[2]

            The incredibly loud chords coming from the organ directly behind Arnold startled him out of memory.  By the way everyone was standing up and Gerald and Phoebe were running happily down the aisle, he guessed that the ceremony was over.  He marveled that he had been able to hand over the wedding rings without realizing it.

            Helga was glaring at him.  "Come on," she hissed, grabbing his arm.

"Huh?"  Why couldn't he be eloquent around her?

"We have to leave the church, space cadet.  Jeez, and you actually went to the rehearsal dinner."

They ran back down the aisle in Phoebe and Gerald's wake, the rest of the wedding party falling in behind them.  "Where were you during the ceremony anyway?" Helga asked.

"Nowhere."  Arnold was tempted to tell her to mind her own beeswax, but she already thought he was being a child.

As they walked through the antechamber and into the hallway, Helga dropped Arnold's arm as if it were something radioactive and toxic.  "Now where?" she asked.

"Where what?"

"Where's the reception?  Honestly, Arnold…"

He glared at her.  "Would you like to stop picking on me for one minute?  Just one?  Or are we nine again?"

Helga opened her mouth to fire back a sharp retort, then closed it.  When she opened it again, it was only to say, "Sorry, Arnold."

He was startled, and uncomfortably pleased.  "There's limos waiting to take us to the hotel that the reception's at."  He saw her fidgeting, and he knew she was itching to say something about his ending a sentence with a preposition, but she kept her mouth shut.  Though he was relieved to escape a lecture on grammar, the disquieting quiet unnerved him.  It wasn't like her to back down on anything, and he wasn't sure why she was doing it now.

They walked in silence towards the aforementioned limos, and found that only one hadn't left yet, and was almost full, with Jamie-O, his wife and daughter, and the incredibly ancient Nana Johansen, who was wearing the look of complacency reserved only for those who have had absolutely no idea what's going on since the Reagan administration.

Murmuring greetings, Arnold and Helga squeezed into the limo.  Arnold found himself pressed against the door, his cheek flattened against the window, with Helga jammed in on his other side.  He tried to ignore her nearness, to ignore the curve of her hip and thigh against his leg, and the way her breast kept brushing up against his arm, but it wasn't easy.  He gazed out the window, not trusting himself to look at her.  He could only remember one other time he'd felt this uncomfortable—when he'd arrived in L.A. to interview her.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *

He had been given directions to the set by his editor, and was now sitting in a shaded area with some crew members who were on a break.  It was furiously hot in L.A., and Arnold felt stupid and conspicuous in his dress shirt and nice slacks.  He watched what proceedings he could see with interest; he'd never been on a movie set before.

This one was a dramedy called Three Months—at least, that was the working title.  It was, as far as he gathered, about an eccentric mother, played by Gena Rowlands, who had had three daughters with three different husbands, each of whom she'd named after the months they were born in—April, May, and June, who were played by Madonna, Jennifer Aniston, and Julia Stiles, respectively.  April was a CEO who was having an affair with a much younger man, played by some kid from Boy Meets World, May was a concert violinist whose husband (Tim Allen) had died in a freak accident involving a street sweeper, leaving her to raise their two children (Haley Joel Osment and the daughter from Gilmore Girls), and June was the prostitute with the heart of gold, who runs away from home at 14 to join the circus as a trapeze artist but had to retire due to a knee injury.  Kevin Bacon, Harrison Ford, and John Ritter played the various fathers.

It was an interesting experiment, but Arnold had no doubt Helga could make it work.  Right now they were on location in some outdoor mini-mall plaza thing that had been shut down for the day, though the throng of over-excited extras rushing around belied the fact.  This, apparently, was the scene of confrontation between the nineteen-year-old ex-trapeze artist prostitute and her father, Kevin Bacon, over the money she had stolen from him at his surprise birthday party.  The reason she had stolen it was because the daughters, all of whom were the results of deliberately poked holes in Gena Rowlands' diaphragms, were planning to take a hit out on their rather insane mother, but of course she wasn't going to tell Kevin Bacon that.

Arnold wasn't getting a lot of stimulating conversation from the crew members seated with him, who were now engaged in a burping contest, interspersed with monosyllabic conversation about the hotness of various far-too-young-for-them celebrities, such as Britney Spears or the Olsen twins.  On his yellow steno pad, Arnold jotted down as many details of the movie as he could, which wasn't many, as well as some background facts about Helga, which he knew as well as anyone.  Born in Brooklyn, straight-A student, daughter of the famous Bob of Big Bob's Beeper Empire, which was still going strong, although it had passed into the joint hands of Helga and her sister Olga's husband, Eliot…

Staring at his lists of facts, Arnold realized he knew next to nothing about Helga that he could put down as trivia.  He could describe her as a child—but he knew that wouldn't amount to a very flattering portrayal of her, and he didn't want to run some nasty tell-all, if only for the self-serving reason that he knew Helga would kill him.  That is, if she was still like the Helga he knew.

Was she, though?  What if she didn't remember him at all?  He could just see it…

He'd walk into her trailer, or whatever, and she'd be sitting there with Harrison Ford and that Boy Meets World kid, talking about some scene and drinking caramel machiatos from Starbucks, and he'd be like, Hey, Helga, remember me?  And she'd give him a weird look like she'd never seen him before, and ask, Aren't you the reporter from the Times?  And he'd say, Well, yeah, but we went to school together.  You used to call me Football Head, and Arnoldo, and Hair Boy, and geek bait, and moron…and he'd trail off because there'd be no look of recognition in her eyes, and he'd say, You know, we were in Romeo and Juliet together.  We saved the neighborhood.  We spent our summers together at the Jersey shore.  You shot spitballs at me.  And then her face would light up, and she'd say, Oh, Arnold, that doofus I used to torture.  Yeah, I remember you.  You were that orphan kid, right?  Oh, by the way, I wasn't shooting spitballs at you, I was shooting them at Gerald.  He was so cute…which of course she would think because everyone thought that Gerald was cuter than Arnold, even Arnold thought that Gerald was cuter than Arnold, at least he would if he thought that way, which he didn't, because he was straight, even though he was neat and thin and personable and not completely girl crazy even during the height of puberty, which didn't mean that he was gay, it just meant that he had manners and self-control, and just about the time that he was thinking those thoughts Helga would say, You were gay, weren't you? and he'd say No! in utter shock and the Boy Meets World kid would snort into his machiato and Harrison Ford would hide a smile and Arnold would glare at them because let's face it, being on Boy Meets World is not exactly going to earn you an Emmy, but he doesn't say anything to Harrison because he's still a little scared of Indiana Jones and Han Solo and that guy from The Fugitive all in one, even despite the bombs in Harrison's career, of which there have been many, but even so, these two guys, even this stupid Mr. I've-been-starring-in-an-ABC-sitcom-through-all-my-adolesence-and-half-my-adult-life, can get into any party and do anything and he's sure that no one would ever leave them for some guy named Lars with his oh-so-sexy Austrian accent and his three million sparkling white teeth and his biceps that are bigger than Arnold's head, which is a pretty big head, but hey, you know what they say about guys with big heads…nothing, they don't say anything, which is a shame, because if they were to say it, it would be true, but Helga will never know that, and what is he thinking, he doesn't want to sleep with Helga Pataki!…well, actually he does, what red-blooded man in his right mind wouldn't?  I mean, look at that body!…but she definitely doesn't want to sleep with him, she's probably sleeping with Harrison, or maybe even Boy Meets World guy over there, with the foam from his machiato all over his chin, which is even worse than Lars…

"Excuse me?"

Arnold snapped out of his daydream.  A young man was standing there, holding a clipboard and looking anxiously down at him.  "Are you the reporter from the Times?" he asked.  Arnold nodded.  "Follow me, please."

The assistant led Arnold through the set, stopping when they reached the largest trailer and rapping on the door.  "Come in," a woman's voice called.

The assistant stepped back and looked at Arnold expressionlessly.  He nerved himself, and opened the door to the trailer, stepping inside.

The trailer was dark and cramped.  There was a curtain separating it in half—he assumed the back half was Helga's personal area.  The half he could see was crowded with all sorts of equipment he would never in a million years be able to use and at least several hundred pages of screenplay tossed haphazardly about.  Helga was sitting cross-legged in the only chair, in denim shorts and a red tank top, watching a monitor.  She was leaning forward intently, her hands tucking her straight, white blonde hair behind her ears.  He heard the Boy Meets World guy's voice on the monitor and winced.

"Hold on," Helga said, holding up a hand towards him, not looking at him.  Her voice was low, sultry, and mature; her feet were bare and dirty.  She continued to watch the monitor.  Suddenly she sat bolt upright.  "Ah hah!" she cried triumphantly, pointing to the screen.  Arnold wasn't sure if she was talking to him or not.  "There it is!  He finally got it!"  She gazed at the screen for a few minutes longer, shaking her head with a rueful smile.  "Lord, but I wish that boy could act."

Arnold suddenly felt much better.

Satisfied, Helga turned off the monitor and looked up at him.  "Sorry about that, I'm—"

Her jaw dropped.  She stared at him, her mouth opening and closing several times, before she could speak.  "Arnold?"

Well, at least she remembered him.

He gave a sideways grin.  "Yep.  It's me."

She was still staring at him, incredulously.  "Oh my God.  Arnold."

Okay, this was uncomfortable.  "In the flesh."

Suddenly she smiled, standing up to greet him.  "I'm sorry, I'm being so rude.  I'm just surprised to see you.  How are you?"  To his very great surprise, she hugged him.

Not knowing what else to do, he hugged her back.  "I'm pretty good.  You?"

"Can't complain."  She released him and looked him up and down.  "You look good," she remarked.

He actually blushed.  "Thanks.  You do, too.  Great, in fact."

"Ah, you're just trying to show me up."  She looked up at him, and he was struck by the fact that she was shorter than him.  Had he been taller than her in high school?  He couldn't remember.  "So, you work for the Times now?"

He nodded.  "Oh, yeah.  Wielding my English major skills with a vengeance, writing for the common man.  Actually, I just got bumped up from obituaries and wedding announcements."

Helga laughed.  She had a throaty, titillating laugh.  "Well, somebody has to do it, right?  Anyway, congrats on the promotion, then."

"Thanks."

She looked around at the trailer.  "Geez, this place is a mess.  I try to spend as little time here as I can.  You hungry?"

Arnold considered.  He hadn't eaten since the flight, where he'd picked at the unidentifiable food the stewardess assured him was chicken marsala.  He suspected frequent travelers kept alive on a steady diet of peanuts.  "I could eat," he admitted.

"Let's go, then," Helga replied, heading for the door.  "I know a great place.  I'll take you out, you can interview me there.  Do you like Thai?"

"Oh, sure," Arnold replied.  "I grew up on boarding house food, I'll eat anything."

Helga laughed again.  She seemed to do that a lot.  "Okay.  We were calling it quits for the day, anyway.  I'll send everybody off and then we'll go."  She stepped out of the door, looking almost heavenly as she passed into the warm sunlight.

Howdy, y'all!  People seem to be confused about a bunch of things, so here it is:  "Always" is not finished.  Neither is "The Queen's Treasure."  Or "Home For Christmas."  "Always" has a looooong way to go before it's finished, and TQT is going to be about as long as "Missing Pieces," so there's a bunch left to that.  "Home" will hopefully be finished before Christmas, though I can't guarantee it, and the other two long stories are on the back burner until "Home" is done, so that I can get it in by the "deadline."  Trust me, you will know when these stories are finished—I'll make sure of that.

As for "Changes," it was only supposed to be a one parter.  That's all.  But a lot of people seem to want more of it.  If everyone thinks it feels unfinished, I'll see if I can come up with a second half, but I really didn't see it as being any longer than it is.

January Marlinquin: Yeah, Helga's no movie star.  But as a director—she's commanding and brilliant.  Perfect for the job.  Arnold's cursing…well, I dunno.  I don't see him doing it in a vulgar way—more a casual, conversational tone.  And as for Helga's makeup, I see her being very put together and on top of everything, and when you think about it, makeup is just another mask for our heroine to wear.  But that's just our own personal extrapolations of the characters—you see them one way, I see them another.  No biggie.  We're all still friends here.  Yeah, Arnold's tall, just for the sake of this story—his height varies with my stories.  And the small feet was just in keeping with cannon information.  Helga's a supermodel, we all know that…lol.  I went on about Columbia for a while probably because it's my school and it's that old school pride popping up again.  Yes, the story is completely finished, but I only posted the first chapter.  The rest will be out with less of a wait, but I was away from my computer this weekend, so…  And I'm not mad, I'm flattered that you want to read my stuff so badly, and even if I was mad I wouldn't punish anyone…I'd just open up a can of whoop-ass on you!  Lol…sorry that Always and TQT aren't being churned out as fast as everyone (including me) would hope, but…blame my muse.  And I like long reviews.

extreemrandomnes: Enjoy name.  Is cute.  Me sorry.  Enjoy chapter.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it!  -PI