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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I sit down, slowly, on Helga's bed and think. The thing that maybe scares me the most, is that she could be back at Charlie's. But now why would she go and do a thing like that? That certainly wouldn't make sense, but… well, what exactly am I supposed to think? I'm sure that Helga's father knows nothing and desires to know nothing about where his daughter could be. I feel I should ask, though, even if it were to be a waste of breath. Ugh, why? Why does she do this? She insists on alienating herself from people, especially the people who care about her. I mean, Phoebe aside, who else does Helga let get close to her? No one! It angers me, but… but I guess I can't blame the girl. A lot of things can contribute to someone's personality. I mean, I look at her father and wonder how she managed to survive to this age. She didn't really have the kind of loving home people like Gerald had, or Phoebe for instance. Even myself… even though I haven't been with my parents all my life I still feel grateful for the home I live in, however unique it may be. I see Helga as a nonentity in her home, which is horrible, and so is it so hard to understand why she lashes out at people? Alright… wait a minute… I'm angry at her! Why am I coming up with excuses for her behavior?

I sigh, and look slowly around her room. It's funny, I can't for a second believe that some school bully lives in this room. It's so… so… honest. Nothing in here tells me the child who inhabits it is an angry domineering 14 year old. It's like the room hasn't aged at all. I know that when people like Gerald and Sid turned 13, they remodeled their rooms. They had to make it more grown up, cool, if you will. They felt the need to completely cover up the boy they used to be. They just put that reflection of their former selves into a box, taped it up, and threw it into the attic… where it'll probably stay. Helga on the other hand seems to hold on to who she is. A few things in the room could even be called childish, which is great. The use of pinks and purples almost makes me feel like I'm standing in the room of a young child, but then again… it seems to have a maturity to it that… oh, I don't know… reflects the person she is inside? I'm not sure myself, actually. I just-

"So are you done here, Alfred?" asks her father, standing impatiently in her doorway, "I said she wasn't here. I was right, wasn't I? Do you see her anywhere?" he states, folding his arms across his broad chest.

"No," I reply softly, calmly.

He looks me strangely in the eyes and nods slowly, "So, you just gonna stay here and wait?"

I detect the sarcasm in his voice and decide that maybe he's right to mock me. Leaving would be the better thing to do. Maybe go looking for her elsewhere?

Yeah, like where?

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Strangely, the urgency from before is gone. I feel almost sedated now as I walk back to Charlie's. Oh yes, that's where I'm going. I have this nagging feeling that I'm right. Maybe I wasn't exactly right on her whereabouts at first but I'm definitely sure this is the only other possibility. Why? Eh, it's the last place I'd expect to find her. Don't understand? Well, Helga being Helga she probably wouldn't be where I expected her to be, case in point, the fact that she wasn't at her house. She's probably doing this on purpose, in fact, I'd be willing to bet on it. She knows I care about her, she's probably just trying to make me worry! No, why would she do that? She's not the kind of girl that would pull something for attention. She's not like, say, Rhonda. The kind of girl who's a sucker for affection. Nope, that's not my Helga. My Helga. Huh, that felt nice to say… my Helga…

So now I find myself back at Charlie's. I can already see him sitting nonchalantly on the stoop as I approach. He looks at ease and calm, and it annoys me to an extent. I find the fact that I alone am angry about Helga's disappearance a little annoying. No, down-right annoying. But it's not Charlie who angers me, sitting quietly on the porch ahead of me, it's not. It's somebody else, or something else. Like a situation that caused my friend to go 'missing'. Intentionally, yes, but not willingly. I figure that if she hadn't been thrown into the situation she's in, she wouldn't be avoiding people. But I can't quite figure out how I'm using the word 'thrown'. After all, it's not as if she was forced to do something, it was for an assignment. Ah, but I know, having to do an assignment is kind of, if not just like, being forced to. Oh, I don't know what to think anymore. It's like I've been thinking the same thing over and over for the past few weeks. My feelings, emotions, they're being thrown off and distorted and I'm not sure how to get back on track… how to get back to being Arnold. Can I, even?

"So you're back?" he states, in an almost amused tone. He shifts a little in his sitting position, and even seems to straighten up a bit. "Helga told me-"

"Helga?" I blurt, furrowing my brow.

"Yes, Helga," he begins again slowly, "She told me to tell you she was going home." he stood from the stoop and brushed off this clothes, "She just left."

"Just left," I repeat in a flat tone.

"Mmm hmm," he nods, shifting his gaze from eye to eye. The idea that she was here all along never crossed my mind. I begin to think laughably about my urgent and intense search for the teenager.

"Where was she? You know, when you asked where she was," I ask, slouching a little, and resting my eyes on the cold concrete.

"Around," he says sort of distantly, "Well, she didn't tell me exactly, but a few minutes after you left she showed up. She was probably around the side of the house, if you ask me, but that's just a guess. She did seem a bit mad, and I know I walked in on some argument earlier, so… my bet is, she just didn't want to work on the assignment today, am I right?" he asks, running his hand through his actually slightly neat hair.

"Uh huh," I confirm in an almost broken voice. I've never felt so foolish for overreacting the way I did. Here all along? She couldn't have been, that's absurd. Wouldn't I have known? Oh, this is an awful feeling indeed…

"So, did you want to work or would you prefer to go home as well? I won't hold it against you, I mean, hell… you've had sort of an exciting day already," he says, sounding a little like he were making fun of my reaction earlier.

"Did she say anything?" I ask, quietly… somewhat embarrassed.

"Well," he says, a smile tugging at the corners of his thin lips-yep, he knew what I meant, "all she said was for you not to worry about her so much."

"She knows," I say, quietly.

"She knows," he repeats. For a second I question just what he thinks I mean. this sudden terror flows through me at the thought that she might know more than I think she does. She knows I love her, I grew up with her, but does she know I love her? Which I do, I'm sure I do. I can reflect now on my behavior earlier and see clearly that my reaction was driven by some kind of passionate emotion. May it be anger, love, concern… it was perhaps a mixture of the three. I was foremost angry with her for abandoning me, but I was also concerned-was she alright?-and this love I have for her drove me to look desperately for her.

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The next morning I feel tired and unwilling to make myself get out of bed. This seems to be happening to me a lot lately. The embarrassment from the day before is still with me and the thought of seeing her today makes me literally sick to my stomach. What will the little devil say to me? She, I'm sure, will have some quick-witted sarcastic remark to throw at me. She will no doubt question me extensively about my behavior. To which, I know, I will have no good answer. But see, she won't be asking me because she cares, she'll be asking me because she likes to see me suffer under her gaze. She'll just eat up the expression of fear and embarrassment plastered all over my face. I, unfortunately, was not given the gift of being able to hide my emotions. I wear them clearly, and there's no mistake with how I'm feeling. She'll love it, I know she will. She'll look at me with a disgusted expression and just revel in the fact that I'm squirming and shifting my eyes before her. She'll make fun of me, she'll mock me, she'll tell everyone about the incident and make them make fun of me!

Or, I could be simply overreacting again…

"Hey, man," says Gerald as we wait for the bus, "Wow, you look like you just got hit by a bus, what's up?" he asks, concerned. He puts on a sympathetic expression, anticipating my answer.

"It's going to be a long day, Gerald," is all I can muster at the moment.

Not satisfied with my statement, he goes on, "I see. So what's wrong?"

I search his brown eyes for something to say, something that will be adequate enough to get him off my back, while saving him the sorted details of my experience. It seems as though I've been keeping a lot of things from old Gerald lately, I wonder why that is…

"Hey," speaks a voice from behind me. Roxanne.

"Hey," Gerald says immediately, seeming as though he's forgotten all about my 'problem'. Oh yeah, I realize, that's why I've been different with him. The two exchange a kiss and begin to engage in small talk. I feel a bit left out, and find it too uncomfortable to be around the two of them. I must find somewhere else to go, I must-

"The bus!" someone shouts. People scramble to the edge of the sidewalk, trying to ensure they'll be the first to get on the warm bus. The reason? Well, for a while now, the weather has seemed to change drastically from one day to the next. One day it's sunny, the next rainy and cold. Today is just one of those rainy and cold days where you must force yourself out of bed-convince yourself that getting out of bed would be the best thing, when you know full-well that staying in bed would be the far better thing to do on a terrible day like this.

The shivering bodies huddle together as the bus pulls up to them. The shoving begins and people are almost being thrown to the grown as everyone struggles to get in the bus as quickly as they can. I wait, though, until the others are on the bus before I attempt to do the same. I don't plan on being thrown into a puddle this early in the day. Just as the bus is pulling away I notice someone running to catch the departing vehicle. As I turn to see, I realize it's Helga, it's her. She's in a panic, waving her arms about trying to get the elderly bus driver's attention. I can imagine how miserable she's feeling at the moment, running down the slippery sidewalk, the weather in winter-like conditions-"STOP!" I shout, standing up abruptly from my bus seat, "Stop the bus, please," I say a bit more calmly. To my surprise, the bus driver slows to a stop. I guess even he could sympathize with the girl, and didn't want her to have to walk to school in such conditions.

As Helga steps onto the bus, she searches for a seat. I think back to my feelings that morning-how I didn't want to see Helga today-but suddenly, now that I see her… I can't turn her away. And so, I offer my seat to her of course.

"Why aren't you sitting with that guy?" she asks, knowing full-well what his name is.

"Because 'that guy' is sitting with 'that girl'," I reply, pointing behind me to Roxanne and Gerald. Helga shrugs and leans into her seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her, carefully examining her features, wanting to say something but not knowing what. She sighs dramatically, and leans her head back, exposing the flesh of her neck. I suddenly take notice of her clothes. Not a skirt today, no, even Helga would never do something so foolish. Yes, I'm happy she opted for pants instead. Her shirt, although not pink, looks a little childish. Her sleeves are pulled down over her wrists and clasped tightly in her hands. She moves her head side to side, looking like a bored toddler, then finally seems satisfied staring toward me. She blinks a few times before she summons the air needed for her words, "You look terrible today," though obviously not intended to be, it sounds almost like an insult. Coming from her, I find, it hurts more than when Gerald had commented to me in almost the same way. She shifts her blue eyes from eye to eye as she stares at me as though she's got something on the tip of her tongue.

"Yeah?" I start for her.

"I heard about yesterday," she starts. Oh, here it comes! She's going to mock me, I know it!

"What about it?" I try to ask in return as nonchalantly as possible.

"Nothing," she plays with the word, a smile distantly forming on her lips.
"I was fine, you know, you didn't have to go looking for me, " she says, slouching to show even more of her long neck. Now, I realize, she looks even more like a dissatisfied 3-year-old. "The funny thing is, " she continues, "If you had stayed in my room I would have been there within five minutes and you would have met up with me. But, you left… so Bob tells me."

"Yeah, I guess that is funny," I comment, actually finding nothing amusing about her statement at all… instead, I find her movements amusing. The way she moves around in her seat, her head going side to side and her hands pulling self-consciously at the already pulled to the max sleeves of her white sweat shirt.

After a quiet moment, she looks at me again, "So are you going to Charlie's?" surprised that she would bring up the subject, I turn to look at her, "I mean, if you're going I'll go… but only if you're going, ok?" she stresses, sitting straight in her seat for the first time since she sat down.

"I'm going… I'm going, alright." I confirm and suddenly I can see-or rather feel-this immense relief flow through her. She sighs again and slouches against the bus seat.

"Thanks Football face," she says, and closes her eyes peacefully.

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Ok, I know, I KNOW! It's been a REALLY long time since I updated, but I have to explain. I've been really busy lately with school work and stuff like that. Oh yeah, and remember that research paper I had to do? I got a 100 on it, oh yes I did. Yay! Go me! Lol, ok anyway… here's chapter 18 (FINALLY) and this time I'll probably update A LOT sooner with the next chapter… I'm already writing it.