He's Gone
By Cybra
A/N: Thanks to Cheryl's e-mail, I have been inspired to write this chapter. Many thanks go to her! And there is one more chapter after this before I end it. However, I may come back later and include more chapters. We shall see. ^^
Disclaimer: clears throat Hey Arnold! is owned by the Almighty and Powerful Craig Barlett, not by this lowly writer. Besides, would the owner of Hey Arnold! kill off the main character?! I don't think so!
Mr. SimmonsIt's strange coming back here.
I taught at PS118 for twenty-seven years. I finally retired three years ago. It was someone else's turn, and I wasn't getting any younger.
Besides, this place holds too many memories. Many are good, but just as many are bad.
One bad memory in particular is the memory of that day thirty years ago when I lost a student in this very room.
Unconsciously, I walk over to the spot where I stood thirty years ago on that horrible day.
I glance at the second desk in the front row. That had been his seat. Even after he was gone, no one else sat in that seat. That was his seat, no one else's.
Who was he?
He was a hero, a legend, a ray of hope for the future.
Perhaps you've visited that museum on Vine Street about him.
Yes, I was the teacher of Arnold Qwilleran.
All of my students are special (and I told them that so much that I'm certain most of the time they were sick of hearing it), but Arnold was…something else. He was special, yes, but he was something beyond special. "Unique" is a little closer to what he was but still not quite right.
Why do I say this?
Because he touched so many lives. Well over fifty directly. Countless more if you count the ripple effect historians love to talk about. What helped spread this ripple effect was the only biography written by Arnold's favorite writer, Agatha Caulfield: The Boy Who Believed in Magic. It contains interviews from me along with many others. (I have an autographed copy sitting on my shelf at home. I've read it several times. It's very good, and I would recommend you read it.)
What few people know (except for those who read the book) is that although when I felt as though I should give up on one thing or another, he somehow knew (almost as if by instinct) to come and talk to me about it. That kept me going.
But thirty years ago, I almost quit my job because I couldn't keep him going.
I pick up a piece of chalk and write the problem on the board. Even after all these years, I still remember that problem: three-hundred-and-forty-seven-point-nine-six divided by two-point-five.
I still remember everything that happened that day…
~Thirty Years Ago…~
"All right, class! Listening ears!" I cheerfully tell them. "We're going to quickly review long division with decimals!"
My class groans as one. I know they aren't looking forward to it, but I also know that they will do what I ask in the end.
"Oh, come on! It'll be fun!" I tell them. "Now let's see…"
I pause, looking around at all of my students.
Phoebe? No. She already knows the material well enough. She doesn't need all the space I give on tests for scratch work. I'd have to ask her to do it all over again step by step to show the others, and I don't want anyone feeling stupid because she can do this in her head.
Sid? No. He's not very comfortable doing math problems on the board. I'm going to have to cure him of that in our after-school help sessions. Not now, though. That's not fair.
Hmm…Arnold? Perfect! He knows the material and still works step by step! Plus, he's actually paying attention!
"Arnold, could you please go up to the board and work out this problem?"
"Sure," he says with a smile, rising from his seat and walking forward.
I watch him with a smile as he picks up a piece of chalk and raises it to write on the board.
The chalk doesn't even touch the board as he snaps his head back, eyes wide with shock.
"Arnold?" I ask, a bit worried.
He falls to the floor. My students start screaming as I dart forward.
My fingers fly to his neck to feel for a pulse. Nothing. Almost by instinct, I begin CPR, fighting to restart his heart.
The screams of my students almost seem to fade into the background until the door slams open.
"What is going on?!" Principal Wartz demands.
I turn my head to him as I continue pumping Arnold's chest. "Call 911 right now!!!"
I had no idea I could be so forceful!
Principal Wartz stares for only a second, then races out of the room.
In the distance, Phoebe's voice cuts through everyone's screaming. "His eyes…His eyes…"
I turn my head to look at Arnold again, then breathe into his lungs once more. As I pump his chest again, I can't help staring into his eyes.
Those green eyes – once filled with life, determination, sympathy, and hope – are empty.
But I don't stop fighting and hoping and praying.
It's all worth nothing in the end.
~Present Day…~
I'm snapped out of my thoughts as I hear someone sobbing. I freeze for a moment before I begin to follow the sound.
I can't help wondering why a student would stay this late as I continue following the tormented sound. The only reason I'm here is because I asked for special permission from Principal Wartz, and I doubt he'd give permission to a student.
The sound seems to be coming from the gym. I open the door and look around.
There, at the top of the bleachers, head bowed over his knees, sits a young boy, sobbing.
My heart goes out to him. I slowly climb the bleachers.
"Hello," I call gently.
The sobbing abruptly stops as he snaps his head up.
I freeze, staring.
He's wearing a pair of black sneakers along with a pair of blue jeans, an un-tucked plaid shirt, and a blue-green sweater. Two cowlicks of blonde hair stick up on either side of a little blue hat atop a football-shaped head. Two red-rimmed, hopeless green eyes stare at me.
"Arnold?"
The name rolls off my tongue without me thinking about it.
I shake my head.
"No. You can't be – "
I don't get to finish as he leans his head back and releases a tormented howl before he places his head back on his knees, sobbing once more.
Immediately, I climb as fast as I can to the top of the bleachers.
He's fading! How can that be?!
I don't pause for a moment as I suddenly have a thought.
There really is a ghost here at PS118!
And maybe…just maybe…that ghost…
…is Arnold.
"Wait!!!" I cry out.
It's too late.
He's gone.
My hand touches the bench to feel a quickly vanishing warm spot. The bench in front of it has a cold spot where ghostly tears had landed just a few seconds before.
"Arnold?" I call. "Arnold?!"
My only answer is that tortured sobbing.