Beforeword: Yet another delay, I'm sorry guys! Being a performing arts major is very tolling on time, I hope you understand and thanks so much for your patience. Happy Spring Break. Also, note a mistake in the previous chapter-the date on Arnold's journal should be 2003, not 2002. Eff typos.
Disclaimer: I'm not making any cash off of this.
Chapter 26: Drunk
"Hey, Football Head! I'd like to be at Rhonda's before the ball drops, yeesh!"
Arnold laughed weakly, running down to meet Helga at the foot of his staircase. She looked extremely pretty in a black mini-dress. He grinned madly upon meeting her eyes.
"Hey," he offered.
She softened, waiting a moment before returning, "Hey yourself."
"You look really nice," he said brightly, looking her over. Helga fidgeted and took the compliment awkwardly before rushing him out of the boarding house.
"You know all the good stuff's always gone before eleven," she scoffed as they strolled down the street, tugging her coat tighter around. "I'm not tryin' to get stuck drinking Coors all night."
"Helga, it's barely nine-and I didn't know you were planning on drinking," he admitted apprehensively, striding closer to her on the sidewalk. She didn't shift away, but she picked up the pace.
With a snort, she rolled her eyes. "Please. After the week we've had, I think we need to."
"'We'?" Arnold repeated, nearly stopping, but Helga pulled him along.
"Yeah, why not? Maybe it'll get you pipe down," she teased.
Arnold chewed his lip, considering. He'd seen a good few of his friends drunk plenty of times-none of them were very pleasant sights, but perhaps Helga was right. Perhaps they did deserve to let go, just for tonight.
"Yeah," he said agreeably, confidence rising. "What's the worst that could happen?"
ii
It was a tad inappropriate for the hostess to drink before the party really started, Phoebe thought, watching Rhonda take swig after swig of the wine as they set up the refreshment table. Actually, if the truth be told, Phoebe thought drinking in itself was a tad inappropriate, at least for people underage.
And everyone attending this party was very underage.
"Erm, Rhonda?"
"Yeah, Phoebe?" she asked plainly between sips of Sangria.
"Don't you think the consumption of alcohol is a little...inconsonant?"
Rhonda turned to face her, wearing her best haughty expression. "Inconsonant? Really Phoebe, it's New Year's, and I'm Rhonda Wellington Lloyd. I'm pretty sure I can do whatever I want."
Nadine rolled her eyes at her statement, but took her best friend's side. "She does have a point, Pheebs. It's New Year's, lighten up!"
"Yeah Phoebe," Sheena chimed in, setting the champagne out. "Rhonda's parents are totally fine with it, and besides, the maids will be here all night to make sure we're alright!"
Phoebe sighed in obvious disapproval, unconvinced, but Rhonda went on.
"Alfred will be right upstairs the whole time. It's not like any of us are gonna die-plus, everyone at school does it. Hell, kids younger than us are going out and getting drunk tonight-"
"That's true, some middle schoolers are known to party," Nadine said agreeably.
"And it's not like any of us are gonna go out and drive tonight," Sheena said in solace, but Phoebe wasn't any more at ease.
"I don't know, it just seems to me that alcohol gets many of us into complicated predicaments that can easily be avoided if-"
"Oh Phoebe, you really need to chill out," Rhonda said, clearly already buzzed. She paused for a moment, looking at the bottle she held, then gestured it to her. "Come on. Why don't you have a little sip?"
"Oh no, I couldn't-"
"Oh come on Phoebe," Nadine egged her on, slightly irritated.
"Just a little, Phoebe," Rhonda giggled, practically shoving the bottle at her. Phoebe scuttled to the other side of the room.
"No, really, I don't want to."
The girls exchanged glances, then Nadine cast Rhonda a sly look. "Should I pour a few glasses for us then? For a toast?"
Rhonda smacked her lips, her eyes on Phoebe. "Yeah. Just make sure you put Sprite in Phoebe's."
"That's right," Nadine agreed, grabbing the Jack Daniels. "Since she thinks it's so wrong."
Eyebrows knitting together, Phoebe folded her arms, feeling the color rise in her cheeks.
"She can still toast without it," Sheena said, unoffending, as she took her glass. She stood between Rhonda and Nadine at the edge of the table as they readied their drinks.
Nadine raised hers. "Bottoms up!"
"Wait."
Rhonda's eyes brightened. Leaning on the table, she teased. "What, does little Phoebe wanna have some Jack?"
Fuming, she marched back across the room and poured herself a small glass, glaring at the others as she did so.
"That's the spirit." Nadine winked at her.
"See?" Sheena started, elbowing her. "No big deal!"
"I guess not," Phoebe muttered, staring into her glass.
"Happy New Year, ladies," Rhonda purred, and the four of them made a toast.
Phoebe felt the alcohol burn its path down her throat, but she didn't flinch.
iii
"You're sure you don't wanna go?"
Eugene felt Peter leering at him as he gazed outside, watching party-goers prance to different houses on the streets below his bedroom window. He smiled and shrugged.
"This is the last night I get to see you."
Peter drifted over to him and rested his head on his shoulder. "I know."
"I'd rather just chill out here with you, if you don't think that's too boring," Eugene proposed, grinning apologetically. Peter shook his head.
"That doesn't sound boring at all."
iiii
A typical New Year's Eve bash at Rhonda Lloyd's consisted of the following: two cases of wine coolers, upperclassmen who brought their own beer, music loud enough to sway the entire state of Washington, and three different pool tables set up in the den on the second floor. This year remained true to tradition, however, Arnold noticed an absence of the usual eighty or ninety unfamiliar faces and a surprising abundance of liquor at the refreshment table. When he pointed out these changes to the hostess, she stated that she felt "a more intimate celebration" would be best, considering the "rough past couple of weeks." Agreeing, Arnold thanked her for her hospitality as always and studied his various choices in liquor, wondering where a beginner should start. He was watching Sid and Stinky take shots of what looked like pineapple juice when Helga patted him on the shoulder.
"Wanna try a Copper Camel, Hair Boy?"
Arnold looked quizzical, earning himself a snort. "Or would you rather get a Fuzzy Navel?"
"Helga," he started uneasily, eyes darting between Sid and Stinky, "I don't even know what those are..."
"You've never had a drink in your life, have you Arnoldo?" she giggled, arching an eyebrow.
"You seem surprised," he said bashfully, feeling just a little bit like a loser. Sid and Stinky suddenly looked much older than he, linking elbows and trading shots as they laughed heartily.
"Trust me, I'm not," she said more softly, her mouth straightening. "Truthfully I'm impressed; you're sixteen, attending the high school with the worst rep in the entire state, and you've gone this far without ever having tasted alcohol-but unfortunately, that's about to change right now. Come here-"
Helga tugged on his shirtfront and brought him closer to the table, licking her lips in thought. Arnold looked stiffly at the different bottles and cases, wondering what she'd pick, hoping whatever it was wouldn't burn his throat.
"A-ha, this might be good." The blonde held up a less-intimidating pink bottle and grinned. "This stuff is great."
"What is it?" Arnold asked, scrunching his nose.
Helga shrugged. "Some French stuff. It has-" she squinted at the label, "-strawberries, champagne, and...some shit I can't pronounce. But I've had this before, it's good, trust me. Here."
She unscrewed the cap, which turned out to be a small shotglass, and poured a small amount inside. Smiling, she handed it to him delicately. "Drink it fast. Alcohol's not like water."
Arnold stared into the tiny glass and then downed it. There was an obvious tinge of strawberry, but the alcohol caught him off guard. It tasted fine, he supposed, but it wasn't as pleasant as he thought. He sputtered a little and Helga snatched away the little glass.
"Ah, dammit," she grunted. She set the bottle down and grabbed a can of Sprite and a taller, green bottle. "Grab that pitcher right there, Football Head."
"Is this Kool-Aid?" he asked, but Helga didn't answer. She took the three different drinks and poured them into a large mug: Sprite first, then Kool-Aid, then alcohol.
"There ya go, this should be better," she said confidently. Arnold took the mug, uncertain.
"Um, what's in this?" He tried smelling it and got a whiff of sour apples.
"Vodka," she answered. "Rhonda and I made this concoction in eighth grade. It tastes like liquified candy."
"I dunno, Helga..."
"You like Jolly Ranchers, don'tcha?" she snapped. "Try it!"
"Do I drink it fast or-"
"No, it's not straight, Arnoldo, just drink it like a regular old drink."
Arnold smacked his lips and took a long sip; to his surprise she was exactly right, it was as if he were drinking a Jolly Rancher. He grinned after swallowing, making her laugh triumphantly.
"You like it, Football Head?" she asked for good measure.
He nodded, taking another sip. "Yeah, Helga, this-this is really good!"
"Awesome," she grinned devilishly. "Couple more cups of that and then you can graduate to Coke and rum-and then we'll have you drunk in no time."
iiiii
In Harold's experiences with parties, he had come to learn that there were five different types of drunks.
Stinky, for example, was what he called a "lazy drunk." Fun to be around when he got that first buzz, but after he's reached his limit, he's done talking. Get a few bottles of beer in him and he's glued to the couch for the rest of the night, drawling on about how tired he is or how that dang music is too dang loud, but he wouldn't go home, not until someone would notice him dozing off and help him walk home. Lame.
Curly was the "angry drunk." As a person, Gammelthorpe wasn't too intimidating; sure, he was tall, but without much meat on his limbs, and the glasses didn't do much for his macho. But after tequila, the guy was positively, horrifyingly crazy (more so than his normal self). God forbid you beat him at pool or a video game when he's intoxicated; he pushed one guy down the stairs the year before. He'd always apologize later, after he would sober up, but Curly wasn't somebody Harold wanted to get on the bad side of, not at a party.
Helga and Sheena, on the other hand, were definitely "happy drunks," laughing and giggling obnoxiously at everything after a few Jello shots. They would sling their arms around whoever they were talking to and retell stupid jokes from elementary school that weren't funny unless you were totally smashed. Harold was most envious of them, wishing alcohol had that effect on him. It was like nothing in the world was wrong with either of those two with a good buzz. Screw them.
Why'd he have to get stuck being a "sad drunk"? Why was it that all the bad feelings worsened tenfold every time he lost count of the beers? He tried to make it change; every time he got drunk, he hoped it'd feel different, hoped that he could turn into a Helga or a Stinky or hell, even a Curly-any of those would be better than feeling so depressed. There were several times when he'd have to find a broom closet to hide in until the tears would finally stop flowing, and that's where he wound up again tonight, sobbing into a glass of Captain Morgan, wishing he didn't just see Rhonda, the "slutty drunk," running around the mansion in her panties and macking on Sid. Curly wasn't gonna be too happy when he found out about that, drunk or not, but Harold was too selfish to think about how Curly would feel. What about how Harold felt? Didn't Rhonda ever think about that? Didn't Rhonda think about how Harold felt when she took him in her limo, when she hugged him, when she gave him that kitten? Didn't she think about that?
No, of course she didn't, Harold knew. Rhonda never thought about how anyone felt except herself. Rhonda Lloyd just did what she wanted. So Harold stayed in that broom closet, wondering to himself what exactly Rhonda did want, and hoping that somehow, it could maybe, possibly be him.
iiiiii
"How's it goin' there, Gerald?"
Perking up, Gerald met Stinky, striding up into the Billiards room with an empty beer can in hand. Gerald scratched at the back of his neck, shaking his head.
"Phoebe had a little too much champagne," he explained awkwardly.
"I thought Phoebe wadn't inta drinkin'?" Stinky recalled, but Gerald shook his head.
"I'm thinkin' the girls gave her a hard time about never drinking, so she tried it out to get 'em off her back."
Stinky wrinkled his nose, lifting his beer can to his lips. He made a face when there was nothing left in it to sip and continued, "Well that ain't seem right. Phoebe shouldn' feel like she has to do anything."
"They're not usually so pressing, but I'm sure they were drinking some before the party started, so..."
Striding up to where Gerald sat in the doorway to the hall, Stinky bent his head to see if Phoebe would emerge from the restroom, but she didn't appear. He sighed. "I sure hope she don't feel too sick. What about you, Gerald? Ain't you drinkin' nothin'?"
Gerald half-smiled and crossed his arms. "Nah. I had a little bit but when I heard my girl and Arnold both were drinking, I figured I should stay clean in case they get messy."
Stinky grinned widely and slid down on the wall next to him, crushing his empty can. "That's right nice o' ya, Gerald. I reckon I oughta do the same for Sid one a these days, on accounta he gets a little raunchy when he drinks."
"Raunchy?"
Sighing, Stinky repeated, "A little raunchy, yeah. He was lettin' Rhonda give him a sorta strip dance downstairs-"
Gerald's eyes flew open. "A what?"
"A strip dance," Stinky said again, hoping it sounded clearer this time. "Ya know, she's dancin' on him in her panties. I reckoned I oughta get outta there in case Curly comes in." He chuckled, closing his eyes and imagining him crying on the kitchen floor like a little girl. Curly got so ravingly emotional when he drank that it was highly comical.
But Gerald didn't seem to think that any of this was very funny, as he jolted up from the floor with a panicked look. "Stinky, can you just stay here a minute in case Pheebs comes outta there?"
Shrugging, Stinky agreed. "Sure thing, Gerald."
"Great, I'm gonna go try and pull Rhonda off Sid before Curly finds her, kay?"
"You go 'head and do that, Gerald, I'll be right here," Stinky yawned, and watched as Gerald dashed down into the living room. Leaning back on the wall, Stinky's eyes drooped shut, and he nodded off before he could hear the fight that was soon to erupt.
iiiiiii
"-I just don't even get it, how could you even-"
"-it was just a kiss, Oh my God-"
"-oh it was a lot more than that, Rhonda!-"
"-you are so overreacting-"
"-you're practically naked-"
"-I still have my panties on-"
"-you were giving him a lap dance-"
"-oh please Curly-"
"-no, you know what, no, I don't have to deal with this-"
"-Curly, stop it, calm down, you're drunk-"
"-don't tell me to freaking calm down Rhonda, you're drunk too!-"
"-no shit, Sherlock, we're all drunk! Why can't you shut up and forget it?"
"I can't! How am I supposed to trust you! And to Sid-"
"Oh my God what does it matter?"
"What does it matter? Seriously? Oh my God, Rhonda, screw it, whatever I'm out-"
"Curly, don't leave-"
"I'm leaving-"
"Curly, wait, I'm sorry, please don't go like this-"
There was a loud grunt, followed by a small shriek, presumably from Rhonda, and an ear-shattering slam from the very front door. Harold opened his eyes slowly, hearing the thick tension in the silence. He blinked, wondering why he wasn't hearing any music or seeing any light spilling from the crack in the door. His legs felt like jelly as he stood up and slowly pushed the closet door open, seeing nothing in the darkness other than lights from some cell phones.
He didn't know how far Rhonda was, but he heard Helga a few feet away. "Come on Princess, it's fine, you'll both forget about it by tomorrow-let's go upstairs and get you in a robe before the ball drops-"
"Is everyone okay?" Harold heard Gerald ask. "We all here?"
"I think so," Phoebe answered him.
"Where's Harold at?" Sid's voice came from farther off. "I haven't seen him since like, ten-"
"I'm right here," Harold droned loudly. "Why's all the lights out?"
"Power outage," Arnold answered, sounding very close. His words were a little slurred as he explained, "Everything went out after Curly and Rhonda started fighting."
"Is Rhonda okay?" he asked without thinking.
"Helga just took her upstairs, she'll be okay when she comes back down," Arnold told him encouragingly. "Everyone's just kind of disoriented, it'll be fine once we sober up. Do you need a seat, Harold?"
Nodding, Harold let Arnold hold his arm and guide him to the living room, where Sheena and Nadine had lit some candles. The biggest armchair felt like it was swallowing him, but Harold felt comfortable. "Why'd the lights all go out, Ar-nold?"
"Not sure," he answered calmly. "I called my Grandpa and he said everything's down over there too, so it must be the whole neighborhood."
Harold felt his eyes drooping. "I wanna go sleep, Ar-nold."
"You can sleep Harold, s'okay. We're all gonna stay here until the power comes back on, okay?"
Harold nodded slowly, closing his eyes and remembering the time the power went out when he was really small. He thought fairies were stealing the lights from the city, but his mother told him that fairies weren't real and that the electricity just failed. "Night Mommy."
Arnold sniggered softly and patted his shoulder. "Night, Harold."
iiiiiiii
"I mean, what you do when you're drunk doesn't even really count, right? Am I right?"
Helga groaned, using the light from her phone's screen to find a robe somewhere in Rhonda's closet. "You shouldn't have gotten that drunk, Princess."
"Oh, so you're on his side now?" Rhonda screeched, glaring daggers at her.
"No," Helga retorted, snatching a leapord-print robe, "I'm just saying you should understand why Curly's upset. Yeah, you guys are drunk, but still, that hurt his feelings. Just apologize tomorrow when you can think straight, okay?"
She tossed the robe at Rhonda, who then wrapped it around herself and stood up, ready to follow her back downstairs, but stumbled.
"Whoa, hey, hey," Helga muttered, steadying her. "You alright?"
"Yeah, my freakin' head just hurts," Rhonda grunted.
"Ya want me to get you some Advil or something, Princess?"
Rhonda waved a hand and gave a hollow laugh. "Oh it's all the way downstairs, don't worry 'bout it-"
Helga lowered her eyelids and sighed. "You stay here, I'll go get the meds-"
"But who will keep me company?" she whined, plopping down on her bed.
"I'll get Nadine up here, okay?" Helga told her. "Now shut up and lay down."
Rhonda muttered something incomprehensible as Helga turned around the hallways and headed for the staircase, guided again by her phone and her hands on the walls. She called to Nadine when she reached the bottom and sent her up, then sauntered into the kitchen, her mind still unsettled from all the alcohol. The light on her phone flickered when she reached the doorway, signaling a low battery, then went out entirely, leaving Helga in complete darkness.
"Oh, Criminey," she groused, but continued carefully walking through anyway. The cabinet for medicine was near the sink, but Helga wasn't aware of the vodka spill that'd been on the floor there. Before she could reach the little door, Helga slipped and landed flat on her back, cursing at the newfound stabbing pain in her ankle. Some idiot dropped an entire bottle and hadn't cleaned the mess of broken glass.
Footsteps thundered into the kitchen immediately, carrying hushed gasps with them. Helga craned her neck to see who'd come to find her, and was all too delighted when she made out Arnold's head in the shadows.
A soft candlelight inched her way and she moved to get up, but Arnold stopped her. "Whoa whoa, wait, Helga, wait, don't move-"
"Don't get too close Football Head, unless you want some glass in your foot-"
"Glass?" he croaked. "Crap, don't move Helga, we're gonna clean this up-"
"Oh, yeah, good luck doing that in the pitch dark-"
"Don't be a smart-ass, Helga, are you hurt?" he asked, after whispering instructions to a couple of other friends.
"Doi, I'm bleeding profusely and this glass hurts like a bitch, so hurry up with your rescue team and make sure Princess gets some Advil."
"Nadine's got Rhonda, don't worry about it-should we call 911?"
"It's not that serious you dolt, wait a minute," Helga grimaced, moving her aching leg around, feeling where the glass pierced. "Just a little piece of stupid glass-just get me a freakin' First Aid kit, pronto!"
Gerald came into the kitchen with a mop and a dust pan, followed by Sheena with two more candles. Arnold moved cautiously toward Helga, making his best effort not to slip and fall on glass himself, and hoisted her up.
"Can you stand on your own, Helga?"
"What do you think?" she spat, grateful that he probably couldn't catch her knowing smirk in the dim light.
"Okay-okay, you know what, I'll carry you-"
Her smirk grew even wider but she asked, "Arnold, you're still kinda drunk, are you sure you can-"
"I didn't have that much, Helga, just swing your arm over my shoulder-"
The dreamy whimper that slipped from her throat went unnoticed as Arnold heaved her into his arms. Helga closed her eyes and rolled her head onto his chest as he carried her shakily out of the kitchen, entirely grateful that she could blame anything that she did tonight on being under the influence. When she opened them again, she was lying on a lounge chair in the mansion's sunroom, with everything around her illuminated by the moon, streetlights, and premature fireworks. Arnold's face in the light was flushed and a little sweaty. She sighed softly, admiring his arms in the rolled-up sleeves and unruly mess of hair, wondering how long she'd been staring when he finally asked how badly her ankle hurt.
"Huh?" she squeaked, blinking.
"Your ankle Helga, how bad's it feel," he repeated, more worriedly this time.
"Oh-criminey-" she breathed, wincing in her almost-forgotten pain. Shifting in her seat was a terrible idea.
"It's not a bad laceration," he said slowly, clearly thinking about his words as he gathered a few things out of the kit. "I am gonna have to put some of this stinging stuff on it, so just relax, okay Helga?"
"You sure you're not too drunk to do this crapola?" she asked in all seriousness, honestly wary of his present capabilities.
"Helga-"
"Okay, okay fine, do whatever, Arnoldo, just make it fast-" she said quickly, squeezing her eyes shut. Her ankle felt cooled by the peroxide, but within a few seconds a searing burn shot right through her. She didn't hear herself scream, but Arnold patiently calmed her.
"Hey, hey, shh, it's okay, you're okay," he whispered soothingly. "I'm gonna wrap you up and it'll be fine, okay? Bear with me, Helga-"
She screeched again and again and keeping still in the chair suddenly became the biggest challenge in the world, but the pain subsided as Arnold's hands massaged around her wound, securing the medical wrapping. He rubbed her leg soothingly when he had finished, smiling warmly as he watched her slowly calm down. Breathing felt much easier as she laid back, closing her eyes as she resisted smiling.
"Thanks, Arnold."
"No problem, Helga."
"What time is it?" she asked off-handedly.
He checked his phone. "It's quarter til."
She paused before continuing. "Hey Arnold..."
"Yeah?"
"Wanna get us something else to drink?"
"...Sure, I'll be right back."
A small, devious grin stretched across her face.
iiiiiiiii
By the time Rhonda tottered downstairs, the electricity had returned and mostly everyone had gathered into the living room for the countdown. Dulled by her headache and emotional crisis, she was focused not on watching the ball drop, but on finding more alcohol to drown her sorrows in. Curly called her not even five minutes before to tell her that they shouldn't see each other for a few days, and she honestly didn't know how much more she could take. Rather than lash out, she hung up on him and popped open the last bottle of champagne. She nearly knocked it over when Harold appeared at the other end of the liquor table.
"Jesus, Harold!" she cried, clutching her glass.
"I'm sorry Rhonda," he said sadly. "I was just looking for more Captain Morgan-"
"It's fine, Harold," she insisted, starting for the staircase, but Harold grabbed her arm.
"I didn't get to thank you yet," he drawled, pulling her closer.
"Thank me?" she repeated, mind cloudy. "What for?"
"The cat," he answered, half-smiling. "It was really really nice of you."
"Oh, it was nothing," she said patently, twisting her arm to get out of his grasp, but he held her tighter.
"No it wasn't," he argued, suddenly sounding very angry as he sniffled. The voice of Holly Buddy from Channel Five News was blaring through the sound system in the living room; the countdown was going to begin in less two minutes. "I know you wouldn't do that for just anybody, Rhonda-"
"Harold, I was just being nice," she tried to explain, feeling a hard lump forming in her throat.
"Oh please, Rhonda, don't gimme that crap," Harold whined. A minute and forty-five seconds until the countdown started. "I know you like me, I know you don't wanna admit it, but I know you like me, or else you wouldn't do all this nice stuff for me-"
"Harold, you're drunk, you don't know what you're talking about," she asserted, sniffling as well. He slammed a fist on the table, making her flinch.
"No, Rhonda! I do know! I know you like me-"
"Just because I do things doesn't mean they mean anything-" she tried explaining, but her head hurt so much and she was so dizzy and her tears didn't make it any easier to meet his eyes.
"Yeah they do, you just don't know how to tell me-"
"Harold, please, stop this," she pleaded, wrenching her arm from his hold. Less than one minute until the countdown.
"No Rhonda, it's about time you know I like you too, and even if you're afraid to say it, I'm not," he blurted, reaching for her again, but she backed away. Thirty seconds until the countdown.
She felt like she was going to be sick. "Harold, can we not do this right now-"
"No, no we're gonna do this, we need to, you need to tell me right now if you like me or not-"
The countdown was going to start in ten, nine, eight-
Rhonda grabbed Harold's shoulders and kissed him fully on the mouth.
iiiiiiiiii
He figured he'd probably change his mind come morning, but watching fireworks before the countdown to 2004 in Rhonda Lloyd's sunroom, drunk, with Helga G. Pataki, was the happiest Arnold ever felt. Every explosion of purple, blue, red, and green light in the sky before them earned an exaggerated giggle and Arnold hadn't noticed until then that Helga had a really sweet, girlish giggle. He was about to tell her in his stupor that she should giggle more often, but he heard a voice from inside the mansion-the countdown was going to begin.
"Helga," he started, staring widely at her, "it's almost time!"
"Time for what?" she laughed, finishing off another Smirnoff.
"The countdown, Helga-it's almost midnight!" He grabbed her shoulders for emphasis, he was so sure she forgot what time it was.
Gaping at him, Helga breathed, "It's almost 2004."
Furrowing his brow, he admitted sadly, "I feel so old," as if sixteen could really be so very old. Helga disagreed.
"You're not old, Hair Boy-man this alcohol really got to ya-"
Like it was the funniest notion he'd heard, Arnold dissolved into chuckles, his hands dropping from her shoulders to her lap. He barely felt her hands grasp his as the voices from inside began counting down. Helga told him that the ball was going to drop, but he was focused instead on something else, something she was wearing.
"Oh, Helga, that's pretty," he reached for her neck, but she slapped his hand before skin met skin.
"Hey, watch where your hands are going, you asshat-"
"Your necklace," he said quietly, fascinated by the familiar pendant on her chest. He swore he'd seen it earlier that evening but just couldn't remember.
"Oh-yeah, that," Helga replied, the bite now absent from her tone. "You got it for me, Arnold, for Christmas."
Arnold blinked at her. "I did?"
"Yeah, you did," she answered, smiling with the corner of her mouth. He looked at the little heart-shaped piece again and shook his head, finally remembering his purchase at the antique shop.
"Yeah!" he exclaimed, ignoring the chanting of numbers from inside. "Yeah, I remember-you like it, huh? I don't think I asked you that earlier..."
Helga nodded, also appearing to disregard the noise. Faintly, Arnold heard the numbers "five" and "four" being shouted behind the door, but he didn't think to ask Helga if she wanted to go watch the ball drop. For whatever reason, watching the parties on television with the rest of their friends didn't seem very important. For whatever reason, Arnold couldn't focus much on anything other than the fact that his face was dangerously, dangerously close to Helga's, and he could smell her perfume and the vodka she was drinking, and-
"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
The ear-shattering hollers of their friends pierced every thought bubble inside Arnold's head as they paraded into the sunroom, banging pots and pans and playing kazoos and whistles. The fireworks blazed over the city, screeching and thundering as everyone cheered and laughed, drunk and elated. Gerald bounced over to the lounge chair and engulfed him in a choking hug, slurring his words and waving a bottle of who-knows-what around in the air. Disturbed by the all the noise, Arnold scrambled inside to the living room, unaware that Helga had followed him until-
"Whassamatter, yutz, too loud for your aching head to handle?"
He whirled around. "Helga-"
"Listen bucko, I think we need to get you home before-"
Before what, exactly, Arnold didn't find out, because her thought was cut off by his lips crashing into her mouth.