God always laughs at well-made plans.
Well, she always told herself that her plans were well-made, at least. That said, she could never quite get what she wanted, and the past few days were especially fruitless.
Her attempts recently were met with failure, a source of frustration that had already broken one pen, and strained the bridge of her current one when she scrawled her fury with a shaking grip.
She remembered all the schemes she pulled in elementary, the absurd lengths she went to. The stalking and video surveillance, gathering his used 'scraps' and incorporating them into cursed, heart-felt effigies of her 'beloved'. Her old, unhinged, calculating past self, who she outgrew years ago, would have forced her hand and waited to see where the cards landed afterwards.
But today, she knew that just wouldn't work.
As much as the blaze burned in her, as much as she wanted to just get in his face, as right as she'd be to… things were, well. Different from when they were kids.
He would not be so passive, or so easily trapped. Or so open to facing a truth, even if he'd been blind to it.
Particularly now.
And this wasn't a mission to see if she could 'maybe make him see me differently', or 'if I play my cards right I'll get to spend some time with him while protecting my reputation' like before.
The more she dwelled on it, her thoughts treading beyond her righteous indignation and impassioned demand, she knew.
There was no way she could confront and expose him without exposing herself as well.
So whatever the setup would be, the stage really had to be set. And whether it was the gripping fear in the face of finality, or betrayal, or stubbornness that stood in her way, she didn't know. But if she were to succeed, she needed to get Arnold into position. Physically, mentally, and emotionally.
And she didn't know how.
In the meantime, all the challenging stares, lashing out and stirring tensions were all just hollow attempts to provoke him to engage first, taken as victories in petty satisfaction. A means to stave off that hopeless feeling of powerlessness in the face of something she didn't quite know how to overcome, and validate her vindications. To avoid giving up. Doing nothing.
Sometimes she wanted to shake a hornets nest just to force a reaction, her own well-being be damned.
Penning through her journal brought her ruminating thoughts out of the endless churning of her mind. She sat on her cabin cot with headphones on, ignoring the background noise of the other girls she was holed up with as she reflected on her failures, and lack of direction, with no unwounded ego.
Of course, there were the common use areas, which somehow felt like mutually understood 'safe zones' for their unshifting stalemate, the only places he'd watch her and not back down his glare when caught.
And that was fine.
After all, there was still ample opportunity.
But maybe next time, not in the pond in the back of the grounds, even if it was fit for a swim. Technically.
Just not for lurking and espionage.
Helga hadn't learned much from Olga when it came to… well, anything. But there was one thing Olga hadn't told her that she took to heart. If she was ever gonna bring out her eyes, she'd wear waterproof mascara. Not that she really applied anything else, or even bothered it was some small consolation, she supposed, that when she scurried out of the reeds and smacked all those bloody leeches off her body in a panic, the boys nearby splashing in their own startlement, her unshed makeup was really bringing out her 'sweet baby blues' as she flailed and shrieked.
It was hard to overhear any conversation that may give away his plans outside of scheduled activities. And Gerald, despite becoming a friend of sorts over the years and walking his own line with Arnold, wasn't going to betray his buddy with intel like that, should he be privy to it. But she didn't need the 'majesty of nature' making it any harder for her, dammit.
And he was smart enough to avoid electives that were obvious traps–like outdoor twister, where counselors spray painted spots on the ground. And many "group bonding" activities she saw as potentially scheme-worthy were apparently split up between genders, too. That also didn't help.
She'd even signed up as an activity leader for a scheduled star-gazing activity on impulse once it was announced. She felt pathetic as Phoebe asked if she was really sure she wanted to sign up for it—and if yes, she could help her study for it.
Helga, who had zero interest in spending a free evening memorizing constellations or tallying points for correct sightings and dispensing some low-grade camp prizes, but who was embarrassingly drawn to the idea of forcing Arnold to participate in something that could be possibly construed as romantic just to get a rise out of him, grit her teeth and responded with a stubborn 'yes'.
And of course the forecast changed on a dime and it was cloudy that night, anyway. Doi.
But when she went back to revisit that enormous rocky shore and listened to the angry waves crashing against its jagged walls that evening, she still spotted him behind her. Up and back a fair distance on that grassy knoll, staring up at the lighthouse again.
She'd watched, transfixed, as the beam from the revolving lens cast the glow of its spotlight over him from a ways, and swore he'd looked ghostly and lost. Her trance only breaking when he'd finally turned away and walked off. She didn't chase after him, knowing that even if she'd somehow managed to catch up, he'd still be unreachable.
And so their stalemate stood.
She hadn't even told Phoebe what had happened before graduation—not details, anyway. But her best friend could read the writing on the wall better than she often could, her life drawn so deeply into her feelings for him that she'd blind herself. A lingering, gentle touch to her shoulder each night was enough to let her know she was there when she was ready.
Even though she'd still confide in Phoebe more than anyone else save her therapist, she often kept her cards close to her chest, and pulled away. Sometimes for longer than she'd meant to, or was good for her. Last year was particularly bad on that front.
When Miriam started trying to get sober it somehow made home life even more disconnected and chaotic, particularly where Bob was concerned. Being under his thumb was no unfamiliar burden, despite how good she was at resisting or submitting with blasé resignation. But her mom's new choices forced her parents to interact in ways that truly stressed her out. Either stuck at a loss yet invisible in the middle, or left so far on the sidelines that it shook what jaded acceptance and tenacity she'd drawn upon to survive her homelife for years by that point.
She wasn't prepared. It was new, overwhelming, intolerable, and beyond her.
Maybe none of the Patakis were good at handling change.
And he hadn't helped.
Whatever use of an anchor he still had just wasn't enough, particularly with her other dropped, obsessive habits. Not without ritual, but none so extreme or consuming.
That year she broke down in front of Dr. Bliss and began pouring herself into therapy. Asked for guidance, assignments, anything. A testament to her willingness to try, she accepted the recommendation that she try offering peer support to other troubled kids–like a shadow.
'Maybe the best way to get what you need is to give it to others, first.'
Reluctant, sick-stomached, and shields up with a heaping grain of salt, she tried it.
It wasn't some miracle cure, obviously. Like how therapy, or closet shrines, or lost football-headed idiots weren't, either. But it was a change she could control in part, and even she could admit she got something out of those mixed results. Particularly from that one little girl, that mousy brunette; a smothered, wounded, aimless spitfire.
Someone without an Arnold.
Somehow, and there was no reasonable explanation she could provide, her listening and guidance had not only helped, it had helped them both.
A simple enough concept, but one she never would have imagined could apply to herself.
At one point, when she realized she could catalyst that kind of endurance and change—good change, it reminded her of who Arnold used to be. She'd donned her blue baseball cap around then, fitting a missing piece of him onto herself. When she looked in the mirror after she'd swelled with inspiration and a hot charge of resolve.
If she could accomplish that, then maybe he wasn't as lost as she'd hoped, too.
She looked up from her journal and out the window to the revolving spotlight with intent.
And if she could do all that, and more, then she could do this, too.
And she would.
… … …
That said, one step forward and two steps back.
Or more.
"That's not appropriate, boys!" Mr. Simmons shouted.
No one was allowed to move. This included laughing.
But such was a lofty goal when the Hillwood Idiot Trio all froze in a flamboyant line-up, butts out mid-twerk, when half the remaining players could see them. It caused a chain reaction where they all slowly lost it, the sight of them losing it then caused Sid, Stinky and Harold to also lose it, which made Helga bark out a hard laugh, and then disqualify them all.
"You're out! No if's, and's or BUTTS!"
"UNFREEZE!" another counselor shouted.
"Excellent use of 'butt'," came a compliment below her eye line. Helga looked down in confusion before spotting the twins she met the other day sprawled out on the ground like a casual pair of corpses.
Then promptly rolled her eyes.
"I can't believe you're actually playing along."
"What're you talking about?"
"This is just how I spend my day."
"This is Last Man Standing," she deadpanned back.
"I thought this was Dead Fish."
"I dunno," Helga handwaved. "You gotta get down on the ground for that or whatever."
"No you don't, people run around all the time in Dead Fish."
"Well they shouldn't, 'cuz they're fuckin' dead."
"Language!" Mr. Simmons raised his voice as he came over, palms forward appeasingly. When he looked down he slumped, dropping his hands on his hips with exasperation. "And you two! I'm afraid you've already been disqualified."
"FREEZE!" came the call from left-field.
"For what?"
"For not, uh, participating."
The twins looked at each other before looking back at Mr. Simmons.
"Is that what we're doing?"
"Hm. Nah, I'm just resting, dawg."
"Not me. Call a hearse."
Helga snorted. "Forget a hearse, you'd need a 16-wheeler just to haul off half the campers after Harold flashed ass like that."
"Helga." Simmons side-eyed her warningly.
"Really? The thicc one?" the mop-head craned his neck up, trying to see.
"Ok, that's it," he pinched his nose with impatience, then pointed. "Off the field!"
"UNFREEZE!"
The remaining players dashed around as they dragged their 'corpse' bodies off the field with feigned dramaticism, but she hardly noticed.
He was running.
A dreamy sight that always drew her in at the exclusion of everything else, particularly when it imbued him with a liveliness that brought a reassuring ache to witness. A smile threatened to quirk her lips before she schooled her perspective to view him once again as an opponent.
Either he'd just displayed a powerful immunity she didn't know he'd cultivated, or he was merely one of the lucky remaining who hadn't seen their classmates' crude moves. She gave a wry, private chuckle at the thought of how rich it'd have been to watch 'cool, collected' Arnoldo (or so he'd like you to think) lose his composure if he had, though. It was also a cautiously optimistic take.
At this game, he'd make a formidable foe if he'd seen that spectacle and was still standing.
"FREEZE!"
Emboldened, she approached with a deepening smirk.
Sure enough, his eyes widened, his stance barely connecting his back foot in a paused mid-run, swimming with something deeper than alarm as he spotted her. They narrowed thinly at her and didn't waver when she stood much closer than necessary.
Right in his face, at last.
She bit her lip as her smirk twisted, relishing her power in that moment. His eyes flickered, catching the movement before tracking back up to hers again quickly, and she scoffed, tilting her chin tauntingly as she slowly dragged her lip free again through her teeth.
"OUT!" she shouted. He sneered incredulously and kept his position.
A fellow nearby activity leader who'd been surveying the remaining campers proper cast a glance in their direction. His brow arched, eyeing Arnold.
"Why? He didn't move."
"His eye twitched," she retorted, not breaking eye contact.
"They're allowed to blink, Helga."
"Hear that?" she mocked in a low voice, so only he could hear. "You blinked first."
His stare hardened. He inhaled sharply, exhaling with staggered control.
Helga called back to the other activity leader again, her smile a nasty one.
"His shoulders just moved."
They looked back at him as he kept his breath steady and rolled their eyes.
"Christ, lay off, Helga. He's allowed to breathe."
"Not on my watch," she muttered.
He glowered darkly in response.
"UNFREEZE!"
Not only did he outlast her every harassment in the end, he had even won the challenge.
True to form in a stalemate, she supposed with impatience as he stalked off after.
… … …
She'd seen the cat patrol the grounds before.
Medium-haired with a bottle-brush tail, the white-bibbed tuxedo was friendly, rubbing against legs, yet selective in who they'd allow to pet it.
As she trudged along with Phoebe near the back of the girls group as they were led around a forested path to their next mandated activity her gaze clipped to her right through the sparse line of trees.
There he was, squatting down and petting its belly as the cat rolled around on the ground and trilled.
That beautiful, magical bastard.
She slowed her walk, ignoring Phoebe as she slowed too, looked past her and gave a small, knowing smile.
Through the leaves she spotted two familiar figures slowly approaching him.
"Hey," a low voice rasped. "You stealin' my girl?"
Sure enough, it was the twins, who'd sat with her again earlier that morning—earning another caught stare from her challenge.
Through openings in the leaves she caught Arnold's gaze shoot up, widen with recognition, and then narrow on them with a sharp hesitance that made her still. The twin's faces were obscured.
The cat mewed, flopped back on its feet and hurried up to rub all over their legs and cry. Purple-hair cooed unabashedly and scooped the feline up in his arms, followed by sweet nothings. 'Oh yes there she is, yes she's a pretty princess. Who likes being held like a baby, you big ol' baby? Yes, it's you.'
"COME ON, GIRLS!" cried the counselor.
Helga lingered before tearing herself away and caught up along with Phoebe with the other girls for their 'teen wellness' meeting, or whatever the hell it was. Considering the uptight cut of their matronly counselor, she had a pretty good guess it'd chock up to another one of those 'reminders' where they were lectured once again about STDs. Along with the obligatory warning shaming them not to 'spread their legs' for any boy until college, no matter how committed or tempting.
Helga scoffed darkly.
What if you didn't even have to open your legs for him to be between them?
… … …
Author's Notes: Spotlight
