03


They were in art class, rendering their "inner psyche" per their eccentric teacher's instructions, when Arnold felt something cold and wet on his face.

He whirled around just as the paintbrush Helga swiped over his cheek was being withdrawn. There was glee in her eyes as she nodded with the same appreciation a curator would give an expensive piece of art.

"There," she said, voice trembling with stifled laughter. "Now you look like a proper smurf."

Arnold was so shocked that all he could do was press his fingers to his sullied cheek. When he glanced down at them, they were blue.

"It's a great look on you," she added, eyes bright with mirth.

"I'm going to kill you," Arnold said, dazedly. He was still coming to terms with what she'd done.

"You can certainly try, smurfy. Might need to get a step stool if you want to do damage above my knees, though."

He wasn't even aware of moving until a long line of hot pink paint appeared across Helga's nose. Barely a beat passed before Helga retaliated by tarnishing his other cheek. Within seconds they were a mess of pink and blue splatters, and it was only when Mr. Mason realized why the class had gone suspiciously silent, that he frantically intervened.

Needless to say, they both got detention that day.


Lunchtime found Arnold and Gerald shooting hoops in the school's outdoor basketball court, empty thanks to the oppressive September heat. They found a goalpost that was partially concealed from the overbearing sun, and weren't so much playing as taking turns scoring.

Or at least Gerald was. Arnold, absently dribbling a ball, was too preoccupied with recounting the incident from earlier, still riled up about it even two hours later.

He was in the process of explaining how very much Helga's fault the whole thing was, when his best friend slapped a hand over Arnold's mouth and said something that caused his brain to short-circuit.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that," he said, peeling Gerald's sweaty fingers away.

"I said that you should just ask the girl out already."

Arnold's brow furrowed. He was so confused by the bizarre turn this conversation had taken.

"Huh? Which girl are you talking about?"

"Who else, man? Helga."

Arnold's fingers spasmed over the ball he was clutching, nearly dropping it. His brain was struggling to translate Gerald's words into a language that made sense.

"Helga? You mean our Helga? Helga G. Pataki?" At Gerald's forceful nod, he asked, "But why would I do that?"

Gerald smacked a hand over his forehead hard enough that the sound echoed. "Because you like her, you dolt."

Red beacons were flashing in Arnold's head. "Don't be ridiculous, Gerald. I don't like Helga."

"Oh, sure you don't," his friend snarked. "You just talk about her all the time—"

"Yeah, to complain about her, if you hadn't noticed!"

Gerald looked like he wanted to hit him with the ball he was holding. "That's funny, it didn't sound like you were complaining when you kept going on and on about how her eyes reminded you of honeycreepers, whatever the heck those are, and how much of a shame it is that she never smiles because, in your own words—"

He pitched his voice lower, clearly mimicking Arnold.

"'—it's so pretty, Gerald, I don't know why she's always hiding it—'"

Arnold flung his ball at Gerald, who sidestepped it without missing a beat.

"I never said that!"

Wordlessly, Gerald whipped out his phone and started messing with it. A moment later, Arnold's tinny voice could be heard from the small speakers.

"Her smile is so nice, Gerald. It doesn't make sense that she just—just hides it all the time! Ugh, she's just so frustrating—"

With a strangled cry, Arnold leapt for the phone, but Gerald merely raised it up high. Arnold wasn't going to humiliate himself even further by jumping for it, so he just glared up at Gerald until his friend relented, snapping the device shut and putting a merciful stop to the damning audio.

"Why," Arnold said through his teeth, "the heck do you even have that?"

Gerald was unperturbed. He pocketed his phone with a dismissive shrug and bent over to retrieve the ball he'd dropped. "Blackmail material, obviously. But also because I know you, doofus. When you really don't want to acknowledge something, it's like your brain goes on strike. You see what you want to see and nothing else. Full-blown denial, man. Which you seriously need to work on. It's not healthy."

Feeling like all the wind had been blown from his sails, Arnold sank to the pavement with a groan. The concrete was scorching beneath his bare legs, scratching white lines into his skin before he adjusted them, but the discomfort grounded him somewhat. Made the buzz in his head a little quieter.

Gerald eyed the ground distrustfully, then seemed to come to a compromise by squatting next to him. He started spinning the ball between his hands as he waited for Arnold to process the mess he'd caused.

"Helga's a menace," he found himself saying as he poked at a blade of grass trying to break free from a crack in the concrete.

"Her default state," Gerald agreed.

"She drives me crazy."

"Mm-hmm."

"I become an entirely different person when I'm around her."

"Yep. You always gotta jump right into the mud pit with her."

He poked the struggling little blade more aggressively. "She riles me up so bad sometimes that I don't know if I want to kill her or—"

He paused, the words he was speaking finally registering. Strewn puzzle pieces were starting to slot together in his mind, and a picture was forming he couldn't bring himself to look away from, even if a larger part of him felt compelled to.

"—kiss her," Arnold whispered.

And he didn't implode. It felt right saying it, acknowledging it, as if his heart had always known and had just been waiting on his slower-moving brain to catch up.

"I want to kiss Helga," he said louder, testing the words.

"Gross."

"I like Helga."

"Seriously man, I'm gonna hurl."

Arnold ignored him. He clambered to his feet, suddenly full to the brim with a frenetic energy that had nowhere to go. "Oh my god, Gerald! What am I going to do?"

Arnold, who was only freaking out the tiniest amount, did not appreciate his friend's eye roll. "Didn't we already go over this?" Gerald complained, pushing himself to his feet. "It's not rocket science, man. You like someone, you ask them out. Nothing more to it."

"Gerald," Arnold said, trying to be patient with his obtuse friend. "I cannot ask her out."

Gerald rested his forehead on the basketball with a sigh.

"And why is that?"

"Uh, maybe because she hates my guts?"

Gerald shot a pleading look up at the sky. "Arnold, I need you to listen to what I'm saying very carefully so that we can finally put an end to this horrible conversation. You listening? Good. Helga does not hate you. I am almost completely positive it's the exact opposite. No—shut up, this is Gerald's Segment now. You need to put that dusty ol' noggin of yours to work and think. Think about how differently that nutcase treats you compared to everyone else. Sleep on it, if you have to. Just freaking think about it."

Gerald ended his monologue with an explosive sigh, then pointedly checked his watch. "There are fifteen minutes left of the period and I have every intention of spending it stress eating. Good luck, man."

And then he was off, leaving the basketball on the ground for Arnold to deal with before jogging towards the cafeteria building without a single glance back.

"Think about it," Arnold muttered as he retrieved both balls. "What's there to think about?"

While Arnold normally put considerable stock into Gerald's observations, he was reluctant to do so now. There was no way that Helga, who somewhere down the line had made it her life's mission to torment Arnold, liked him. Heck, just a few hours ago she'd smeared him with blue paint and called him a smurf.

Arnold didn't consider himself overly experienced in areas of romance, despite the three girlfriends he's had. To his chagrin, none of his relationships had lasted long—the longest being Lila, who he'd dated for a year before they mutually decided they were better off as friends. So no, he wasn't overly experienced, but Arnold didn't think one needed to be an expert to know that being a Class-A Jerk wasn't typical courtship behavior.

Then again, it was Helga. Normal rules tended not to apply to her.

(He wondered just how far that extended, too, because Arnold was an entire six inches shorter than her. He wasn't so oblivious as to not know that girls tended to prefer guys who were taller than they were. Would Helga be any different?)

Arnold was stashing the balls into the storage shed when the bell signaling the end of the period split the air. He made sure the doors were tightly shut before he sprinted for the school.

He didn't know what to do. Didn't even know what he wanted. He could admit, now, that what he felt for Helga was stronger than mere attraction—he liked her despite how aggravating he found her to be (and what that said about him, he didn't want to know).

But just because Arnold liked her didn't mean he needed to date her, right?

Just think about it, Gerald's words sprang to mind, and it calmed some of his haywire nerves. He reminded himself that there was no need to rush. He wasn't on a deadline. No one was holding a B.B. gun to his head and demanding him to make a decision now.

He just needed to think it over. The rest would come later.


Arnold learned the hard way that it was indeed possible to think yourself into a corner. When the last bell of the day went off, indicating the end of classes, he was so mentally exhausted that he could barely lift his head from his desk.

Since his lunchtime conversation with Gerald, Arnold had done little else but think, yet here he was, no closer to enlightenment than he'd been before.

Figured that Helga could drive him to insanity even when she wasn't around.

With an inward groan of despair—because not only was his day not over, but he also had to spend the next hour of it with the person responsible for his current disquiet—Arnold gathered his things into his bag, pushed out of his chair, and followed the few remaining stragglers out of the classroom.

He was halfway to the room where detentions were typically held when he bumped into their art teacher, Mr. Mason, who was wearing his usual rainbow smock and covered in what looked to be glitter.

"Oh, Arnold! How fortunate that we run into each other now. Unfortunately I won't be able to oversee detention today, so it shall be postponed for tomorrow. Notify that friend of yours for me, will you? Oh, I really must be going—and don't forget to work on your project!"

And then he was off, disappearing down the hall in a flurry of color and leaving a trail of sparkling glitter in his wake.

Arnold stood staring after him for a moment, and then with a tired sigh, continued his trek to the detention hall.

When he reached the room, he was relieved to hear muffled voices coming through the door. The last thing he wanted was to have to sit and wait on Helga, who was notoriously late for just about everything.

Arnold refused to acknowledge the reason for his pounding heart as he turned the doorknob. It opened a crack, and at once Helga's familiar brash voice flooded the hall.

"—no way in hell would I go for a shorty," she was saying, and Arnold felt himself freeze. "They're absolutely useless. I mean, think about it: are they even good for anything?"

"Oh come on," came Curly's distinct voice, "that's not fair and you know it."

Helga scoffed. "Look, I'm not saying they don't have their own…unique talents, I guess. But end of the day, they just can't keep up. There's no point in even comparing them. At least not in this reality."

Arnold heard enough. He quietly shut the door—or at least, he hoped it was quiet. He could barely hear anything past the ringing in his ears. His hand shook where it was clamped tight over the doorknob, and with a steady exhale, he forced his fingers to unclench and backed away.

He was aware of nothing as he left the school, shoulders hunched and knuckles white over the strap of his bag. Hadn't even known he'd been heading in any particular direction until he found himself enveloped in the late afternoon heat. He blinked against the sudden brightness of the sun, and just started walking. His feet seemed to know where to go.

He shouldn't have been surprised by what he'd heard. It was Helga, after all, who had no brain-to-mouth filter and said whatever flitted through her mind, no matter how callous or cruel.

Maybe it was a good thing he'd overheard. Clearly continued exposure to the girl had pushed him straight over the edge into insanity; made him forget the type of person she was, and why it was best to steer clear.

Helga was a siren, dangerous and enticing, and Arnold was a sailor who'd been lured by her song. He'd been so charmed by her wildness and mystery that he'd forgotten that under her beauty lay a shark's eyes and teeth and heart.

He'd been bitten, but it was a necessary reminder that it could have been so much worse.

How he managed to make it home without getting run over, he wasn't sure. His parents were still on their honeymoon, and it showed in how vacant the house was; devoid of its usual sounds, or smells, or warmth. Suddenly, Arnold missed them fiercely; they would have known what to do.

Arnold toed off his tatty sneakers and made his way up to his room. Dropped his bag to the floor with a heavy thud, then crawled onto his bed and lay on his side, uncaring of the phone digging into his hip or the uncomfortable pinch of his belt.

"I'm fine," he said aloud in an effort to drown out the echo of Helga's words in his head. "I don't care."

But the thing about epiphanies is that they were like Pandora's Box; once opened, they could never be closed again. It was a bitter twist of fate that in the end, Helga had been the key. Her words had unlocked the truth inside of him, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shut it away.

Arnold wasn't fine, and he did care. He cared so much. Even now, hours later and miles away, her words hurt—stabbed a hole in him that refused to stop bleeding.

In his entire life, he'd never felt so worthless or small.

Against his better judgment, he'd gone and fallen for Helga G. Pataki.

And she'd just stomped all over his heart.


...


There was something weird going on with Arnold. Helga first noticed it that morning—she'd been chatting with Phoebe in front of their homeroom when she saw him shuffling down the hall, looking as if he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep. She wasn't sure if it was chance or because he felt her staring, but either way, he looked up and their eyes met.

Helga tossed him a lazy two-finger salute, but Arnold just dropped his gaze like he hadn't seen her and disappeared into his own homeroom on the opposite end of the hall.

She hadn't thought much of it—Arnold was a weird guy, and who knew what was going on in his head at any given moment.

But then she tried approaching him at lunch and he literally backtracked the instant he saw her. Stunned, Helga watched as he spun around and headed back in the direction he'd just come, going against the current of students trying to enter the cafeteria. She lost sight of him a moment later, swallowed by the throng.

Rhonda, who'd seen everything, whistled. "Damn, Pataki. What'd you do to piss off Sunshine Boy?"

Helga scowled at her before wordlessly storming off.

Her steps slowed once she was past the cafeteria doors and halfway down an emptied hallway. Only when she was alone did she allow her confusion to reach her face. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't remember doing anything that would cause Arnold to avoid her. Sure, there'd been yesterday's paint fiasco, but…he hadn't seemed all that upset about it. A bit annoyed, yes, but he was always annoyed with her. And even then, when their teacher ordered them to clean themselves up, he'd still waited for her, hadn't he?

Helga had stepped out of the girl's bathroom, damp but clean and only smelling a little of paint fumes, and her heart had somersaulted at seeing him standing there with a grudgingly amused look in his eyes. With his back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and a hint of his signature lazy smile hovering at his mouth, he'd looked like something straight out of her dreams. Like if she reached out and tried touching him, he would vanish into vapor.

She'd walked up to him, unable to help herself, and had practically burst out of her skin when he reached up to poke the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

"Missed a spot," he'd said, brushing the speck with his thumb.

"Don't hurt yourself reaching so high," she'd managed to say, numb everywhere except for the place he was touching. She'd inwardly cursed herself when he rolled his eyes and pulled away, taking her ability to feel anything with him.

The memory of that moment had been replayed a million times in her head, and considering that was the last of Arnold she'd seen that day (he hadn't even shown up to detention, though Helga admittedly hadn't waited long; after ten minutes of the teacher being a no-show, she'd left) she highly doubted she'd done anything to warrant being run from like that.

Helga pushed down her mounting uncertainty and swore that she was going to figure it out. And then she was going to give him the mother of all noogies for making her fret like this.


Since they didn't share any classes on Fridays, Helga didn't see him again until she burst into detention, panting a little from having to run. Two juniors had gotten into a fight, and like hell had she been about to miss that free source of entertainment. As per usual, it had taken ages for a teacher to put a stop to it, hence why she'd had to gun it here.

"Glad you were able to make it," the art teacher said dryly, and Helga shot him a winsome smile as she stepped into the room and looked around.

She spotted Arnold easily—he was the only other person there.

Helga stole the seat next to his and dropped her bag so heavily onto the table that the very air seemed to flinch. Arnold, however, didn't so much as twitch. He was staring out of the window, and Helga followed his gaze to see what had caught his attention. There was nothing; the view was completely obscured by trees.

"Arnoldo," she greeted, a touch more hesitantly than was intended. Her stomach twisted itself into knots when he pretended not to hear.

"No talking," Mr. Mason said from the front desk, and Helga jumped as she remembered he was there. "I don't care how either of you choose to spend the next hour; just no talking, no games, and no phones. If you want my advice, though, it would be to work on the assignment from my class—you both could benefit from some extra time spent on it."

He fell silent after that, disappearing behind a massive tome.

Immediately, Helga leaned across the aisle and punched Arnold in the arm.

He jerked and spun to look at her, one hand coming up to rub his injured limb.

Helga expected him to say something, but he just glared at her before inhaling sharply and turning to face the window again. His hands, she noted, were curled into fists. Even his back was ramrod straight, shoulders practically up to his ears. He was angry and she had no idea why. The thought of her having done something to upset him to this extent—of him being so vexed that he couldn't even look at her—made her heart feel as if it were being wrung dry.

Helga was a cocktail of conflicting emotions. There was rage, for being ignored when she was sure she hadn't done anything to warrant it. There was bitterness—at herself, for wanting to apologize without even knowing why. She didn't want to care but she did; cared so much about this insufferable boy's opinion of her that it was eating her up inside.

But regardless how much she loved him, Helga refused to be Arnold's pet—begging for scraps of his affection. So she told the fragile, love-starved part of her that lived in the deepest chamber of her heart to shut the hell up and forced herself to calm. Took a steadying breath that only she could hear and pulled a notebook from her bag. Soothed her own raised hackles and began to write.

Detention only lasted an hour. He wouldn't be able to avoid her after that—she wouldn't let him.

One way or another, Helga would be getting answers.


Her opportunity arrived quicker than expected. Forty minutes in, Mr. Mason's phone exploded in a series of chirps. The screech of wood scraping tile pulled her away from the essay she'd been half-assing, and she looked up just as the teacher hurriedly rose to his feet.

"Sorry you two, I need to step out real quick. Keep doing what you're doing until I get back."

The moment the door swung behind him, Helga put on her battle armor and turned to face the boy next to her.

"So are you going to tell me what I did to piss you off, or are you just going to play the silent game without even telling me why?"

Arnold didn't say a word, which was answer enough.

Helga grit her teeth. "Seriously, Arnoldo? You could at least have the decency," she said the word mockingly, "to tell me what I did."

He twitched. A tiny movement that she only noticed because she was looking for it, but it was more than enough. Helga was crafty, and she'd always had a talent for getting under people's skin. It was instinct, knowing just what buttons to press or avoid, to get the precise reaction she wanted.

Arnold was like a ball of yarn, and she'd just found the bit of string poking out. Now it was time to yank and watch the whole thing unravel.

"But then," she continued harshly, "you've never been as upright as you pretend to be. Hillwood High's precious golden boy who can do no wrong. But you and I both know better, don't we? That you're judgemental and short-tempered and deep down, you think you're better than everyone—"

"I do not think that!" Arnold snapped, finally turning from the window to look at her with blazing eyes.

Gotcha.

"Why are you avoiding me?" she pressed.

Arnold pursed his lips, and Helga could almost see the shutters being drawn.

"Don't you dare," she growled. Like heck would she let him. "You owe me an explanation, Arnold."

"I don't owe you anything!" Arnold shot back, which pissed Helga off, because seriously? Maybe they weren't besties who shared their deepest darkest secrets while braiding each other's hair, but they'd become something over the past year, hadn't they?

Or maybe Helga was the only one who'd thought so, and she'd been seeing progress where none existed.

It burned her, that she could be so dispensable to him. That he could just decide to have nothing to do with her and wouldn't be impacted in any substantial way. Yet here she was, clinging to a connection that might not have ever been real.

Helga was just so tired of loving someone who wouldn't ever love her back, and she hated that she was powerless to stop.

"I thought we were friends," she blurted without thinking. She wanted to snatch the words back the moment they escaped, but they were already out there—hovering in the air between them, thick and heavy as smog. She swallowed and forced herself not to avert her gaze, or give into the urge to hide like she so desperately wanted to.

Because this, she knew, was the best course of action to take to get what she wanted.

Arnold's temper may have made him easy to provoke, but he wasn't stupid. His emotions didn't lead him by the nose, or color his judgment, as was the case for most.

Helga may have used his temper to get her foot in the door, but she had to resort to other tactics to keep him from slamming it in her face. And she'd learned over the years, through endless trial and error, that the best way to reach him when he closed himself off was by pandering to his compassion.

In short, by being honest and showing vulnerability. Ugh.

Helga was good at many things, but being vulnerable with anyone—including herself, sometimes—wasn't one of them. It made her feel hollowed out and raw, as if someone had scraped out her insides with a spoon and put it all on display. A grotesque souvenir for all the world to see, and probe, and judge.

She had to remind herself that she wasn't carving herself open on a podium in front of strangers. It was only the two of them here, and Arnold wasn't the kind of person who'd take advantage, regardless how upset he was with her.

It would be uncomfortable, but it wouldn't hurt.

Probably.

"I thought we were friends," she repeated, quiet but insistent. The words scraped her throat on their way out. "If I was wrong about that, then fine—you're right, you don't owe me anything. But if I'm not…"

Arnold's hair was swaying from the gentle breeze that was coming through the window. He stared at her with an indecipherable look that gave nothing away; if he felt anything at all, it was locked up tight. All Helga could hear was the rustling of leaves, the thrum of her own heartbeat, and louder than anything, the deafening note of Arnold's silence.

Well, then.

Message received.

Fine, she thought, turning in her seat. Fine.

She viciously stuffed her belongings into her bag and stood so abruptly that her chair clattered to the floor behind her. She barely heard it. Helga ignored the heavy pit forming in her stomach as she started for the door, shoulders straight and chin high.

She'd barely made it halfway when Arnold's voice called for her to wait.

Helga cursed her body for instinctively listening to him. And then refusing to listen to her when she tried to ignore him and continue getting the hell out of there.

"Just wait," he said, sounding tired. There was a rustle, and even though she couldn't see him, she knew he was dragging his fingers through his hair.

Helga wasn't sure how long she waited, feet rooted to the floor, until Arnold finally spoke, but it had been long enough for him to cross the distance between them.

"You're right—we are friends," he said from behind her. "And I guess…you do deserve to know why I'm so upset."

Another long pause, and Helga willed herself not to look back.

"I overheard you talking to Curly yesterday," he said, voice suddenly tinged with bitterness. "And okay, I know I don't exactly have the right to be upset with you about it—it wasn't even about me! I know that, alright? But hearing you say all that, it…it got to me, okay?" He released an explosive breath. "I'm sorry for avoiding you all day. I just…I needed some space."

Helga was…confused.

Her mind whirred as she thought back to yesterday. She'd only spoken to Curly once, when they'd been waiting in this very room for detention to start, and for the life of her she couldn't remember saying anything that would cause such a huge upset. Heck, she could barely remember the details of their conversation at all—it had just been a way to pass the time. They'd discussed video games, argued over the best way to hide a body, which somehow led to a debate on capitalism, and then Helga had gotten bored and walked out.

She hadn't said anything particularly offensive, had she?

Helga slowly turned around, and she couldn't have kept the confusion from her face if she tried.

"So…you were upset that we were discussing how to best hide dead bodies so they won't be found?" she questioned, carefully. That didn't seem like something he'd clutch his pearls over, but maybe he was more sensitive about gory topics than she'd thought. "Because it was just talk. Obviously I'm not planning to put it into practice. Can't really speak for Curly, though…he sounded a little too knowledgeable, if you get my drift."

Arnold stared at her with wide eyes before squeezing them shut and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Why were you—you know what, never mind. I don't want to know."

"So it wasn't about—"

"No, Helga."

She wracked her brain. "Was it the debate we had over capitalism? Because I really don't see how what I said is anywhere near as bad as what Curly was saying. At least I wasn't advocating for overthrowing the government—"

Arnold buried his head in his hands and groaned.

"Helga, no."

"Then you've gotta spell it out for me, football head, because I have no idea what the heck you're referring to—"

"You said short guys were useless!" he exploded, chest heaving from the force of his outburst.

Helga's mind came to a screeching halt as she gaped at him.

"What? No, I didn't!"

"Yes, you did!"

"Um, no, I didn't."

"I heard you!"

"You must have heard wrong, then!"

Arnold growled, and it took until that moment for Helga to realize how close they'd become. There was barely enough space between them for air to squeeze through. Helga was looming over him, but Arnold wasn't intimidated at all—matching her ire for ire, his virescent eyes flashing.

They were so close that when he spoke next, Helga could feel the vibration of his words in the air.

"Oh, so you didn't say that short guys are worthless?" he spat, practically trembling with indignation. "You didn't say that they aren't good for anything? Didn't say they can't keep up? Didn't say that you'd never go out—"

And suddenly it clicked.

"I was talking about video game characters!" Helga balked. "Curly and I are playing a game—SkyWars. You have to choose an existing character, and all of the short ones are useless in the arenas that require high jumps. I wasn't—I wasn't talking about real people, Arnold!"

They were both gawking at each other. Helga watched as Arnold's eyes went as wide as she'd ever seen them, and his mouth fell open like a cartoon. He looked stupid as hell, though she doubted she looked any better.

She couldn't believe it. Had this whole thing started because Arnold had misunderstood a snippet of a conversation, and instead of giving her the benefit of the doubt and sticking around to hear the rest, just assumed the worst and left?

Did cliches like that even happen outside of soap operas?

Apparently they did, when idiots like Arnold were involved.

"You are such a moron," Helga breathed as Arnold's face began to pinken with mortification. "Arnold—seriously? You've been treating me like crap because of a misunderstanding?"

For an instant he cringed, every inch of his face etched with guilt, but then that characteristic stubbornness of his made itself known. He dug in his heels and glared up at Helga, undeterred.

"Alright, I admit that I'd misjudged the situation and made a bad call—but can you blame me for that?"

Love of her life or no, Helga was going to kill him.

"And what the heck is that supposed to mean, shortstack?"

He threw his hands up, and Helga had to lean back to avoid being hit in the face.

"That! That's exactly what I mean!" he said, gesturing at her. "How can you call me a moron for thinking the worst when this whole time you've done nothing but make fun of my height?"

Helga recoiled, and Arnold, in his vindictive mood, latched onto it. "Exactly, Helga. You know it, too. All you do is try to make me feel bad about my height, so can you blame me for hearing what I did and assuming the worst?"

"D-don't try to turn this around on me," Helga sputtered, mind reeling. "You know I was just joking around."

Arnold folded his arms. The look he gave her was snide. "Really."

"Yes!" Helga cried, needing him to understand. There were so many emotions churning inside of her that she didn't know where one ended and another began. "Are you seriously going to stand there and tell me that this whole time you thought I was—was picking on you?"

Uncertainty shadowed Arnold's face, but when Helga blinked, it was gone.

"Shortstack? Sprout? Small Fry? Tater Tot? Tic Tac? Half Pint? Gremlin? Need I go on?"

Helga scoffed. "Oh, please. The names you call me are just as bad! Skyscraper? Beanstalk? Gigantor? Storky? Bigfoot?"

"Yeah, but you started it!"

"And you continued it so you don't exactly have a leg to stand on!"

Arnold shook his head. "There's a huge difference between instigating and retaliating, Helga, and you know it. I was getting even with you—which, fine, I admit wasn't the pinnacle of maturity. But unlike you, I didn't actually mean anything by it. I don't think there's anything wrong with you being tall."

"Well, I don't either!" At Arnold's sardonic look, Helga rolled her eyes. "Oh shut up, you know what I mean!"

"No, I really don't, Helga, which always seems to be the problem between us, doesn't it?"

His words unleashed something painful inside of Helga. Was this the way it would always be? Stuck on opposite sides of a glass wall, unable to cross over because Helga was incapable of laying all her cards on the table and Arnold didn't trust her not to cheat?

For a moment, it felt like she was outside of her own body—a surveyor looking in—and all she could do was watch as her other self stood, silent and unmoving, at a crossroads.

Right was everything she'd ever wanted, and all she had to do was offer her heart on a platter to get it.

Left was everything she'd ever known—a stifled, lonely existence where all her desires lay just out of reach. But at least it was safe. And yeah, maybe the air on that side hurt to breathe, but humans could adapt to anything—including pain. She'd learned that long ago.

Helga couldn't count the number of times she'd found herself in this dark place, staring up at that massive signpost which splintered in opposite directions. Whenever she felt the urge to repair her relationship with her parents, or get closer to her sister, or be more honest with Phoebe, she ended up here. And she always, always chose Left.

Oh, how she wanted to break the cycle. To take a risk for once in her life. But she couldn't bring herself to take a leap over that ledge. When she opened her mouth, she found herself incapable of speech, as if the well of words that lived inside of her had dried up. She grasped for something, anything to say, but it was all dust. If she tried to force it, she'd just choke.

Helga watched, from behind the glass she'd built and reinforced, as resignation set into Arnold's face. He nodded, as if he were having some internal conversation, and then visibly collected himself.

"Right then," he said, before checking his phone. "Detention's just about over. I think it's okay to leave now." He retrieved his things from his desk, and made for the door.

He paused just as he reached it. "Bye, Helga," he said, before leaving. The door closed behind him with a forceful snick.

There'd been a finality to this tone that she didn't understand, but it bred a tendril of dread that coiled around her heart.

Stop him, a voice in her head begged. Fix it.

Which was laughable, wasn't it? Helga was a demolisher, not a builder. Destruction was in her blood—she'd been bred for it, by a father who destroyed others and a mother who destroyed herself. Helga had the incredible misfortune of being born with a proclivity for both. Whether it was bridges, relationships, or opportunities—she trampled over everything fragile with her huge, clumsy feet.

The only thing she'd ever been capable of building were walls. Ironically, they were the one thing she didn't have the aptitude for breaking, either.

Helga picked up her bag from where she'd dropped it and left the room. She let instinct guide her feet since her mind was too muddled to think. By the time she'd stepped outside, squinting against the glare of the high evening sun, her head was pounding

She was so tired of running herself into corners. Of ruining her prospects before they'd even gotten the chance to bloom. Of fighting herself, tooth and nail, when it came to reaching for the things she wanted. Of shutting down and going silent when it would've served her better to fight.

She was just so tired of herself. And tired of being tired of herself.

For once in her damn life, she wanted to take a risk and go Right.

She was running before she realized it, her sneakers hitting the pavement hard as she tore down the street. She nearly collided into someone, but she paid them—nor the insults they shouted at her back—any heed. There was only one thing on her mind at the moment: Arnold.

She'd cleared three full blocks when she finally spotted his uniquely shaped head, and she'd never been so thankful for her height when she forced her legs to go faster and they devoured the space between them in no time.

"Arnold!"

Ahead of her, Arnold jumped as if startled and turned around.

Helga's legs sang her prayers as she slowed from a sprint to a jog, stopping just short of the bewildered boy. She was panting, because athletic or not it was still 85 degrees and the sun was as merciless as ever. Sweat prickled at her nape as she caught her breath and tried to untangle her thoughts enough to figure out what to say. Because of course she'd run off without thinking things through.

"I—" she fumbled, staring into Arnold's curious, sunbright eyes. She opened her mouth to try again, but words refused to come.

She was standing on the ledge, but she couldn't bring herself to leap.

The seconds ticked on, but Arnold didn't push her. He stood there patiently, content to wait for whatever it was she had to say. After everything that had transpired between them, his kindness felt like a blow. But then, it always had, hadn't it?

She could still remember being bowled over by it at the age of four, when he'd sacrificed his own comfort to shelter her from the rain and complimented that silly little bow she still kept safe in a keepsake box.

She'd experienced it a million different times and in a million different ways ever since.

If anyone was going to catch her, it would be him.

Helga steeled her nerves and jumped.

"I like your height."

Arnold blinked, and a furrow formed between his brows. He started to speak, but fell silent when Helga raised her hand.

"I like your height," she repeated, lowering it. Her fingers dug into the material of her skirt. "I like it a lot. A-and it isn't the only thing I like about you."

Her mouth snapped shut, cutting off whatever else she'd been about to say. She swallowed and waited, face burning under the heat of Arnold's stare; the overhead sun had nothing on it.

Helga always imagined that if she ever confessed to Arnold, it would be like a dam breaking—all the love she'd harbored for him over the years just bursting out of her. She imagined it would hurt, but in a good way. An ache of relief.

Reality was different, and her confession resembled a leaking faucet more than a breaking dam.

All the words she'd collected over the years, wishes whispered to the stars and secrets penned in notebooks, were nowhere to be found. They hid, skittish and shy, somewhere so deep inside of her that not even she could reach them.

Not that she would have even if she could. The meager words she'd spoken had pushed her to a limit she hadn't known herself to have. Anything more and she'd break.

"Oh," Arnold said. And then, "Oh."

Helga's eyes fell shut, unable to watch as realization dawned on him. She clenched her jaw and braced herself for whatever was to come.

She wasn't expecting him to mutter, "Idiot."

Helga recoiled as if the word had tangible weight. Humiliation burned her up from the inside; made her skin feel so hot that she thought she would pass out. On its tail was fury, because he'd just—he'd just—

Her hands balled into fists as she opened her eyes, and she was going to lash out like the hurt animal she felt herself to be, when the expression on Arnold's face made her halt.

He was smiling.

And it wasn't mocking or pitying or uncomfortable. It was—she didn't know what it was. A little crooked, a little wobbly, a little shy. Just a touch droll. And it reached his eyes; lit them up in a way even the sun couldn't accomplish.

She'd never seen him wear that particular expression, and she thought she'd known all of his smiles by now. Spent enough time watching him to compile a pretty extensive list. But this one was new, and it put out the fire that had been raging inside her; set it to a simmer that burned in an entirely different way.

"I'm an idiot," Arnold continued, shaking his head. "We're both idiots."

Helga had no idea what he was talking about. She wanted to demand he make sense, but she wasn't quite capable of speaking yet. Arnold seemed to realize this, because his eyes softened as he took a step closer to her, and then another, until she had to lower her chin to meet his gaze.

"Helga," he chuckled ruefully, ruffling his hair in what she knew was a nervous gesture. "You—wow. So many things are suddenly making a lot more sense now."

Helga narrowed her eyes at him, patience wearing thin. Arnold must have noticed she was about to explode at him, because he huffed another laugh.

"Gerald was right; I am insane. Because here you are, looking for all the world like you're about to rip my head off, and all I can think is how cute you are."

Helga's brain shorted out. She'd misheard, hadn't she? Because no way in heck would Arnold Shortman say that about her otherwise.

Oh, she realized, morosely. I must have fallen asleep in detention.

Helga eyed Arnold's dream duplicate with disappointment as she pinched her arm hard, expecting the usual tingle she experienced as pain in her dreams.

She wasn't expecting the skin she pinched to hurt, and she let out a yelp that startled a nearby flock of pigeons into noisy flight.

Arnold was biting his lip, clearly holding back laughter. "You're a mess, Helga G. Pataki," he said when he'd composed himself. "But I like you, too."

Helga blinked at him, then made to pinch herself again because clearly the first time had been a fluke, but Arnold prevented her from doing so. He captured her hand with his own, so much larger than hers was, and squeezed. He was grinning up at her, eyes crinkled at the corners, and no way in hell could this be real.

"It's real," Arnold assured her, which (oh, shit) probably meant that Helga was talking aloud.

"You are," he confirmed.

"Oh."

"Yup."

"You said…"

"I did."

"Oh."

His eyes were sparkling. "You good there? You look like you're about to fall over."

"I won't. Wouldn't want to crush you," she breathed. And then realized what she said and shot him a panicked look.

Arnold, miraculously, didn't look the slightest bit upset. He rolled his eyes at her, but not once did his mouth or eyes stop smiling.

Helga thought she might actually need to sit down. Her mind was spinning with too many thoughts at once to single any out, and she was sure her heart would, at any moment, give out on her. She felt another urge to pinch herself because surely this could not be canon, but her left hand was still trapped in Arnold's warm, strong grip.

She looked down at their hands for the first time and just stared. A moment later, Arnold shifted his—slid it beneath hers and entwined them together, so that he was holding it rather than entrapping. He squeezed again, and Helga raised her gaze to meet his.

"You like me," she whispered, both desperate and disbelieving.

A violent blush bloomed over Arnold's cheeks and his smile quivered. "Yeah. And you like me. Right?"

Even though the cat was very much out of the bag, Helga's first instinct was still to deny it. To destroy this fledgling thing before it could grow into something she could no longer control. To stamp it out before she inevitably brought ruin upon it. And upon herself.

She fought the impulse down as far as it would go. Let herself be drawn out of future what-ifs and into the here and now by the hopeful glint in Arnold's eyes.

Go Right.

"Yeah," she said, more breath than sound, and even that small utterance had her trembling. There was something building inside of her—something old and tremulous and vast—and it pressed against her skin until she felt bloated with it.

Her heart was thundering in her chest, her ears, her throat, and oh, Helga thought. This is the dam.

That, too, she pushed down, because the sheer magnitude of the emotions cresting within her was dangerous. She'd drown the both of them alive if she released it all now.

But Arnold was smart, and his eyes were sharp, and he caught something before Helga managed to smother it down. Something that made his breath catch, and his smile flicker, and his hand on hers tense.

He took a careful breath, but didn't pull away.

He was looking at Helga like it was his first time seeing her, and she resisted the desire to turn away. If he couldn't even handle this much—a mere puddle compared to the vast ocean that lay underneath—then she'd rather know now and save herself an even worse heartbreak.

Helga had always been too much. Too headstrong for her father, too cynical for her mother, too brazen for her sister, too dismissive for her teachers, too aggressive for her peers. All her life she'd been told that people would like her so much better if she just changed—shaved down her sharp edges until she became someone easier to swallow. Something soft that wouldn't stab you in the gums when you chewed.

She'd refused, because for all her faults and flaws, Helga liked the core of who she was.

If Arnold couldn't deal with her being the way she was—if he couldn't deal with the way she loved, too damn much just like every other aspect about her—then she'd rather know it now. Rather lose it all before she became attached enough to miss it.

Their gazes were locked, and in that moment, it truly felt as if no one existed in the world but them.

"Okay," Arnold said, squeezing her hand once more—to reassure her or himself, she wasn't sure. He worried his bottom lip, then squared his shoulders and said again, "Okay."

Helga took a shuddering breath and ignored the prickle she could feel at the corners of her eyes. Crisis averted, her heartbeat began to slow to a speed that was slightly less fatal.

Slightly.

"So I guess you really don't have a problem with my height after all, huh?" Arnold said hesitantly, a tease and a probe both.

Helga shot him a withering look. "Shut up, Arnoldo."

"Helga G. Pataki likes my height," he continued with more bravado, tugging on her hand.

"Helga G. Pataki is going to knock off a few inches if you don't stop bugging her."

"Helga G. Pataki likes me way too much to do that."

Helga scoffed and averted her gaze. She hoped he couldn't see the blush creeping up her face.

It was moot. Arnold poked her cheek, and when she turned a glower at him, she found him wearing that smile from earlier that made heat spike in her gut.

"And now Helga G. Pataki is blushing. Cute."

"Shut it, Shortman!" she snapped, steam practically pouring from her ears. She tried tearing her hand away, but Arnold refused to let her go. Instead, he started gently swinging their clasped hands together.

Helga watched their arms sway back and forth like a pendulum, heart in her throat.

Even now, it felt like she was in a dream.

(If she was, she hoped to never wake up.)

"It's getting late. I really need to get home," Arnold murmured, looking up at the sky. Helga followed his gaze and found that the sun had shifted. The sky had dimmed, and the shadows on the ground seemed longer.

"Me, too," Helga admitted reluctantly, viciously regretting that she'd agreed to see a movie with Olga.

Arnold peaked up at her through his ridiculous lashes. "Maybe I could call you later?"

Helga wondered which was going to kill her first—the butterflies rampaging in her stomach, or the way Arnold was peering at her.

She cleared her throat and picked at her cuticles with her free hand.

"That's fine, I guess."

Arnold snorted, but didn't move. Helga hoped it was because he was as reluctant to leave her side as she was.

Of course that didn't stop her from saying, "Stop being so clingy, football head, and scram—we've both got things to do."

"Oh, thank goodness," said Arnold, theatrically wiping his brow. "You were being so nice that I was worried you'd been brain-jacked by aliens and I just hadn't noticed. Good to know you're the same cranky—oof." He rubbed the spot she'd scuffed. "That hurt."

"No it didn't, you big baby." Reluctantly she added, "Seriously Arnold, I gotta go."

Helga's heart soared when Arnold's face fell with visible disappointment.

"Yeah."

She yanked at her hand, but he wasn't budging.

Dryly, she said, "You're going to have to let go of me first."

"I know."

Helga pursed her lips to keep from laughing. "Arnold."

The boy sighed. "Yeah, alright," he said, but rather than pull away like she expected, he stepped even closer, until they were facing each other with barely a foot of space between them.

At once Helga's humor vanished. "A-Arnold?"

He hesitated for a brief moment, then lifted himself to his tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

It was a good thing Arnold was still holding onto her, because there was a very real possibility that Helga would have floated away otherwise.

"I'm surprised you could even reach that high," she whispered, unable to stop herself from teasing him or from reaching up to touch her cheek. The soft skin burned beneath her fingers.

"Say that again? Couldn't hear you from way up there in outer space. I might need to borrow a radio from NASA if we're going to be phoning often."

"Maybe they'll just launch you at me since gravity affects small objects differently."

"At least there won't be any chance of me missing you."

"Whatever you say, Yoda."

"Lamppost."

"Munchkin."

"Giraffe."

They were grinning at each other, and Helga felt some of her earlier trepidation ease.

"Don't get kidnapped on your way home," she snarked, taking a step back and gently easing her hand out of Arnold's.

"Don't trip over a powerline." He squeezed one final time, and then let go.

Helga stared at this beautiful boy who'd stolen her heart so many years ago, and finally, finally let herself believe that this was real. That the boy she'd been in love with for thirteen years miraculously liked her back.

And best thing of all was that he was doing absolutely nothing to hide it, beaming at her with that soft, crooked, slightly despairing smile she'd never seen him share with anyone else before.

Helga had spent many nights dreaming of him smiling at her the way he did girls he thought were pretty—sugary sweet with a pinch of flirtiness.

The smile he was giving her now, though? Like he was once again about to ride the world's tallest and fastest rollercoaster, and even though he was nervous as all heck, he wouldn't dream of getting off?

Like he knew he was in for the thrill ride of his life?

It's what made her believe this was real, because it was better than anything her imagination could have conjured up.

Helga turned when she felt her face break into an equally dopey-looking smile, and she adjusted her bag on her shoulder and started the long trek home. She'd barely made it to the end of the block when Arnold's voice rang out:

"By the way, Helga?" He waited for her to turn, and then, slightly more quietly said, "I like your height, too."

And then he was off, backpack bouncing as he dashed in the opposite direction and disappeared around a corner. Taking Helga's heart with him.

Helga shook her head at his ridiculousness and continued to walk.

She didn't stop grinning the entire way home.

She'd never felt so tall.


The End


Author's Note: And that's a wrap!

This story was super weird to write. I'm not accustomed to writing in past-tense or from alternating perspectives, so it was an experience. Definitely a fun one, though!

My eternal gratitude for all the amazing encouragement and support, everyone. I sincerely hope you enjoyed the conclusion to this "little" fic.

Thanks so much for reading! Feedback is super appreciated, as always. Until next time, lovelies!