Title: The Height of Romance

Author: Reinamy

Pairing: Helga/Arnold

Rating: Teen

Content: High School AU, not entirely TJM compliant, romance, drama, fluff/angst, and mild language.

Summary: In which Helga is tall, Arnold is short, and neither of them is exactly happy about it.


The Height of Romance


Arnold Shortman was twelve when he started to grow concerned over his lack of progress in the height department.

"Don't worry about it, kid," his doctor told him during a routine check-up. "You're probably just a late-bloomer. Lots of young men don't stop growing until they're nineteen or so. You've got plenty of time."

He'd been hopeful, even as the months passed and the shortest of his guy friends eventually outgrew him.

But then a year went by, and then two, and before he knew it he was fifteen years old without the height to show for it.

"Arnold, you're worrying over nothing," Gerald told him when he'd first brought up his concerns. They were sprawled over Arnold's bed, a half-finished game of cards between them that they'd abandoned in favor of watching a competitive baking show that neither would admit to being obsessed with. "You're only fifteen, man. Who knows what'll happen in the next few years?"

"But what if this is it?"

"So what if it is?" Arnold could hear Gerald's shrug. "You're like, what? Five-six? That's almost average, ain't it?"

"Yeah, in the fourteenth century maybe," Arnold shot back.

Gerald snorted. "You need to chill, dude. It's honestly not as big a deal as you're making it out to be. You're short—so what? It could be worse. You could be ugly and stupid, too."

Arnold hit him with a pillow, and Gerald rolled off the bed with a laugh.

"I'm getting a soda. You want anything?"

"I'm good."

Arnold watched him leave and couldn't help but eye the length of his limbs with something he was ashamed to admit was envy. He tried not to think about how easy it was for Gerald to say those things when he was so much taller than most of the guys in their year. Heck, most guys, period.

Ugh, he thought, and smothered his face with his pillow.

He was being ridiculous. He knew that. So maybe he was slightly shorter than average—so what? Arnold had a lot of other things going for him. He wasn't genius-level smart or anything, but he had a brain and knew how to use it. Years of playing baseball had given him an athletic build that he knew girls found to be attractive, and while he probably wouldn't ever be scouted as a model, he wasn't exactly a slouch in the looks department. His ex-girlfriend certainly had no complaints.

Then again, his ex had been tiny, head barely touching his nose even in two-inch heels, so perhaps she wasn't the best person to think of when attempting to reassure himself.

And there he was again, dwelling over his height.

Or lack thereof.

"Oh my gosh," he said, voice muffled, and sat up. He smashed his face into the misshapen pillow, irritated by the tangled web of his own thoughts.

This wasn't him. He wasn't one of those brawn-over-brain dude bros who obsessed over stereotypical displays of masculinity. He wasn't the kind of guy who thought lacking inches, either vertically or horizontally, was evidence of inferiority.

Arnold really, really didn't want to be that kind of guy, and it unnerved him that deep down, maybe he was that shallow, that vain, that insecure.

All it took was him falling for a girl an entire head taller than him to realize it was true.


...


Helga G. Pataki hadn't really thought anything of being taller than the rest of the girls in her year. Unlike Olga, who'd inherited their mom's petite, curvaceous figure, Helga'd taken after her dad in both height and—to a much lesser extent, thank Pete—frame.

When she cared to think about it at all she thought she may have even liked being tall. Liked not having to rely on other people to pluck things from high shelves, liked never being swallowed by crowds, and most importantly, liked painting a pretty intimidating figure when she wanted to. It had its downsides—finding clothes in her size was a pain, for starters—but for the most part, Helga was pretty okay with the whole being-tall-for-a-girl thing.

At least, she had been before realizing that Arnold had a preference for chicks who were pint-sized if his string of tiny exes were anything to go by.

It took him getting together with his third girlfriend for Helga to cotton on and, well.

Suddenly being tall wasn't as much of a cool thing as it had been before.

It was as if a curtain had been lifted, and she became aware of the sheer size of her in a way she'd never been before.

Helga wasn't just tall for a girl. She was massive. Judicious use of a marker and measuring tape revealed that she was six feet tall. Six feet. Eight entire inches taller than what was considered average for women, according to Yahoo Answers. And Helga felt those inches keenly whenever she stepped foot outside. She couldn't even relax when she was hanging out with Phoebe. Phoebe, her best friend in the entire world, the person she was more comfortable with than anyone.

Phoebe, who was five-foot-three and, since Helga's epiphany, made her feel like a looming giraffe in comparison.

Epiphanies frigging sucked.

They were marathoning Buffy reruns at Helga's house when her friend, perceptive as ever, finally broached the subject.

"You've been acting weird lately," she said, pausing the television and turning to stare at Helga over the rim of her glasses. "Spill."

And since one did not tell Phoebe 'no' when she was wearing that particular expression, Helga did. Well, most of it, though she shouldn't have bothered since Phoebe immediately got to the heart of it despite Helga's attempts to circumvent certain details

"So this is about Arnold," she deduced.

"I didn't say that!"

Phoebe just looked at her.

"For the love of—alright, fine!" Helga cried, throwing up her hands. "Yes, it's about that stupid football-head. Happy now?"

"Not really," Phoebe said with more severity than Helga thought the current topic warranted. "Helga, you're absolutely perfect the way you are."

Helga buried her face in her hands and groaned. Oh Pete, look what she'd done. Now Phoebe was going to lecture her to death on feminism and body positivity and all those admittedly important (though nevertheless uncomfortable) topics that Helga did not want to hear at the moment.

"Don't be like that," Phoebe huffed, nudging her with her shoulder. "You are. You have no idea how lovely you are. You know what I'd give to be just a few inches taller? I mean, gosh Helga, you could be a model if you wanted. Don't sell yourself short, you numpty."

"Ugh," Helga said, though she lifted her face from her hands and considered Phoebe's words.

"Also—if any guy can't look past your body to see how unbelievably worthwhile you are then they're not worth your time. Arnold included."

"You done?" Helga grumbled after a pointed pause.

"Did any of what I said get through to you?"

"...I guess."

"Then yes, I'm done."

Phoebe hugged her hard enough to make her bones creak when she left for the evening, ducking into Gerald's beat-up car and waving through the dusty window until the car rounded a corner and disappeared.

Helga shut the door and went to the kitchen in search of a snack.

Phoebe was right. She knew she was right. But there was a difference between knowing something and feeling something, and currently, Helga's heart and brain were at complete odds.

As she rummaged through the fridge for unspoiled milk, she couldn't help but think that all this fretting was for nothing.

At the end of the day, it didn't matter how tall she was.

Arnold wouldn't be interested in her anyway.


...


Author's Note: I'm head over heels in love with the idea of Helga being considerably taller than Arnold and I spend way too much time thinking about it.

Anyways, this is going to be a short one—just three bite-sized chapters. No pun intended. ;)

Next chapter should be up soon! Thanks for reading, lovelies. Feedback is appreciated, as always.