Author's Note: I was bored, wanting to write a Christmas story (even though I'm Jewish) and this lunacy came to me. It will probably make no sense…I'm just hoping that I'll get it out before Christmas. Don't worry, I'm working on everything else too!
Summary (in full): Nine years ago, Arnold's parents were found, and the happy family moved to Virginia. Now he's a sophomore at Delaware University. He hasn't seen the gang in years, so he doesn't know that Helga has become a frigid, chain-smoking bitch, Gerald, a self-centered jerk, and Phoebe a mousy intellectual snob. But all that changes when an elf shows up in his kitchen, looking for a ham. Santa Claus has been kidnapped, and only the gang can save him. Very random weirdness ensues, along with—of course!—romance…
Disclaimer: Hey Arnold! is not mine, you silly billies.
Home For Christmas"Dashing through the snow…in a one-horse open sleigh…o'er the hills we go…"
Arnold continued to hum tunelessly as he opened the suite door. He glanced around the small room, which was furnished mostly in various shades of gray and pizza stains. He supposed that for girls, sharing a common room and kitchenette with three other people was a pleasure and a convenience, but when it came to guys…he really would have preferred a single. It beat smelling the remains of other guys' beery vomit day after day.
"Arnold, that you?" a voice called.
"Yeah," he called back, checking the fridge to see if there was anything edible in it. There wasn't, naturally.
His suitemate Brad came out of his room, hefting a couple of suitcases. "I'm out of here," he informed Arnold.
"Cool. Have a great vacation, man," Arnold replied.
Brad lifted his eyebrows suggestively. "Oh, I plan to. How 'bout you? What're you doing?" He grinned. "Going up north to see your unibrowed girlfriend?"
Arnold's tone was dry and sarcastic. "Hardy har har. Funny. This from the guy who sleeps with any woman he comes across—no matter how old she is."
Brad jabbed a finger into Arnold's chest. "Hey! She told me she was twenty-three!"
Arnold smirked. "And I'm sure every twenty-three-year-old you know has gray hair and dentures." He paused. "And Helga's not my girlfriend. I haven't even seen her in nine years."
"Be thankful for that," Brad replied, grinning again. "Although you know what they say about ugly ducklings…"
"They turn into ugly ducks," Arnold finished. "I'll be at my folks' over the break…give me a call if you're bored."
"Will do, man. Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas."
As the door closed behind Brad's retreating back, Arnold let out a sigh of relief. He liked his suitemates well enough, but after being raised first in that huge room in his grandparents' boarding house, and then as an only child with his parents, he sometimes got a little claustrophobic, surrounded by three large, hard-drinking, hard-partying guys. He'd have the suite to himself for the next twenty-four hours before he left to go back home to Virginia.
He walked into his tiny private bedroom, throwing the books he'd been carrying onto his unmade bed. Glancing up, his eye caught the picture hanging over his bed, the picture his suitemates endlessly teased him about.
When his parents had been found at the start of fifth grade, after being lost in the jungle for nine years, Arnold was, of course, thrilled. The only thing marring the perfection of their triumphant return was the fact that they had to move. After all their research and time lost in the jungle, the government had some very high-level positions for both of them, and so they moved near the capitol. To Virginia, actually, a nice suburb where all of his mom's family lived (except for his weird cousin Arnie, but we won't go into that). They'd offered to let Arnold stay with his grandparents and finish school up north, but he wasn't crazy. He wanted to be with his parents.
So he'd moved. But before he'd gone, his friends had thrown him a big surprise party at the boarding house. Everyone he knew was there, even the famous singer Dino Spumoni (who gave Arnold, as a present, a complete collection of his works). There'd been laughter, tears…it had been a wonderful party.
The picture hung on the wall was a blown-up version of one taken at the party. All of his classmates and the boarders he had come to love like family had gathered around the couch. Arnold was dead center, grinning from ear to ear like the tremendous dork he had been in elementary school. On his right sat Gerald, his best friend from high school, also smiling, though his eyes were bright with tears.
On his left was Helga.
She'd come to the party with the same sullen expression on her face she wore all the time. He'd expected her to not show, or to say something like, "So, Football Head, you're moving away? Good riddance to bad rubbish, bucko!" But she'd been eerily silent the entire party, not eating, not insulting anyone or getting into fights.
She'd been sitting alone on the couch, arms crossed, staring at the floor, when someone—Grandpa, if memory served—had suggested taking a picture of everyone. Arnold had jumped over the couch, plunking down right next to Helga, who'd given him a startled glance but hadn't moved. Just before the flash went off, Arnold impulsively wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.
It was no wonder his suitemates made fun of her, he thought, studying her face in the picture. She wasn't exactly a great beauty. She wasn't a beauty at all. The best she could hope for was homely. Her pale blonde hair stuck out in thick pigtails on either side of her head, crowned with a ridiculous pink bow that for some reason had always made him smile. She wore a matching pink dress and white sneakers, and she was skinny as a twig and pale as a ghost. A startlingly dark, thick eyebrow ran across her forehead, giving her permanent scowl a frightening intensity. Her upper lip sneered disgustedly, and her ears stuck out at odd angles.
And yet there was something about her…
Later, when Arnold had been seeing all the guests to the door, trying to hold back the tears, she'd been one of the last to leave. She scowled as she pushed past him, heading down the stoop, but he'd called after her.
"Helga!"
She stopped and turned, clearly waiting for him to say something. He shrugged, at a loss for words.
"Helga, I…" After all this time, he wished she'd offer him some sign that she thought of him as more than just dirt beneath her feet. "I…well, I'll…I'll miss you, Helga."
For the first time that day, she spoke. "Arnold…" Suddenly her lower lip trembled uncontrollably. Without warning, she ran up the stairs and wrapped her arms around his neck. He felt something hot and wet on his skin. Was she…was she crying?
"You stupid Football Head!" she raged in his ear. Then, before he could say anything, she was gone, racing away down the sidewalk.
There was a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. He looked at it in surprise—how had it gotten there? Unfolding it, he discovered a poem. He read it, eyes widening in surprise.
Football Head-
I know through the years I've treated you rotten
I've called you a new name every day
But it's just because my mouth filled with cotton
And what I really wanted to say
You always were wise, you always were kind
You always did just what was right
When everyone else went right out of their mind
Your words were our guiding light
And though I insulted you, shoved you around
Although all I did was berate you
Hard as I tried, very deep down
Arnold, I never could hate you
You've taught me a lot, about who I should be
And I know I'll never forget you
So good luck in life, to Hair Boy from me
Arnold, I'm glad that I met youThere was no signature, but he didn't need one. Only one person called him those names, acted like that around him. Only one person knew just what to say to make him feel like laughing and crying at the same time.
He'd never showed the poem to his suitemates. That they would never understand.
Not that it mattered. He'd never seen Helga again, never even heard from her. He'd emailed her, along with the rest of the gang, but she'd never responded. Well, at least she was honest. Most people kept up a frail, lingering correspondence about nothing for several years. Finally, even Gerald stopped writing.
Not that that mattered, either. He had new friends, in Virginia, at college. He didn't need to spend the rest of his life worrying about people he'd known when he was nine. No, he'd moved on with his life, and he knew they had, too.
His stomach suddenly gave a loud rumble. Was there any food in the fridge? He knew he'd checked—he just couldn't remember the results of his search. He ambled out of his room, heading for the kitchen.
When he reached it, he realized that the fridge was already open. That's funny, he thought, walking towards it. I always close it. As he reached the fridge, he was able to see over the open door.
That's when his heart started pounding in his ears and his palms started sweating. That's when the world he thought he knew came screeching to a sudden halt around him, and he knew nothing would ever be the same.
There was an elf standing in his kitchen.
And it looked hungry.
What do you think? Is it stupid? Should I finish? Do you want to know why the elf is there? Isn't Brad a hottie? Lol…he's a displaced frat boy, which is always fun. Review, please! -P.I.