Chapter 2

When Helga walked into English class the next day and saw the chairs arranged in a circle, she almost turned on her heel and walked right back out.

She'd completely forgotten that a poetry assignment was due today, and that everyone had to read their poem aloud. She had a million poems she could use for the assignment, but every single one of them would expose her feelings about a certain football-headed classmate.

And even though she had perfect attendance in this class, she realized there was no way she could share her words, not in front of the one person who had inspired every word she'd ever written.

She started backing out of the classroom, only to bump into the teacher.

"Woah, Ms. Pataki. Take your seat. We're about to begin."

Arnold looked at her as she glumly took a seat as far away from him as possible, on the opposite side of the circle. He noticed she was wearing another slouchy sweatshirt that buried her, this time pale blue, and her usual combat boots. As she sunk in her chair, her sweatshirt slid further down one shoulder than the other, and he tried not to stare.

Helga had always been a tomboy, for as far back as he could remember. Even when the other girls from P.S. 118 started wearing makeup, she flatout refused. She made little changes here and there, like wearing her hair down and wearing dresses that were a little more grungy. But when he thought of things like crashing Rhonda's sleepover and Helga's short stint as the It Girl, he knew that Helga didn't make choices to fit in. When had she ever fit in really? He smiled. It was one of the things he'd always admired about her.

The teacher clapped to get everyone's attention, breaking Arnold's train of thought. "Alright, class. Today's reading circle will feature our latest poetry assignments. Let's go around the room and read. Who wants to start? How about you, Ms. Pataki?"

Inside, Helga was screaming. No! No! This can't be happening! I can't do this!

"I - uh - I think I forgot my poem, Mr. Lucheck." He looked over at her.

"I see your pink book right there, Ms. Pataki."

"Yeah, but -"

"The one you always write all your poetry in?"

Arnold watched as Helga helplessly opened her book, stood up, and began to read:

"Before you,

there was only cold darkness

where my heart should be.

Before you,

every word,

every glance,

held nothing but spite

for the contents of my soul.

You woke me up when nothing else could.

You reminded me I have

a heart worth saving,

a heart worth giving,

to you and only you, my love."

She shut the book with finality, beet-red, and slid down in her chair, staring anywhere but his face.

Arnold was stunned. The entire time she read, he was captivated, by the soul in her voice, the depth to her words, and the love she so clearly felt for whoever she'd written that poem for. It was more emotion than he'd ever managed to feel for anyone in his life.

"Wonderful. Thank you, Helga," the teacher said. "Anybody have any feedback for Ms. Pataki?"

A senior boy raised his hand. "Where do you get your inspiration?" he asked.

Arnold, Arnold, Arnold, she thought. She frantically tried to think of something then accidentally made eye contact with Arnold. He was looking at her, and he seemed to be just as curious to hear her answer. She focused her attention back on the senior boy to distract her.

"Uh, well, I read a lot of sonnets. I really love Elizabeth Barrett Browning, especially her Sonnet 43." She blinked, suddenly remembering something. "In fact, I wrote down a couple lines from it that I really liked."

She opened her book to a worn dog-eared page. "'How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and heighth my soul can reach.' Oh, and this line." She paused, then blushed, remembering how close the line hit to home. "I love thee with the passion put to use in my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.'"

She forgot herself for a moment, thinking about why that style of poetry appealed to her so much. "I guess I like old-timey stuff like this because no one talks like this anymore. Conversations are about surface-level stuff most of the time, and this kind of poetry really reflects on the whys behind love, and the mysteries of it."

The senior boy nodded and smiled coyly at her. "I get that. Do you ever read Edgar Allan Poe's poetry? He's also from the Romantic Movement."

Helga's eyes widened. "I thought he just wrote scary stories."

"Nah, he's got some good poems. Look up Annabel Lee. That's a good one."

"Thanks," Helga said, writing this down in her journal.

Arnold regarded their conversation carefully. It was obvious the guy liked her, that much he could tell. But more than that, he couldn't remember Helga ever being so open about anything she liked before, with the exception of Wrestlemania and monster truck shows.

As everyone else read their poems, Helga gave the impression of paying attention while taking in absolutely nothing. The whole time her mind was screaming, Does he know it's about him? Does he hate it? Does he think differently of me? Oh my god, please let me die right here so I never have to know.

At the end of class, she prepared herself to bolt, gathering her books and backpack and perching on the edge of her seat.

But when the bell rang, Arnold was ready, following her as closely as he could in the hallway. "Helga! Hey! Wait up!"

She sped up, but he caught her by the arm. "Hey! Helga! Wait!"

She whirled on him. "What?!"

He stepped back. "I just wanted to say - "

"What?!"

"- that I liked your poem," he finished. The words hung in the air between them for a long moment.

Helga's face was stunned, then quickly turned to anger. "You're making fun of me."

His eyes got wide. "No! I really mean it. That was amazing. I had no idea you were so talented."

It slowly dawned on her that he was being honest. She tucked her hair behind her ear. "R-really? Well, um, thanks, Arnold."

He smiled. "And the guy you wrote it for, is he your boyfriend?" The words came out before he could stop them, and he clapped his hand over his mouth.

"I-I've never had a boyfriend. So no. I was just - uh - writing something fictional for the assignment."

"Oh. Well, it felt very real. And… it was really beautiful," he said shyly.

Helga could feel the blush creeping into her cheeks. "Uh, well, thank you." She started backing away. "Well, um, I have to get to my next class now." She gestured with her thumb and then practically shoved her way through the crowd of students around her.

Arnold was left waving dumbly. What the hell just happened? he thought. Why did I just spaz out like that? To Helga of all people?

He thought about her poem. Could it really be about no one? Ugh, why had he asked if she had a boyfriend she'd written it for? Since when was he interested in her love life? Or, now that he knew, lack thereof? Why couldn't he have come up with something smarter or more enlightened to say?

Farther up the hallway, Helga's mind was racing. What just happened? she thought. Arnold just complimented my writing, and even thought it was beautiful! She smiled and sighed. Wow.

But then she shook her head and thought about his last question: Do you have a boyfriend? I could only imagine what his reaction would be if I said it was about him, that all my writing is about him.

But why would he ask that? Did he really not know she had never had a boyfriend? No boy had caught her interest but him, ever. While Arnold had gone through several crushes over the years and had even dated a couple girls, she remained hopelessly devoted, even when he was clearly unaware of her existence.

What made her smile though was that the same thing always ended his relationships: there was no spark, no romance. The girls he had dated may as well have been just friends.

She wondered if his interest in her writing meant that he could sense the real her, and maybe even like her for it, enough to see that that spark was there, and that it always had been.