I DO NOT OWN HEY ARNOLD!!! DON'T SUE ME!!! (I don't have any money anyway so you wouldn't get much out of it if you did)
Return To Innocence
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"Lets talk about Reconstruction, woo!" exclaims Mr. Reiker, excitedly. Groans follow his declaration, much to his dismay. He rolls his eyes, and waves dismissively at the class, "See, it's ok that you all feel that way, because frankly, boys and girls, I could care less." he smiles, showing a less than perfect set of yellow teeth. He walks over to the blackboard and draws a chart upon it with his small, last remaining remnant of chalk.
I sit at my desk, quietly observing the clear morning sky through the window. Something about this class makes me… daydream… more than any other. It's not that the class is boring, no, that's not it. Then what? Does Mr. Reiker so evoke such imagination? Does he really call forth the tendency to 'space out'? Or, perhaps, it's merely my own tendency. Maybe it's just me…
"You know, I've been thinking a lot about Democratic and Republican issues…" I hear, like a dead echo, coming from Mr. Reiker himself. I'm not sure what part of the lesson we're on; I don't know much of anything right now…
it's simply too tempting to just leave my conscious mind behind. It might even be TOO much to ask for me to pay attention. To focus. To be a responsible, hardworking, student. Yes, it's too much right now…
The bell rings for class to be dismissed, and I'm not too happy about that. It's time to leave my class of daydreams and enter a more responsible one. English. Ugh…
I'll never be the writer, or poet, Helga is… so I really don't try. English has always been one of those 'iffy' subjects. You know, the ones where you're not too noticeably good at it, but you're not exactly terrible at it, either. It's somewhere in the middle. On the boarder line. Heh, yeah, on the boarder line, which seems to be where my average usually resides…
Periods go by so fast sometimes, it feels unreal. It's true what they say, though… time really does fly when you're having fun. Ever notice the classes you enjoy always seem to be the shortest? Or that the classes you hate always seem to make the minutes go by like hours? Yes, I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about.
Classes…
School in general. I really have no problem with it. In fact, you could say I actually enjoy it most of the time. I do homework. Yes, in that respect I AM quite a responsible student. I'm honest. It saddens me so when I see that at the beginning of class everyone is scurrying to their friend to get the answers on last night's homework assignment. It's pathetic, really, and it's hard to stomach the fact that these kids… America's sheltered and selfish youth… is also it's future. Sad, huh?
The halls in my school are dead now. It's lunch time and I was the last out of my 4th period class. It's funny how quickly people race to get out of the school building. I myself find it much safer to just wait until the rush has subsided, then take the risk of walking down the small, compact, halls of Hillwood High. Yes, much safer. My locker, much to my disappointment, is located quite a ways from my 4th period. It's inconvenient, and very irritating, to have to walk all the way across the school to the Social Studies halls just to go to my locker. Then, of course, having to walk all the way back to the cafeteria. Where's the logic, somebody tell me?
"Arnold!" I hear down the hall. I turn quickly to see Gerald approach me. And… with that annoying girl Roxanne by his side. Funny, I thought he'd find someone new by now. I suddenly realize how bitter my thought was. God, what's wrong with me? I seem to be finding faults in everything lately… What is this? "You gonna hurry it up, or what?" Gerald asks as he finally gets close enough to lean on the locker door next to mine.
"I'm going, I'm going," I say, as I reach into my book bag and pull out unneeded books. "I see you're still with her."
"What?" Gerald frowns. I look over to Roxanne, drinking at the nearest water fountain and he follows my gaze.
"Oh, yeah, so I am." he stares longing at her. He frowns, as if confused, and scratches nervously at the back of his head.
"So, is this like a relationship, then?" I close my locker, slowly, examining the expression on my best friend's face. He glances at me, then looks back toward the object of his affection.
"Maybe. I can't tell yet." he reaches his hands into his pockets and looks down. He then smiles and looks up at me, not moving his head, just as a shy child would, "I really like her, though. I wish you did too." he looks back to her for a second. I feel guilt, immediately. I feel terrible. But… I still can't change my opinion of her. I think THAT is what makes me feel the worst.
"I'm not sure, should we do this project on French, Russian, or Native American literature?" Helga asks, as she, Charlie, and I sit comfortably on Charlie's bed.
"You're asking me?" I humorously ask.
"Why not? Which should it be?" she asks, further more.
"I think-"
"Why don't we do it on a specific author?" Charlie asks, cutting me off. I would like to think it was on accident, but as I look at him, he seems to be taunting me with his expression. Ha! What expression? But see, there's something about his eyes. It's as if he doesn't need facial expression at all. If you look close enough, you can see exactly how he feels… his eyes make him transparent in a way.
"Like who? Bradford? Nabokov? Rowlandson? Like I said, we need to narrow it down to the style before we can go in and select a certain author." Helga says, looking through her notes.
"Why not just select an author? What's the point of going and doing more research if we can just pick one?" Charlie challenges.
"Alright fine, who do you pick?" Helga stops and looks angrily at him.
It's funny how amusing arguments can be when you're not involved.
"Why not Nabokov? Yeah, let's do it on Vladimir Nobokov."
"Why him?" Helga asks, disgustedly, "Isn't he the one who wrote that book, Lolita?"
"Yep." Charlie nods. If I'm not mistaken, he seems quite pleased with his choice.
"Why would we wanna do a project on someone who wrote such a disgusting novel?" Helga rolls her eyes.
"It's not disgusting." Charlie states. "You know, it's people like you that make it hard for novels such as that to be recognized for what they are, great pieces of work. If you think it's just disgusting, you've really missed out… and maybe even the point of the story."
This is getting interesting…
"No, I'm sure I didn't. I mean, the guy was in love with a 12 year old! Are you really going to try to tell me that it's not disgusting? Please!" Helga laughs as if it's the stupidest thing she's ever heard.
"Yeah, ok, point taken. He falls in love with a 12 year old, yes, but only because of Annabel. I mean, if he hadn't met and loved Annabel, he never would have found her again in Lolita." Charlie states. He goes silent for a few moments, then his face brightens up "Hey, why don't we do the project purely on Lolita? Yes, it would be brilliant! We could do an analysis on the main character, Humbert, and show-yes! That's what we'll do! I mean, considering how controversial the book is in the first place, it would prove very interesting to show different points of view on it… provide reasons why people misinterpret the book's meaning and such… hey, that's a great idea!" Charlie stands from the bed. This may be the first time I've seen him excited about anything. He laughs and runs over to his book shelf. Helga stays silent and watches, as I do, as he tears through his collection of books. He searches for merely a couple moments before he gets his hands on… yes, Lolita.
"Eww, gross, I'm NOT doing an English project on THAT!" Helga stands from the bed as well.
"Why not?" I finally enter the conversation.
"What do you mean, why not!" Helga looks at me, obviously angry with my blatant contradiction to her, "Haven't you ever READ the story?!"
"Well, no, but-"
"Here," Charlie tosses me the book, "Read it. If you're really as smart as Helga says you are, you'll like it."
"Charlie, I don't want to do it on that!" Helga says, raising her voice slightly. She walks over to him and glares up at him, "This is MY project too, and I say NO!" she pushes on his chest. He stumbles back slightly and looks disbelievingly at her. Heh, he's just been introduced to 'Helga G. Pataki'.
He looks slightly stunned, then glares at her… angrily? Oh my, I think this is the first time he's displaying anger… Funny how you can take certain emotions for granted sometimes…
He walks a bit closer to her and nudges her back. I'm broken from my amused state and am offended. Not that he's pushing Helga, really, but that he's pushing a girl at all. "Hey, hold on!" I jump from the bed and walk over between them, "Maybe we… should just calm down, yes?" I place one hand on Charlie's chest, keeping him at arm's length, and the other at Helga's collar bone. The two glare at one another until I see Helga roll her eyes.
"I'm going downstairs." she says and walks over to the door. She slams it closed and I'm left alone in the room with Charlie. He looks at the closed door as if he's trying to see through it. I even find myself trying to look where he's looking; trying to see what he's seeing.
It's futile, though…
"So, I take it we're doing the project on Lolita, then?" I ask, finally walking back over to his bed and sitting down. Charlie looks over to me, and nods.
"Yeah. Honestly, it doesn't matter what Helga says. I'm kind of heart-set on this now. The funny thing is, if she hadn't mentioned the author, I never would have decided on it."
I nod, then look uneasily at him. It's still kind of awkward to be in the same room alone with him, "May I go downstairs for a minute? I wanna get something to drink." I get up from the bed.
"Yeah, sure. If you see Helga down there, tell her hurry up and get back." with that, I walked out of his room and shut the door, quietly, behind me.
As I walk down the stairs, I hear voices coming from the kitchen. I walk into the living room, feeling safe in the fact that who ever is making the noise can't see me. I walk to the doorway of the kitchen, being careful not to let myself be seen along the wall.
"Yes, Charlie and I are pretty good students," I hear the voice of Helga.
"Charlie's really a good student? Like you?" asks a man, with a lilt in his voice. The voice is unfamiliar to me; it's rough and deep.
"Yeah… I…" she pauses, "Don't you have anything better to do than talk to me?" I hear a cabinet slam, unintentionally. The rattling of dishes follows and I hear the faucet turn on.
"No, not really," the man says. It's quiet now; no one is saying anything and it alarms me somehow.
"What are you…?" I hear Helga ask, quietly… alarmed, herself, at something. I can hear it in her voice. What could be going on in there, I wonder?
"Nothing. I… You'd better go back upstairs." the man orders, and then walks quickly out of the kitchen. He passes quickly by me, hardly noticing my presence, standing unseen next to the doorway. Perhaps even if he DID see me, I doubt he would have stopped. He walks down the shadowed hall once more and again I hear his door slam. Yes, I know now that the voice in the kitchen was that of Charlie's father. I stare down the hall for a moment then walk into the kitchen where I see Helga placing some plates down in the sink. She stands, slightly slumped over the sink itself.
"H-Helga?" I start, feeling suddenly scared about something. I don't even know what, I realize.
"What?!" she asks, still facing away from me. She stands up straight, suddenly aware that I'm in the room.
"That was Charlie's dad, huh?" I ask, casually, walking over to the refrigerator.
"So what if it was?" she returns, slightly annoyed with the question.
"Nothing, just wondering." I say.
I left Charlie's house quite late today, finding it more comfortable than the previous time I'd been there. Something was different about it. Maybe it was seeing Charlie argue with Helga. He showed conviction about something, which impressed me and finally made me throw out the idea that he was incapable of emotion. He has quite a bit of emotion, though I haven't seen all of its potential yet.
I walk into my room and throw my backpack down on my bed. I suddenly remember that I must read that book Charlie lent me. Well, obviously! I mean, I have to know the story if I'm going to do a project on it. I walk over to the book bag and slowly unzip it. I retrieve the book and walk quietly over to my desk, sitting down and flipping to the beginning of it.
I begin to read…
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin. My soul. Lo-lee-at: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.
Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. On when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns…
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This chapter may be a little confusing for those of you who have never read or heard of the book, Lolita. That's ok, though, you'll understand more about the story as I go on. And, for those of you who wish to see the A/H pairing, the book will have a lot to do with it… that's all I'm going to say about that, hehe!
As always, tell me what you think! ;D