the snug side and soaking wet, like the rest of our clothes, it doesn't work. It's a little awkward, standing under an awning in sideways rain, trying to stay warm, but also trying not to touch each other

"Maybe without all the rain," I say, joking. I mean, come on. I'm covered in rain, standing under an awning with a good-looking guy, who just said he likes me and might have almost kissed me. Why not crack a joke.

"It's a deal. See you Friday, Helga."


A/N (PointyObjects): Let me start this note by saying that neither myself, nor Arnold's Love hold any ill will for vegan/vegetarians, okay? Some of my closest friends are (my mom included…sometimes) and I was a vegetarian for a while there. This is just a way of showing how 'unique' Brandon is. This was partially inspired by a monthly makeup subscription I get (because sometimes I like to get fancy) and they sent me a vegan lipstick, even though I am not a vegan, that I am IN LOVE WITH. It's perfect. The brand is Pacifica and the color is 'Sweet One", if you're into that sort of thing.

Also, the rain scene was partially inspired by my husband. When we were "just friends" we'd always try to hang out, but every time we planned something it would rain. Hard. In the middle of the date. One time, it was on the day I SWORE we were gonna have our first kiss, and I was so ready, you guys. I was dressed nice, and we were by the water, and I did my hair all fancy and I wasn't wearing too much lipgloss, and BOOM! The skies opened up like a monster! Hair stuck to my face, new outfit ruined (did I mention I was wearing white? Yeah, not a good plan), makeup done…it was a fiasco. But, I guess it worked out anyway, because he married me.

Let us know what you think! Thanks for reading!

-PointyO