Chapter 5: Thursday
It was a brief message, only four words. But it confirmed her worst fears: "Phoebe. My house. Now."
So she knew. So Arnold had told her. She knew it would happen eventually. She had only hoped it wouldn't happen so soon.
Was she sorry? And if she wasn't, should she say she was?
...
The pain had yet to even begin to dissipate. It didn't surprise her. She'd never felt this bad before in her life. Her parents hated her, but that never bothered her much. She was treated like garbage at school, but she'd gotten along. But now, her friend had betrayed her... this was important enough to get an ulcer about.
"You know, Helga, you shouldn't be too hard on her. For one thing, you never actually told Arnold you had feelings for him. How was he to know? It's not exactly fair of you to keep him to yourself, when he's not even yours."
Olga had been right. But Helga was angry.
...
Phoebe grabbed something off the coat rack, calling something out to her mother as she did so. Her mother said something in response. Phoebe wasn't listening, though.
She opened the door, and stepped outside, into somewhere. She carefully walked down something, like stairs, though she wasn't sure if they were really there. It didn't matter, anyway.
She made her way down some street. She didn't know which one. She didn't care.
There were things doing something along with her. People. Walking. She didn't pay attention.
Then she stopped at something. It was red, it said "Stop" on it, in big letters. A stop sign. She didn't abide by its rule.
Helga's house.
She stepped up as close as she dared, looking at the mailbox. It was black, with a small red flag on the side. It came up to her waist. Opening it, she saw that there were exactly three letters in it, one from the electric company, one from the Office of Don Potter, governor, and another from Publisher's Clearing House, saying that Helga's family may have already won one million dollars.
The steps were cold, gray, and chipped in places. The railing that led up along side of it was black, and rusty. Her front door had a knocker on it, and the door itself was grayish-blue. There was a peep-hole in it, about eye-level. She rang the doorbell, which was white and circular.
Bob opened the door. "Hey, Phoebe. Helga's upstairs."
He stepped back, allowing her in. She walked upstairs. She knocked.
...
"And...?"
That was the first word to come from Helga's mouth as Phoebe stepped into her room. Helga was decked out in a beautiful prom gown, standing in front of the mirror.
"What do you think?" she asked, not looking at her friend, but sounding all the more demanding in her question.
"It... it looks great on you, Helga!" Phoebe said, smiling slightly, though Helga still wasn't looking at her.
"Yeah, I think it looks pretty good. I'm glad Bob forked over the cash for it..." She paused, and then her voice took on a more menacing tone. "So, why did you do it?"
Phoebe's lip began to bleed. She'd been biting it really hard, harder than she ever had, she imagined. She wiped at the blood furiously, but it kept coming. Helga still wasn't looking at her. She reached over to Helga's dresser and grabbed a handful of tissue, holding them down on her lip.
Helga grabbed a comb and began to go at her hair again. "I'm not happy with my hair at all. It never does what I want it to do. And tomorrow's going to be really special, so I want to look my best. What should I do with it? Should I wear it up, or down?"
Phoebe shrugged, tasting her blood. It wasn't good. She disliked the taste of blood. It was bad-tasting. To her.
"You know, I trusted you. And you lied to me. A lot. And you ..." Helga trailed off, still not looking at Phoebe, still messing with her hair.
She grabbed a hair tie and did her hair up. Then, satisfied--for the time being--she grabbed for her makeup.
"Yeah, up's good. Unless I change my mind later."
Phoebe wasn't sure when she started to see things fuzzy. It might have been a few minutes ago. It might have just happened. But things looked fuzzy, or hazy. Weird. And her lip was still bleeding. A lot. She really didn't like how her blood tasted.
"You know, I'm actually pretty angry. In fact, I don't think I've ever been angrier. I'm used to betrayal; I get it all the time. But not from you. Never from you. You're Phoebe. You're good. You're a genius, you care about people's feelings. Right?"
Helga did her best to put her lipstick on straight, though her hands were shaking. Finished, she set it down, and grabbed her eye liner. She'd never worn the stuff before, but she thought she'd try it.
"You haven't answered any of my questions yet."
Phoebe was crying. The tears mingled with the blood in her mouth, and added a nasty saltiness to the already nasty taste of the blood. She was going to be sick, she was sure.
"So, what's going on? Why did you do it?"
Helga turned, facing her friend for the first time. She saw her condition; Phoebe was falling apart. Emotionally, physically--there was blood running down her chin.
"So?"
"I..." she began, holding back a heave. Her stomach gurgled in protest, but she wasn't about to let it have its way.
"You what?"
"I..." Again, she couldn't finish. And her stomach again tried to spill its contents on Helga's floor. Again, she didn't let it. It gurgled some more.
"Out with it, Phoebe!" Helga exclaimed, her eyes growing cold and hard, her fists clenched.
"I'm not sorry."
There was utter silence for several moments, neither believing what had just been said.
Finally, Helga broke the silence, and grabbed the girl by the shoulders. She shook her--hard.
"What do you mean, you're not sorry?! Of course you're sorry! You betrayed me! You took the love of my life from me! You knew how I felt about him! You knew everything! Of course you're sorry!
Phoebe was crying, and she was fearing that she was, indeed, about to throw up. But she laughed, and continued.
"No, Helga," she said, laughing, crying, bleeding. "I'm not sorry. And you know why? Because you had it coming to you. That's why." She continued to laugh a little, bitterly.
"What?! What do you mean, I had it coming to me? I thought we were friends!"
"Heh. Friends. Yeah. I was your gopher, Helga, don't give me that crap. I did everything for you, I took all your falls, I listened to your constant griping about everything. And what did I get in return? Nothing. Nothing good, anyway. I got jeering, and coldness, and ... and ..."
Helga's cheeks began to burn. She wasn't sure why.
"You know what? I hate you. I've hated you for three years now. But I felt sorry for you; that's why I hung around." She paused, throwing the bloody tissues aside. Her lip had stopped bleeding. "And then, just when I find someone who loves me, who cares about me, who's willing to give me a chance and treat me like a human being, I'm supposed to say 'No, sorry, can't be with you, Helga loves you?' No, uh uh, that's not the way it works." She paused yet again, wiping her tears and her nose simultaneously. "I'm not sorry. You deserve whatever "heartache" you think you're experiencing. I deserve better; I gave him up for you, Helga! I could've had him forever! We could've been married, had kids, had a wonderful life--together! And I gave him up for you!"
Helga was speechless. Speechless, but enraged. She pushed Phoebe as hard as she could, right out the door. Phoebe flipped over, down the stairs, and landed with a thud next to the bookshelf.
The next thing Helga knew, she was in an ambulance, next to Phoebe, holding her hand as she lay there, unconscious, her face pale.
...
"It's just a minor concussion. She can go home. But make sure she gets a lot of rest."
Helga was unable to see her. She couldn't, not after what she'd done. She left soon after they arrived, hitching a ride home from a passing policeman.
She sat in her room, terrified. She could have killed her. Even if Phoebe wasn't really a friend, and even if Phoebe had betrayed her, it didn't excuse what she'd done. She could have killed her.
Arnold called. He was sounding genuinely excited about the prom. She had been, up until recently. But she put on a good show, hoping that things would work out.
"So, where do you want to go to eat? I mean, like I said, I can't afford a lot... but I got the tickets. It's nice, school being out the past couple days. I've had a lot of time to get stuff done. I picked up my tux tonight."
"Hmm, you did, eh? How's it look?"
"Well, modesty requires that I say something like, 'It will suffice.' You know, I'm just a modest guy."
She laughed, the sighed. "Okay, so what time did you want to come pick me up tomorrow?"
"Sevenish sound okay? I don't wanna give an exact time, you know, in case I'm late getting out there... Gerald's car isn't very reliable, and ... you know."
"Yeah, that's fine. Who's he going with, anyway?"
"Alison Finch. You know her?"
"Actually, I just met her the other day, whenever our last day of school was for this week... Tuesday?"
"Yeah, that's right. That's cool, then, you guys are already acquainted. So, I've gotta go eat, but I'll talk to you tomorrow? You want me to call sometime in the afternoon? You know, just to talk or whatever?"
"W-well, yeah, sure, that sounds good. Talk to you then!"
"Bye!"
"Bye!"
Helga ran to the bathroom and threw up.
...
"So, what time am I coming by tomorrow, then?" Gerald asked, picking his teeth. He had been over at Arnold's all day, and had listened to one half of the Helga/Arnold conversation with quite a bit of amusement.
"6:45, at the latest. We need to get over to Helga's by 7:00."
"Yeah man... you don't wanna be late." Gerald did a poor job conceiling a snicker, then burst into laughter.
Arnold laughed a little, though not for the same reason Gerald was. "Hey, relax, man. Helga's okay. I mean, she's not exactly a Phoebe, but... who knows. Maybe..."
"Whoa, whoa, Arnold! Step back! I thought Phoebe was supposed to be your one and only!"
Arnold sighed. "I thought that. But... after the way she treated me... was so ashamed of me all the time... I couldn't go on like that. It was too much. I mean, you're the only other person that knows. Well, Helga knows now, too..."
"What?! She does?! You told her?!"
He shrugged. "Yeah, it kinda slipped out. She's really easy to talk to now. I don't know, I just let my guard down."
"Man alive," Gerald breathed. "You don't know how serious this is."
"What are you talking about?"
"Look, Phoebe told me something once, and I swore on a stack of Bibles--literally--that I would never tell you or another living soul. But now that the cats out of the bag, you should know."
"Don't leave me hanging," Arnold replied, an eyebrow raised questioningly.
"Helga has been absolutely in love with you for years. Since pre-school or something like that. It's kinda crazy-sounding, but that's the truth. And... man, if you'd known..."
"You mean, Phoebe... didn't want Helga to find out about us? That was the reason everything was so secretive?"
"I guess so. That must be it... I never really put two and two together... I should've seen it."
Arnold sighed, then shrugged. "It doesn't matter anymore. We're done. If I'm not important enough that she can't ... you know, let Helga down and tell her the truth, then she's not the type of person I want to be with."
"You still miss her, though, right?"
Silence. Then, "Yeah, I guess I do. A lot. But ... I need to get over it, move on. You know? There's too much hurt there to go back and try again."
"Maybe... man, this stinks, doesn't it?"
"Yeah, it really does."
...
Olga was gone that evening. She got in her car, drove away without a word to anyone, and didn't come back or even call.
Bob found the letter in her room. It was dated three days ago. It said:
Dear Olga,
This letter is not to make you feel bad. It is to say goodbye.
I cannot go on like this anymore. I'm in too much pain. It hurts to think about you. It hurts to think, period.
I hoped I would hear from you, to tell me that this had all been a big mistake, that you still loved me, and that I didn't need to go through with this. But I do.
I still love you, Olga. I'll always love you. But I can't take this anymore. Living without you isn't living to me.
Love,
Thomas
Bob and Miriam were out looking for her all night. Helga sat in her room, crying and eating cookies. It was a bad night.
