No Competition
By Arnold's Love & Pointy Objects
Chapter Twelve: Conquering a Frenemy, Julius Caesar Style
I'm walking down the school hallway towards the bathroom in kind of a surprised stupor. A mindless, blank stupor. Like what is even wrong with my brain? I've never experienced this. I can't form a productive or creative thought. It's not like a brain fog…or like I'm tired from staying up all night…no, it's like it's a clean, blank slate; a freshly painted white wall; an endless ocean of nothing but clear, endless water.
Okay, we've got some metaphors going, there's hope for my brain after all. Come on, Arnold, you can do it...
So why am I having this new blank brain experience? What did I see out the library window to shock me so badly?
Are you sure you can handle this? I don't know if I should tell you…
Fine, I'll do it. But don't blame me if you end up suffering from a condition I'm naming the "Blank Brain Syndrome."
I'm walking down the hall suffering from "Blank brain Syndrome" because what I saw was Helga almost kissing a boy. Helga G. Pataki-the girl who wrote the book on bullying boys even when they were bigger than her. Yah. Shock of a lifetime, am I right?
And she was almost kissing that shaggy-haired, tie-wearing, space cadet Brandon. Well, he almost kissed her, but Helga was going right along with it, not a care in the world, until the rain clouds burst open and drenched the two of them in their downpour. So she's as much a part of this insanity as anybody. That's right, insanity. Because what guy in his right mind would want to kiss any chick who has named her fists Old Betsy and the Five Avengers? Well, apparently Brandon, but not me. No way. Not ever.
I must have a strange grimace on my face as I'm practically running down the hallway to the bathroom because Sheena stops me and she's staring at me curiously. "Arnold, are you...are you ok?" A look of pure concern is written all over her face. "Do you need me to take you to see my aunt in the nurse's office?"
I shake my head as my eyes slowly adjusting to focus on her face. "No thanks, Sheena," I respond, kind of absently, wanting only to get away from her and out of the hallway. "I just need to splash some water on my face before class…you know to wake myself up," I add, lamely.
"Ok, Arnold, if you're sure," she calls after me, a worried tone still evident in her high-pitched voice, but I'm already dashing off to the bathroom again as if it's a life or death goal.
I look in the mirror, water droplets running down my face. Maybe Sheena was right, maybe I should go see the nurse. I look horrible. Maybe I've developed some kind of chronic illness. I'm feeling that same sick in my stomach, panicky feeling I felt last week when I was talking to Gerald.
Oh, my gosh!
What if I have cancer or some awful, fatal disease?
What if I'm slowly dying and I have no idea, and my only clue is this weird, nausea inducing panic attack that I've been getting lately?
And I never go get it checked out and then I just unexpectedly end up dying one day. And that's it. The end.
A dark gloomy afternoon in winter, the trees are bare, their empty, twisted branches like claws reaching out at the sky casting macabre shadows across the shadowed ground. Their bark gray and gnarled from age. The ground is littered with dead, colorless leaves-leaves that make a scratching sound as they occasionally blow across the ground in the chilling breeze. The earth is mostly dirt with yellow bits of dying grass here and there, struggling to survive in the murky surroundings.
Just a rotting graveyard full of death and decay. Crumbling tombstones all around, left alone and unrepaired. And in the damp, misty rain falling on this foreboding graveyard, a funeral is taking place. The patrons all dressed in black, the women in big spidery hats and lengthy, antique-style dresses; the men in long black coats; making the mourners look lanky and contorted as they stand around a coffin and it's ominous open grave.
It's a dark, gray, eerie scene straight out of the head of Tim Burton. In fact, it's so perfect, I'm sure Johnny Depp is somewhere nearby ready to star in this picture. Maybe he's in the one in the coffin. That seems about right.
But, wait a minute. I'm wrong. That roguishly handsome man in the casket is not Johnny Depp.
No. It's...it's...it's me, Arnold Shortman! Lying there in that open coffin, lifeless-my skin ashen and faintly blue, my blond hair pale and dowdy.
I'm dead. The panic attacks finally turned into something more than panic attacks and resulted in my untimely death. What a way to go.
It's then I realize that all the mourners are people I know-friends, family, neighbors. And suddenly I can't help but wonder why on earth are they burying me in this gothic and disturbing cemetery? Shouldn't I be buried on a hill over looking a pond with ducks? Or is that Tiny Tim? Regardless, the point is this is not where I want my final resting place to be!
Gerald steps up then, dressed in a turn-of-the-century style black mourning suit, holding an overly large umbrella up to protect his tall stack of hair from the ever present, drizzling rain.
He clears his throat and in the same voice he used to use to tell his urban legends he begins to speak. "We are gathered here today to honor the late, the great Arnold Shortman. My very, very best friend." He bows his head solemnly for a moment of silence. "He was a remarkable young man-remarkable. Always looking out for everyone. Standing up for the weak, the needy and the under-dogs-"
There's a crash as Eugene trips and falls into the gaping hole in the ground. "Don't worry, I'm okay!" he calls, only his hand appearing from the dark abyss of the grave.
Gerald ignores Eugene and continues. "Arnold, the gentleman, nobly protecting women in all their purity. Wooing the ladies along the way."
I hear a cry and look over to see Ami dressed in a tight, short black dress and overly high high-heels standing next to the coffin wailing and blowing her nose in a black handkerchief. I had no idea they even made black handkerchiefs...Tim Burton would be proud.
"Yes, Arnold...the gallant heartthrob. Helping those in need. Even those sad, lost little creatures at the animal shelter. Leading the debate team to endless victories. Speaking French to societies all over-"
He's interrupted suddenly by Stinky tapping him on the shoulder, who, along with Harold and Sid, is standing next to him and the coffin seemingly almost like a body guard. He whispers something to Gerald and then Gerald nods slowly. "It appears that Miss Helga G. Pataki would like to say a few words."
Helga approaches the coffin-my coffin-very slowly, her head bowed down, a long, straight black Adams Family style dress draped fashionably on her slender frame. A large brimmed, Victorian styled hat adorns her long shining blonde hair, a bright pink bow tied around the hat; the bright pink of her bow and the blonde of her hair the only colors in this whole scene-stark against the dark blacks and grays around her.
Always with the bow. I like that bow it-
She clears her throat, stopping next to my casket, preparing to give a speech.
She may be my rival, but at least she's a good speaker. I can count on her to give me a thorough and well thought out last hurrah.
"Well, Football Head," she finally says slowly, as if carefully thinking out each word, holding on to them as if she doesn't want to let them past her lips. "I always knew this day would come."
I always knew she'd be sad if I ever died. Look at her looking down so wistfully at my corpse. Maybe she'll even cry. I don't think I've ever seen Helga Pataki cry.
Looking up dramatically to the audience of mourners, she sighs and continues, "It seems I have officially won this one, Arnoldo."
Then in a surprising contrast, a sinister smiles smears itself across her face she exclaims loudly, "Better luck next time!" And after a dramatic pause she adds, "oh, wait…there is no next time!" slamming the casket close over my face with a resounding thud; her cackling laugher dances off the corpse-like trees and headstones.
And everyone beings to laugh and cheer as they lower me into the cold, gray soil forever. Never again to see the light of day or compete with the likes of Helga G. Pataki.
Over my dead body.
Oh wait...
Looking up at the wall clock I realize I've let my daydreaming get the better of me and now I'm now very, very late for class; something that I never, ever allow to happen. Like ever. It's rude to be late, it's tacky, it's inconsiderate and it often hurts feelings or makes people think you couldn't care less about them and their time.
And it's AP European history I'm currently late for. History with Helga who will probably never let me live this down. She knows how much I care about punctuality and will wield her sword of sarcasm at my tardiness.
Frantically I rush out the bathroom and down the hall. Hoping maybe I can catch a break since I've never been late before. Surely Miss Johnston will understand. It's not like I'm Helga, who regularly slips in just after the bell rings.
Stupid Helga G. Pataki, making me late to class. I'm gonna pound her. Oh gosh, I'm losing my mind! Somebody help me! Please! Before I end up in Tim Burton's creepy cemetery!
I feel panicky all over again as I spot the classroom and shake my head to dispel the panic, simultaneously colliding right into someone.
It's quite a collision too-loud, painful, awkward-and I think I even kind of black out for a second. (Of course that could be from the panic attack I'm currently having but who's paying attention.)
I hear someone say my name softly, sounding a bit dazed. Reaching up to rub at the moisture on my head thinking maybe I was bleeding, I realize its Helga that I've just crashed into. A soaking wet, completely drenched Helga staring at me with a kind of dazed expression on her face-the usually bouncy pink bow in her hair, damp and lifeless from moisture.
"Helga?"
Her face immediately contorts into an angry glare and she opens her mouth to shout at me, I've no doubt, but Miss Johnston interrupts her.
"Mr. Shortman and Miss Pataki," she chides, the icy tone in her voice making it very clear that she is definitely not pleased with us. "It is one thing to come to class so very, very late, but a whole other thing to come to class late and make a scene." She's glaring at us with a hand on each hip.
The class laughs boisterously at us and I quickly hop up offering Helga my hand, ignoring the mirth of our obnoxious classmates. (Are we still in 4th grade? I mean really.)
Helga and I crash into each other so often it's like we've formed our own little ritual.
Crash!
"Arnold?" she'll ask in a dazed expression.
"Helga?" I'll ask just as confused. Which of course makes no sense because, like I said, we crash into each other almost daily, so we shouldn't ever be surprised. But we always are. Then I'll usually apologize if the collision didn't involve our heads. And I'll usually offer to help her up, after which she'll yell something like, "Watch where you're going, you blind fruit bat. Quit running into me all the time!"
"Whatever you say, Helga," I'll reply. Because I know she's just trying to act tough. And she'll stomp away angrily. End scene.
She opens her mouth to make a snide comment complete with an insulting name-call per tradition, but again she's interrupted by an annoying, sing-songy voice.
"Arnold and Helga sitting in a tree...c-i-s-s-i-n!" It's Harold and he bursts into a loud, obnoxious laugh while Sid and Stinky giggle next to him like a bunch of school yard hooligans.
I heave a sigh and roll my eyes; set on ignoring them, knowing any other reaction from me will just make things worse. But Helga's never been one to let someone tease her without getting a word in.
"Either learn to spell, Fudge-Breath, or I'll stick a dictionary so far down your throat, you won't have a choice," she spits out, her words drenching me in moisture and her fist shaking in his direction.
Wiping my face off, I look over to her. "Thanks for the shower, Helga. And I don't mean your spit, though I appreciate that too."
"Boy howdy, they're swapping spit, Harold!" Sid laughs mockingly, clearly amused at his own dim wit.
She waves me off with her hand, still not looking at me. "Oh pipe down, ya wise guy. If you haven't noticed, it's raining outside..."
I open my mouth to retort, but Miss Johnston has about had it with us. "Go sit down, you two...NOW!" She's got her detention slips out and ready to use if she needs. I may have broken my record of being on time to class, but I'm not about to deal with a week's work of detention.
Shooting Helga a "you better be quiet" look, humbly I head over to my desk listening to the squish squash of Helga's sopping wet shoes as we walk, before plopping down glumly in my chair. My emotions are all over the place after the day I've had so far. A glorious day so far, obviously.
"We were working on our group projects before your rude interruptions, so let's get back to that, if you two don't mind. I hope you are all making great progress on them," Miss Johnston says, hinting that she knows Helga and I haven't even started ours yet.
I kind of face palm realizing that the due date is creeping closer and closer and Helga and I can't seem to distract ourselves from our endless competing long enough to even pick a topic for our project let alone make some headway on it.
"Ok, Helga, we haven't picked a military leader yet, so we probably should," I begin, hoping her temper has calmed down a bit since she yelled at Harold. "I was thinking-"
"Yeah, I've already picked one. We're doing Julius Caesar," she states matter-of-factly, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair, a water droplet trailing down her nose and landing softly on her desk where a small puddle is forming.
"Julius Caesar?" I question a bit surprised. "I'm not even sure he counts as a European military leader."
"Ehh...he conquered what became the British Empire so I'd say that's close enough." She raises her eyebrows as if she's daring me to disagree. "Plus, he's not bad on the eyes...so bonus points," she kind of sings the last part like she's on a talk show or something pointing an index finger on me.
Honestly, I'm not sure if she's serious or not. Julius Caesar is a whole different category than Brandon, so who knows. Maybe she's kidding. Or maybe she just doesn't have a type. Not that I care what Helga G. Pataki's type is anyway.
"I think we should pick our military leader based on brains, not looks, Helga," I counter, sighing in annoyance.
I can't tell you whether I'm annoyed at Helga for picking Julius Caesar for such a lame reason or if I'm annoyed with myself for even having spent a few minutes contemplative what might be Helga's type when it comes to guys.
She smirks at me arrogantly. "Oh, like you do with all your fantastically 'brainy' girlfriends?"
I shoot her a narrow stare, my blood starting to boil again at the reminder that she thinks I only date bimbos. "Well, at least I don't date wanna-be hipsters who share a brain with Justin Beiber's wardrobe guy."
She stares at me as if she's not sure if she's mad or just stuttering around in her mind trying to decide what to say next.
Instead of waiting for her to make up her mind I continue. "Besides, Ami's not an idiot, Helga," I declare, matter-of-factly. "You're just too judgmental."
"Oh come on, Footballface!" She throws her arms out in exasperation, water droplets flying off her finger tips. "You just called Brandon a wannabe hipster! You're telling me that's not judgmental, Football Head?" she responds, raising her eyebrow at me almost daringly.
I shrug. "Observant and factual isn't judgmental, Helga," I chide firmly. "Speaking of observant...I noticed there's a puddle forming around your desk..." I point to the floor where the water from her saturated clothes is still dripping. "What'd you do go swimming in the old watering hole with your yuppie pal?"
She scowls angrily at me, her eyes narrowed, her brows furrowed and her mouth set in a hard line. "Didn't you hear me or do you have paste in your ears? ITS RAINING OUTSIDE," she exclaims, throwing her hands up. "I had to haul tail from the library just to get here on time, and I was still late."
I give her a dismissive shrug. "Was it raining in the library?"
"What?" she asks, puzzled.
So I ask her pointedly, "I thought the library was just a big room inside the school filled with books and computers. I wasn't aware it rained in there as well." My eyes fixed on her with a calm intensity, hopping to rattle her even more.
She pauses just long enough for me to know that she's debating how much to tell me. Obviously she didn't seem me seeing her almost kissing him. So I'm feeling very curious as to how much she'll choose to tell me. Finally she makes a decision and responds.
"If you really must know, I had lunch out of doors today, Arnold," she says smugly...as if almost kissing a stuck-up yuppie and getting soaked in the rain is something to be proud of.
"What kind of person chooses to eat lunch in the rain, Helga?" I scoff. "Definitely not one in their right mind."
"It wasn't my choice exactly..." she begins and then seems to change her mind just as quickly. Helga's poker face isn't always as good as she thinks it is. Of course it could be just that I know the truth this time so maybe I'm just seeing right through her. She bites her lip for a second, in thought. "Anyway," she continues, "Julius Caesar was by far the greatest military strategist of his time. And in 49 BC, he crossed the Rubicon, even though it was illegal to do so while bearing arms? Pretty boss, huh?
"How is eating outside not your choice, Pataki?" I interrupt her, not buying the distraction for a second. History, though my favorite subject, can wait. "It's a free country isn't it? You can eat where ever you want. Even if it's somewhere insane like out in the pouring rain."
She pauses for just a second as if debating how much to tell me. It's kind of fun having all the cards for once, waiting for the right moment to show mine. I can really rattle her cage because I know how much more to push her to get her to admit the information I already know.
Finally, sitting up straighter, her wet hair sticking to her cheeks, she answers cautiously, "someone asked me to...eat outside...with them."
I feign understanding "Aw, was this someone, in fact, the hipster prince himself, Brandon?" I ask, drawing out his name mockingly, and obviously already fully aware of the answer. "And was this picnic outside beside the watering hole or inside his spacious yurt? Or maybe it was in the back of his Volkswagen bus-you know the one with 'peace' spray painted on the side?"
"Do you smell that, Arnold?" she asks derisively, her eyes blazing as she sniffs the air for effect.
"What? You mean the weed? Yes, indeed," I reply with a sneer and a "bring it on" kind of look.
She shakes her head slowly, eyes narrowed like a cat who's ready to pounce. "No, the stench of your JEALOUSY."
I actually laugh out loud at that one. "Oh, in your dreams, Helga," I mock, rolling my eyes and waving her off with my hand.
"Really?" she coaxes, her mouth in a smirk and her eyebrows raised suspiciously. "Because you sound awfully upset about my lunch date with someone else..."
"Nah." I shake my head at her confidentially, and then shoother a withering look. "I'm just surprised some guy is crazy enough to be interested in you," I admit, raising an eyebrow. "I mean if he accidentally insults you he might find his tongue wrapped around his throat or something." That's right…using, literally, her own words against her. You don't spend time around Helga Pataki and not have a little conversational manipulation strategies rub off on you.
"And I'm surprised that you landed yourself such a gem," she hisses, her voice rising angrily. "Actually, I'm not surprised, considering her illiteracy. Maybe on your next date you guys can go shopping for lip gloss and coloring books!"
"Illiteracy? I'll have you know Ami is very literate!" I exclaim, suddenly reminded of how mad I was at Helga earlier for her insults about Ami and how originally I had been going to the library to prove to Helga just that. "In fact, I was coming to prove just that to you when-" I bite my own tongue then, realizing I'm about to give myself away-show her my hand of cards. Crap! Hastily I look down at my phone and pretend to be researching. "Hey, this Julius Caesar guy really is impressive isn't he? Kind of a self-obsessed person though, naming himself dictator for life. No wonder you like him, I guess you relate to him."
Helga isn't buying it though. She narrows her eyes at me suspiciously. "When what, Arnold? What were you doing?"
I sigh, annoyed with myself for giving myself away. "Well, I went by the library to tell you about Ami," I admit, apprehensively. "But you weren't there. Turns out you were having lunch with your beatnik friend," I offer, figuring I might as well show my hand now.
"Wait a minute! You saw us? What are you doing, football head? Are you stalking me or something?" she exclaims loudly, getting attention from a few of our classmates.
"I wouldn't have tried to find you if I had known I would have seen THAT," I retort, folding my arms defiantly.
"Well, unlike you, I choose to spend my time with smart, charming, interesting people. I like to think it reflects on the kind of person I am. What does your present company say about you?" she leers, her voice shaking with anger probably.
"That I'm not a kale-chomping, smoothie sipping hipster?" I toss back sardonically.
"Maybe," she says slowly, drawing out the word. "Or maybe it says that you're so worried about people seeing you as some confident, know-it-all football head, who doesn't have a care in the world, that when it comes to girls, you'd rather give up completely instead of dating someone who might challenge you, even a little bit."
I try to hold back a cringe. I actually don't care whether or not I look like a confident, know-it-all to everyone else…but that last part of her statement might have a little too much truth to it. So in the recent past I've semi-dated two girls who were maybe not the brightest bulbs in the box, so maybe I didn't take those relationships super serious. The thing is I knew if I wasn't invested emotionally, then I wasn't going to get hurt. Ok, so she's maybe a little correct in her comment. But seriously it's so frustrating that Helga has me pegged so well sometimes, but she's still an enigma to me. I think that's pretty unfair to me. Besides, Ami's different. I think she's a great person, with a lot more depth than people give her credit for and she needs something good in her life. So Helga needs to stop being so rude talking about her like that and back off.
"Like you even know what you are talking about," I shoot back, clenching my teeth. "I bet by this time next week Brandon's moved on to bigger and better things."
"Really? That sounds suspiciously like a challenge to me, Arnoldo," Helga states, leaning toward me competitively.
I lean forward as well. Our faces merely inches away from each other. Our eyes narrowed intensely at each other. "Seeing as that's the tradition with you, Pataki, I'd say it is."
"Okay," she says, quietly, her voice full of fire, her cheeks flushed from the spirited banter. "How about this: Whoever makes it to prom with a stable, healthy relationship...wins it all. The whole shebang," she says intensely and with a breath of conclusiveness.
"Fine, Helga, you're on," I agree, grabbing her hand and shaking it vigorously beneath our close faces.
I'm laughing inside. As if there's any question who's going to win this competition. I'm pretty sure Helga would lose this competition even if Curly was her opponent instead of me. I mean this is Helga we're talking about. Helga "I'm gonna pound you" Pataki.
Regardless, still shaking her hand I add a little addendum to the stakes. "But to win you not only have to make it to prom in a healthy relationship but bring said significant other as your prom date," I say, letting go of her hand and leaning back it to my chair proudly. Helga was nuts for agreeing to this.
"Doi, Arnold. May the best President of The French Honor Society win." She stands up over me crossing her arms defiantly, a few droplets of water dripping onto my desk.
"Whatever, Helga, I've got this in the bag...and not one made of hemp and canvas that I bought from the Farmer's Market...just sayin'."
She scoffs and rolls her eyes at me. "You really need to work on your comebacks."
"And we need to work on this project. If you're not too busy tye-dying matching shirts, remember Friday is our monthly measuring of the plants," I remind her, gathering my books, and smiling. "So bring 'V' over as well as anything you need for this project so we can actually work on it so we can maybe even pass AP History."
"Sorry, Paste for Brains, this genius has a date," she brags, the bell chiming and signaling the end of class and our conversation. "I'll see ya when I see ya, Football face."
I watched her retreating figure, my teeth clenched and a muscle working fiercely in my jaw. I'd beat Helga Pataki. And I'd beat her at her own game.
