"Alright… Team 7: Helga Pataki, Sid Gifaldi, Ivan and Isaac Powers, Wyatt Volkov, and Arnold…hrm, last name's smudged, can't make it out—"

"It's SHORTman!" Harold hollered, making a showy comparison of the difference in height between them, three years his senior at 17—and flanked by Stinky, towering over them both at an easy 6'2", amplifying the stark contrast that made Arnold 'live up' to his namesake.

Snickers and jeers scattered throughout the gymnasium, and Arnold couldn't have deadpanned any harder if he'd tried.

"Thanks, Harold."

Helga, still taller than him by a solid two inches despite his recent growth spurts, smirked. After hearing a particular name in that lineup, she could use a mood-lifter.

And a bone to pick.

She and Arnold walked up with Sid to the front to receive their Penacook Fest setup tags and designated tasks, and was not surprised once she'd turned around in their lineup and saw their next teammate join them from the crowd while avoiding eye contact with either of them.

Wyatt looked uncomfortable.

Helga chewed her cheek, willing herself to not look at Arnold. Sensing that, if she had, she'd fail to hide her rather pointed expectation, and that doing so as Wyatt approached might sour their 'truce.'

"...Ivan and Isaac Powers? " the counselor called out again. "Come to the front."

No one came up, or moved, save the idle movements of the other campers standing around in the crowd.

The counselor sighed, making no effort to hide their irritation.

"Mr. and Mr. Powers, no one's allowed to leave until we're wrapped up, and we won't be continuing until you come up here and join your team mates, alright? So, kindly stop wasting everybody's time, and cooperate."

A beat passed.

Two exaggerated, exasperated sighs emanated from the back of the crowd at last. A few moments later, taking their time weaving between bodies in the crowd obnoxiously, they finally emerged, sulking and rolling their eyes with unwilling surrender.

It was the twins.

Helga snorted and grinned, ignoring Arnold's head turn toward her as she did.

But she certainly caught his disgusted scowl when mop-head stepped up and waggled his barbell tongue piercing at him, tauntingly, before stepping in line.

After receiving their assignments and time to kill while they waited for the other teams to get assigned, their group splintered; Gerald flagging Arnold down to chat, Sid looking out for his trio, and Wyatt booking it after casting Helga a wary glance.

She rolled her eyes.

Joining their class roster after they'd transferred to Junior High, she'd never hated Wyatt. He was fairly easy-going and fit in well enough with the guys, and was often seen offering their peers emotional support when the opportunity struck. A bit of an optimist—and who'd laugh at her off-color comments, and never seemed to take her tetchy moods too seriously, without antagonizing her when he did. Honestly, he'd been alright.

He was even charming enough for her to not bite his head off when he still showed interest, after she'd rudely declined his offer to take her out last year.

He'd been good humored about it enough. Didn't get weird or overbearing.

Didn't make her feel like any more of a joke than she already did.

He'd asked her out again to a dance, a few months later. Which, duh, of course she declined. Undaunted, he playfully teased that maybe he'd try asking again later on, just in case she changed her mind, though he'd watched her with obvious intention. She'd rolled her eyes and slammed her locker shut. 'Fat chance, bucko.'

Though to be fair, she wasn't shocked when he seemingly backpedaled out of it and avoided her for a while without explanation. She'd already spent her whole life not only in unrequited love, but of no real interest to anyone else. And with the way even Arnold went hot and cold with her, well.

Who'd willingly stick themselves with Helga G. Pataki?

So, of course it came at no surprise.

Until it happened again a month ago, that was—and found out why he'd backed down, again.

Her cheek was sore from chewing it, but couldn't seem to stop.

Distracting herself, Helga turned cross-armed to face the twins, meaning to confront them on why they pulled strings to not only include Arnold in their group, but Wyatt as well, the shit-stirrers. Who still lingered nearby, but were pointedly ignoring her gaze-turned-stare. The longer it stretched, the bigger they made their show of avoiding her.

Oh, this was rich.

Time for some petty revenge.

"So," she broke the ice, a smirk quirking her lips. "Ivan and Isaac Powers, huh?"

They shook their heads, still clearly annoyed, but sardonic grins started pricking the corners of their bitten lips.

"And here we were, wondering just how long we could go without knowing each other's names," mop-head said at last, and sighed with a tsk.

"Man. And we'd done such a good job keeping that up."

"At first we just thought it was kinda funny, y'know? But then, the longer we went without telling each other, the more we hoped it'd just never happen."

"And it almost didn'tGod, if we could've just lasted 'til the end of camp, that would've been perfect."

"Right? Just two more days. Fuck."

"I know," Helga nodded back, her lips split in a cynical grin, but her eyes crinkled with authentic mirth. "Such a shame."

"Yep," purple-hair sighed with resignation. "Oh, well."

"Yeah. That said, I hope we can still continue not being friends. You know," mop-head gestured offhandedly, grinning back at her, "at least until the end of camp."

Helga smirked, and nodded.

"I'd like that."

They nodded back subtly, side-eyeing her with an agreeable, faux jadedness.

"Right. So," she sucked at her cheek, brow raised, "Ivan and Isaac. Which one's which?"

There was a brief pause before the twins looked at each other excitedly.

"Ooh, man. That's right!"

"She doesn't know!"

"Alright, alright," they bobbed their heads in approval, looking back at her with easy smiles. "Alright, we can still salvage this."

Helga shook her head through the whole exchange, heaving a sigh that said, 'what am I going to do with you idiots?'

"Oh!" Mop-head started, absorbed in a light-bulb moment. "So, actually, we'd kind of zoned out during roll call. And Wyatt, earlier—I just couldn't forget the sound of his voice quickly enough. So," he rounded on her, half-apologetic, "as for your name…"

"Forgot it already. You remember?"

"Ooh, yeah, no, uh. Sorry," he replied, feigning polite obliviousness, "it was, what," he snapped his fingers, trying to recollect, then pointed at her, like the name had just leapt to the tip of his tongue. "Frida…" he trailed off.

"…Pataki?" purple-hair helped, questioningly.

"Yeah!" mop-head beamed obnoxiously, flashing his palms at her. "That was it, wasn't it?"

Helga just shook her head with a nasty smirk, flipping her middle finger behind her as she walked off, ignoring mop-head as he called out after, 'that's right though, isn't it?!' They had no idea how easy they were getting off. Or maybe they did, and it was just another game to them, to see if she'd ever take the bait.

Then again, what wasn't?

Helga spotted Phoebe with Gerald, who was talking with Arnold, sending a dismissive, 'hey, I'm alright, just going off to do my own thing' wave her way as she did. Phoebe, who was so good at reading Helga at times even when she wasn't signaling her way, smiled, nodding back.

It was brief, but during a moment when Arnold was distracted by Eugene somehow getting himself stuck in a pile of stretch bands he'd knocked off a shelf, Gerald slid his gaze to Helga's, flickering his eyes to Arnold and back meaningfully.

Helga gave a soft nod as they shared a subtle, knowing look of commiseration and good luck before parting ways.

… … …

Helga jostled her messy, low-hung braided pigtails as she rubbed the sweat off the back of her neck, and huffed. It was uncomfortably humid and sticky when their team joined up for their first assigned setup task that day, though the ocean breeze was strong enough to break through the treeline of the park, and was thankfully merciful.

When she rounded the path to a nearby clearing she spotted Wyatt and Sid paired off, the both of them undoubtedly feeling like outliers in their group, sneaking off through the bushes.

And the twins, who, upon approaching from their trek in the woods, addressed Arnold, the only one who'd been working by the time she arrived, setting up tarps and supplies.

"Hey."

"Word on the grapevine is you're a cat behaviorist."

"So tell me, how do I get Princess to stop leaving us dead birds and mice at our cabin?"

"Yeah, and how to stop her from peeing on it."

"I— what," Arnold started. He looked confused and wrong-footed. And, considering the darker side-eyes she caught him casting their way more than once, absolutely not expecting their not un-friendly forwardness and line of inquiry. He squinted at them oddly before catching himself. "Look, I'm not a—"

Mop-head faked a gasp.

"Aw, you mean, you're not a cat behaviorist?" he replied with mock disappointment.

"That's like, such a shame, dude," Purple-hair followed up, ignoring Arnold's unappreciative deadpan.

"Yeah, we really need some help. There's just like, pee and dead rats everywhere. I don't even know how we sleep at night," mop-head lamented, his twin muttering with a small, dismissing headnod toward Arnold, 'he's lying, we never sleep at night.'

"And like, we'd find out ourselves, but the signal out here? Is shit," mop-head added. Quite truthfully, in fact. "So we were just really hoping that you would know."

"Yeah, I mean, we figured that maybe even if you weren't an expert, you'd at least have, like, an affinity with felines that might help."

"Like how Princess lets you pick her up, even though she hardly knows you."

"And that whole speech people've mentioned you've made."

"And also, like," mop-head shook his messy black hair out of his eyes and gestured a distance between his hands, about a foot apart, and motioned them toward Arnold, with no regard to his growing scowl. "How, you know, cats can squeeze their body through any space their head can fit through…?"

He drove the point home, gesturing his hands forward in an approximate match to the width of her unrequited beloved's skull.

Arnold's eyes widened, his jaw dropping in an open, disbelieving sneer, slowly shaking his head while he stared at them incredulously.

Helga, who'd been off to the side pretending she was occupied opening paint cans and watching the exchange surreptitiously, had to turn away and suppress a snort.

Sure, she'd put bullying behind her, and was more reserved around her usage of 'Football Head' toward him these days. And, hell, puberty had been kind to Arnold, broadening his shoulders and lending some strength and definition to his chin and jawline, balancing his proportions out quite a bit, even if his head was still a distinctive shape. And, as hard as he could be to love, especially lately, she did still love him. Incredibly. Loyally. Likely to her dying day. But, damn.

Why hadn't she ever thought of that?

"Well," purple-hair said chirpily, clapping his hands after the awkward tension that followed. "These signs won't make themselves."

They followed Arnold's lead, white-washing old, salvaged wooden boards, dropped off from a farm near the park grounds, mostly keeping quiet (if not for the twin's whispering sidebar) and taking non-verbal directions. If Arnold could avoid speaking to the twins again for the remainder of camp, Helga figured he would. She caught him flickering perplexed, disapproving glances between her and the twins while they worked more than once. And they wouldn't have been the first.

A habit of his she both relished and couldn't stand.

Sensing an opportunity to demonstrate another bit of goodwill to solidify their 'truce,' she connected her phone to a small bluetooth speaker she'd stashed in her knapsack, and put on some acid jazz she knew he'd like, the sounds stretching out across the clearing. An album he'd introduced her to years ago when they'd started sharing musical tastes more than words.

She made a point to not look at him for a few solid minutes, to avoid coming across as expectant or fishing in any way—both approaches she knew would backfire at this point. Ever since their 'truce' started, he'd been the one to come to her, to control just how much space there was between them, and that included conversation. Which they'd had none of.

But that didn't mean she couldn't lay out an invitation of sorts. Just one with no pressure to oblige.

She fanned her sticky shirt, guzzled half her water bottle, and wiped the sweat down her legs in broad strokes—splotching them with trails of smudged, white paint as she did so…Oops. That's a look. Well, better than her shorts, at least.

Bending over the paint cans and refreshing her tray, she cast an idle, casual glance his way as the paint leveled off, her profile shaded under the brim of her baseball cap.

No shit he'd been watching.

Caught doing so, he tilted his head in the direction of the speakers in a fleeting look of guarded appreciation, before getting up and turning away to his backpack for his own swig of water, and… took off his lightweight flannel shirt and…

Okay, Helga, you fucking paint the ever-loving shit outta these boards right now, or so God, or the very Devil, help you.

…But probably the Devil.

She snuck another look his way against her better judgment as she loaded up her roller before dragging her eyes away again, repositioning herself to keep him and his white tank and shoulders her line of sight, but definitely not out of mind.

Yeah, who am I kidding.

Definitely the Devil.

"Hey!"

Sid came careening out of the woods and through the clearing toward them, Wyatt following behind at a considerably slower pace, and Helga was actually grateful for the distraction.

Almost slipping on the tarp and narrowly avoiding kicking up a wet, freshly painted board up onto his jeans, but definitely marking his beetle boots—and would he even notice? She wondered. They were white—Sid threw his legs and arms wide, demanding their attention. Even the twins, masters at ignoring the lesser intelligent, turned their heads in mild interest.

"Guys! You're not gonna believe this!"

Helga set her roller down and stood, crossing her arms, the rest of their group waited with tired expectation as Sid panted and seemed to realize he was sweating bullets, complaining, 'ugh, dude, it's fucking hot,' under his breath, whipping off his cap and running his wrist across his forehead before sticking it back on.

"Dude, so, okay—remember how it was, like, super foggy last night?"

There were some scattered shrugs and nods.

"Well, when we went back to base camp, to uh, get more supplies?" Helga deadpanned, pausing the music on her phone. Already a dubious start from a guy who hadn't done any work, but alright.

"And while I was in line for goggles—cuz, you know, the stenciling…anyway. The kids from Concord? They wanted to check out the lighthouse in the fog, because with the flashing light, and everything—it looks kinda cool, right?"

Arnold crossed his toned, bare arms and sighed, looking disinterested, and strong, in his tank. Helga almost sighed, too, but caught herself. Down, girl.

"But when they got to the grounds they swear they saw a woman, wearing nothing but a slip, walking past the lighthouse, l-like she was in a trance—but she wouldn't answer them when they called out, and when they got closer—she'd disappeared!

Sid caught his breath, his hands out and waiting expectantly for them to grasp what he said.

"Guys, c'mon! The anniversary? Gerald's tale? That old lighthouse keeper's fake wife? That's one of the haunts!"

A considerable silence stretched.

Until Wyatt spoke.

"What's a… slip? "

Sid whipped back to him.

"Uh—a-according to Phoebe, it's like, a woman's undergarment? " he said the word like it had never been in his mouth, "like, worn under a dress, o-or a skirt."

Wyatt crossed his arms, shifting his weight to one leg, puzzled.

"Wait, girls wear dresses under their dresses?"

"Well, according to Rhonda, it's either for formal occasions, or if a chick wears a dress that's uh, that's tight, but wants to seem a little less, uh. Slutty. " Sid snapped back to face Helga, the only girl in their midst, with his hands up in pre-emptive surrender. "Uh—R-Rhonda's words, heh, not mine!"

Helga crossed her arms as an awkward beat passed.

"Thank you, Rhonda," she said sarcastically.

One of the twins snorted.

"A-also though," Sid doubled-back, "they aren't just for—uh, that, o-or the other thing, but uh," he licked his lips nervously, "women used to always wear them, e-even as pajamas, apparently," he paused a moment, reflecting oddly on the bit of trivia that, Helga guessed, probably came from Phoebe, too. "S-so yeah, they're also like—really old fashioned…" he trailed off, meaningfully, his eyes etched and wide. "I'm telling you guys…this shit? Is for real… "

No one said anything for a moment.

"Cool," said purple-hair, dryly, "does that mean you got the goggles? Cuz we're sprayin'."

Sid blanked.

"Uh…no, I uh. I completely forgot."

"Dude," mop-head replied, "you only had one job."

"Yeah," his twin joined, "and it was one nobody even gave you."

Tuning out their banter, and ignoring Wyatt, who shrugged and wiped down more boards to be white washed, Helga slid her gaze to Arnold to gauge his take on Sid's hearsay. And sure enough, Arnold was already looking at her before she met his eyes.

But in a completely different light.

A side-eye cast across his shoulder, his head tilted back appraisingly, and his eyes thinned to green slits with calculating suspicion.

Helga planted her paint-dried hands to her hips as she jutted one out, and challenged him back with an arched brow. When he said nothing, she lowered her head pointedly, tapped her foot, and bore her cap-shadowed eyes straight into his.

Daring him to speak.

His brow arched in kind, and, a stretch later, he did, his voice cautious and husky.

"Putting on your veil again, Ghost Bride?"

Helga forced the cocky, offended smirk to her lips, but was sure her eyes were shining and alight, even under the shade of her hat. His first full sentence spoken to her—directly to her, for the first time in weeks, and she had to steady her breath from her heady emotional mixture of satisfaction, ire, and elation.

She just had to keep her eyes above his neck line, and do the rest.

"Please," she replied at last, her grin toothy, "Me in disguise, like when we were kids? Nope, I'm afraid my haunting days are over, bucko. Unless, of course," she added off-handedly, looking away to watch Sid freak out over the paint on his boots, just discovered, "you're talking about that new Hugo "Meatface" Hernandez contender, 'cause that guy kills me."

Predictably unabated by her topical wrestling ref, she turned back to him, flashing her eyebrows as she leveled him with a lightly playful, dead-on look that challenged. "Why? You coming at me with an accusation, Football Head?"

Oh, it was good to say that to him again—and he even twitched. Bonus.

He bit his lip, nodding subtly in the face of her light taunt, before his eyes narrowed with something untrusting and unreadable. His voice was low when he replied.

"Paying one back in kind."

Oh. Now.

That one got under her skin.

She drew from the strength of her core to will her bristling response out of her face, keeping it carefully impassive. Her thoughts flew back to their confrontation in the stacks just before school let out for summer.

Oh, is that it, huh? Well.

Hardly an accusation when it's true, though, is it, Arnoldo?

Of course, she reflected, his accusation wasn't untrue in kind, either—even if both of them would deny otherwise. But, either way.

Careful, now.

She leveled him an allowing look as she sucked the inside of her lip, and tossed a soft jut of her chin. A wordless reply.

'Fine. Touché.'

His responding look—also leveling off in intensity—the quirk at his lips not exactly a smile, lingered before he walked off and returned to work.

She ground her teeth at his back, no longer hiding her glare.

At least her lie was there to get to the truth.

… … …

The morning air was clear and brisk, the day before their last at camp.

Helga stalked the path before breakfast from the girls cabins, across the base camp, the mess hall, the gymnasium, the fire pits and the pond and all the way to the section that housed the boys cabins.

She'd told the boys who were already outside that signal sucks right now, she was looking for Phoebe, and thought she'd be here with Gerald, but neither were there—and instead, she'd gotten an earful.

How Sid had a hard time sleeping, and wasn't okay. Really not okay.

How, in the middle of the night, he kept hearing strange sounds outside their cabin, but when anyone would go out and see, there was no one there. And it happened again, and again…and, nothing.

But when they woke up and looked out the window that morning they saw a noose hanging from a tree right behind their cabin.

Stinky, the tallest of their lot, went out and took it down, and the branch along with it.

It coiled like a cursed thing on the ground when she'd approached.

Just another prank, voices in their circle repeated. Probably just doing it to get high off the attention. They don't mean anything by it.

Or what if it's a sign, others asked. What if all the haunting was real—if not the fountain, then what about the red mist over the pond? The woman disappearing in the fog? The sounds last night when no one was there.

The noose.

No, the other voices insisted. It was just a prank. A really, super fucked up one.

At some point during the exchange, Arnold stared at her, and didn't stop.

But what about the anniversary, another voice came. It's tomorrow, when we're supposed to leave.

But what if we never do?

Sid took off like a shot.

Arnold pierced her with his eyes before he joined the few who stormed after him.

… … …

Author's Note: Disguise