The Sweet Hereafter: Rainy Days And Mondays

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Part XXXX: Crow Of The Rooster

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"Talkin' to myself and feelin' old

Sometimes I'd like to quit

Nothing ever seems to fit

Hangin' around

Nothing to do but frown

Rainy days and Mondays always get me down"

--The Carpenters

"Rainy Days And Mondays"

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All was quiet in the aftermath. Light spilled in through the large window set into the far end of the hallway, the blessings of the sun finding no one who had been left behind in the wake. The individual tiles that made up the floor students trampled through daily were all but hidden beneath a sea of papers and textbooks. Lockers stood with their doors hanging ajar, more than one in danger of coming off its hinges. Curly was caught on the coat hook from his own locker, dangling like a Christmas turkey and struggling in vain. No one dared make a sound yet. The bulk of the students were still pressed tightly against the walls in an effort to make themselves blend in. Some had fallen to the ground, unfortunate victims of the passing storm. Breathing slowly began to normalize as people began to realize that they weren't going to die after all.

Striding with confidence through his domain, Principal Wartz maneuvered into the hallway, surveying the destruction before him. Clearly this was the work of some delinquent mastermind determined to subvert the system, corrupt young, innocent minds, and tarnish the reputation of P.S. 118, not to mention its long-standing principal. Eyeing the slightly deranged boy with glasses and a bowl cut, Wartz hoisted the young man from the hook, pegging him as the obvious troublemaker in this shameful display of disdain for authority. Wartz prided himself on his uncanny ability to nab guilty parties with minimal fuss. Curly attempted to protest his innocence to no avail. Clearly, no one was willing to risk speaking the truth for fear of unholy retribution. As the principal rounded the corner, dragging Curly with him, the remaining students collectively turned in the opposite direction, looking out towards the path this morning's tornado of rage had traveled. And corridors ahead, Helga G. Pataki goes about her business, leaving a trail of despair and hatred behind her.

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When I woke up this morning, I wept. That's right. Helga G. Pataki lay in her bed like an infant and refused to get up until the tears stopped flowing. I didn't sob, I didn't bawl, I didn't snivel. I just lay there; weeping quietly for all that I'd lost. Waking up every morning is like coming back to life. But having to face this one without him. . .going back to a life of lies and masks just feels so empty. I'm facing the world alone, and the prospect scares me.

When I stand back and reflect on everything, it's as though I'm realizing that I'm in love for the first time. That might no make much sense coming from me. I've been professing my love for six years now in secret, always seeking quiet solitude, expressing my desires when no one else is looking. But I understand it now. It's so much more real to me, but the sorrow is this it hurts a lot more. I guess I know what I'm missing now. Is it the hope that frightens me? That we might have something in common? I'm so self-destructive, I just don't trust myself. I can't trust myself. So I'm not really sure where that leaves me.

I stand back in awe of my recent behavior, and wonder if it really was me. I can't remember ever being so open, bouncing from emotion to emotion. And he was always there to placate me. He wants to see me make something of myself. I asked him to believe in me. So when do I start believing in myself? When do I feel I haven't failed? The fact that I've made any progress at all is astounding to me. I'm getting my confidence back. Maybe it doesn't matter that I'm not pretty, that I don't fit his image of the ideal woman. I got to him. I know, because you can't fake kisses like that. And if anyone can, it should be a criminal offense. This is almost enough to make me jump around like a loon, until the other shoe drops. I wasn't able to keep it going. He told me that I'm not ready. That cut me deep. It hurt to be told that I wasn't ready for the one thing I've been waiting for my entire life. What did he know about love, anyway? Okay, okay, so maybe some of that is my fault. I really need to come clean about the whole Lila thing. He's going to be angry about that one, I know it. But I have to learn to trust him. Moreover, I need to show him that he can trust me. I guess that means that I've grown a little, so I should hold out hope that I can get my act together.

So, after hearing about all that, you might be wondering why I've been on such a rampage this morning. That part isn't nearly so difficult to explain. I got on the bus this morning like it was any other morning. It was raining, which somehow just seemed fitting for my triumphant return to the hallowed halls of P.S. 118. So I follow my usual routine, I flash my bus pass, grudgingly provided by Big Bob, and take a seat towards the back, looking for Phoebe. Only Phoebe isn't there. That was a little tough to swallow, because I had a lot to talk to her about. She's my best friend, and I need her. But Phoebe wasn't the only absentee this morning. An unmistakable stack of frizzy hair was seated several aisles in front of me, with no one next to him. Geraldo without the Football Head or even my best friend just wasn't Geraldo.

So there I was, sitting by myself, feeling completely abandoned. I got off the bus when we reached the school, took a deep breath, and fell back into a role that I've played for so long. I no longer know what is fabrication and what is real. I roared, and I rampaged, tossing people aside like rag dolls. I could feel myself transforming into some kind of monster, my heart hardening in my chest. I was as cold as steel. My personality was that of a razor. Who's to say it's changed? I'm sitting at my desk in Simmons' classroom, looking every inch of my black mood. Phoebe came in, smiling radiantly at me, and rushing over to welcome me back to the madness that is fourth grade. Slowly, the rest of our class began to trickle in, along with our teacher. The day began with the ring of a bell. Arnold flashed a smile at me as he took his seat. The smile was not returned.

After Simmons took his head count and began outlining his dubious lesson plans for the day, he went to the trouble of welcoming me back to his class. That's just what I need. Good ol' public humiliation. This was how I knew my morning was complete. Being told how special it was to have me back, it made me want to be sick. Okay, so I was gone for a little while. But I'm fine now! The last thing I want is people flocking all over me. Still, though I hate to admit it, I do appreciate that people missed me. Maybe I'm just uncomfortable with anyone making a fuss over me. No one ever has before. So on those rare occasions when it happens, I don't really know how to act. I'm not a people person.

Once Simmons was through torturing me, he began outlining his dubious lesson plan for the day, which I felt afforded me a great opportunity. I opened my desk, withdrawing a small, sealed box that I had been saving for a rainy day. Using my thumbnail to carefully slice through the shrink wrap, I tossed the cellophane aside. Slowly I slide the flimsy cardboard cover to the left, the pungent scene of rubber gripping my nostrils. I drew one of the bands out, twirling it between my thumb and index finger. Solid composition, ideal for long stacks of paper, but not so thick as to ruin the aerodynamics. Grinning to myself, I hooked one of the bands around my left thumb and pulled back with my right index finger, lining up the target. At times like this, I really appreciate the misshapen head of his. It's pretty hard to miss. I let the rubber band fly and it hits him square in the back of the head, just as I had hoped. Arnold turned to look at me. His eyes met mine in a precise and calculating manner. I am being measured. There is nothing that I hate more than being measured, being weighed. Even by him. Especially by him, because I know that he'll find me lacking, and that's a rejection that I'm just not willing to take. It would destroy me. I can see his eyes widen for a moment, but it's impossible to hide that look of disappointment so plainly visible on his face. And that's what I can't take. There's nothing worse than someone whom you think the world of being disappointed in you. Easier to stomach anger or resentment from them, but disappointment is the bitterest medicine of all.

People say how wonderful it is to be in love. If someone tells you that, then let me assure you, it's never happened for them. Falling in love offers you nothing but constant insecurity. The fear of that feeling not being reciprocated, or even if it is, that he will stop loving you. For me, well, I know that I'm unlovable, that's why I hide my light under a bowl. I can't let people know about my feelings, because everyone knows me. And they know that no one will ever love me. They'll mock me for even thinking I stand the chance. Maybe I just delude myself into thinking I do. All I know is that my own feelings are incredibly intense. All my emotions are. Love, hate, anger, frustration. . .I don't do anything softly. And even if he can't return my feelings, I still have to watch him. No one can love him like I can. But if I can't stand with him, then I have to be there to look out for him, and keep the ones that aren't worthy away. Maybe that's my role, to make sure that he finds the right person. Does that make me a living sacrifice? Yeah, I guess it does. But I guess that's okay. I could do a lot worse.

That's what makes his disappointment in me so painful. Criminey! Don't I suffer enough in life? The last thing I want is to lose the opportunity to be near him. I put my box away and think of how close I came this weekend. I have to keep believing. He likes me, I know he does. But he hasn't fallen for me. I want him to so much. I want to be someone he can fall for. If what he said is true, and he doesn't go after only the pretty ones, then I guess I do stand a chance. But what could there possibly be about me that would make him want to stand up and take notice?

I can hear Phoebe whispering to me. Furrowing my eyebrow, I turn in her direction, and she passes me a note. That's not much like her. She usually isn't so rigid that she'll refuse to pass a note, but it's pretty rare that she actually composes one herself. I dart my eyes back and forth, listening to Simmons drone on and on about the American Revolution, and then I slowly unfold the thing in my lap, careful not to make too much noise. I can scarcely believe my eyes when I see what she wrote:

I tried to call you last night, but the line was busy. Is everything okay? I'm sorry I missed you on the bus this morning, but Arnold stopped by and asked me to walk with him. He had a lot of questions, mostly about you. I didn't tell him anything that I promised not to reveal, but he seemed really concerned. Did something happen between you and Arnold?

Once again, I feel like I have to pick my jaw up off the floor. I just don't get it! How could she ask me this? Doesn't she already know how I feel? Maybe not entirely. I should tell her. I know that she knows, and she knows that I know that she knows, but. . .I still don't think that she completely gets it. But it's so hard to share this kind of thing, because no one could possibly understand. Even I'm smart enough to know that I shouldn't have these feelings. I know that it's crazy, but I'm okay with that. I wasn't, for a long time. But I am now. I guess my psychiatrist is good for something after all.

The truth of the matter is that Phoebe deserves to hear it from me. And I do want to admit it to her. I'm sure she would be a lot more. . .relieved if I came out and said it. And one of these days, I'm going to tell her. But today isn't that day. I grab my pen and flatten note upon my desk, scribbling madly:

I'm perfectly fine, Phoebe! No thanks to you! Where the heck were you all morning, anyway? Last I checked, we were still best friends, so how about acting like one?! As for that Football-Headed yutz, there's nothing going on that a can of Mace in his eyes wouldn't cure! I hate the little shrimp! I always have, and I always will! Nothing's going to change that! Criminey! So whatever little plan you and Hair Boy are cooking up for my supposed benefit, you can both just stuff it down your pie holes!

--Helga

I take great care to sign my name with elegance. It did pose a sharp contrast to the anger I had just written. Good. Let her see the two sides of Helga Pataki in all her glory. Maybe then, someone will understand. Opening my desk, I slipped my hands inside to muffle the sound of crumpling paper. I'm just full of unfocused rage today. Satisfied with my handiwork, I cupped the now compact note in my hands and tested the weight. I watch for Simmons to begin writing on the blackboard. He's so predictable. As he turns around, I snap the paper ball towards my best friend, beaning poor Phoebe on the head. She glowered at me before discretely bending down to pick it up. As I watched her stiffen her face to keep the tears from falling, a wave of shame passed over me. Phoebe quietly finished reading my outburst, then shared it with the love of my life. He scanned it quickly, then turned to flash those brilliant eyes at me, frowning in disapproval. When will I learn to stop pushing everyone away? I stick my tongue out at him and look away. Disgusted, I fish inside my desk again for a notebook and began tearing a sheet of paper into long strips. I wonder how many spitballs I can peg him with today? Playwright Neil Simon once wrote "We are what we are." I so desperately want to believe that that isn't true, that we have the ability to change. But on this cold, damp October morning, I can't help but feel that truer words were never spoken.

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Lunchtime. It feels like forever since I last got my grub on. Even if it is school food. There's just something comforting about a burger. Maybe I'm just the type who needs red meat coursing through her veins. It certainly makes me feel more energetic. It takes a lot of fuel to keep my going, and it's been a busy morning. I have a lot of insults to hurl and noses that need punching. I was going for the spitball record earlier, but Arnold managed to duck a few. I came in six direct hits short, which was a little frustrating. I should be better than that. But I am a little out of practice. Oh well, tomorrow is another day after all, right?

I'm running a toothpick through my teeth, and I'm just about to start in on my tapioca pudding when P.S. 118's self-proclaimed empress of fashion presents herself before me. Her posture and her expression make it look as though I'm supposed to curtsy and kiss her pinky ring. Yeah, dream on sister. No doubt about it, this is just going to be one of those days when nothing goes my way. A fitting return to the hell that is elementary school life. I should really look into writing a country song about my life. Or at least selling my life story to someone in the business. That ought to be good for some of the long green. But I think I'm beyond the point of money being able to buy me happiness. I know, because Big Bob has already tried that angle. "So what do you want, Princess?" I ask, wondering what the heck she's doing here. I can dimly remember her showing up on Saturday. Was that supposed to impress me?

"The last time I saw you, Arnold was wheeling you into your room at the hospital. You were passed out, and your face was all flushed." Rhonda spoke with the conviction of a journalist who had a hot scoop. Sheesh, what a maroon.

"Are you going somewhere with this?" I ask in the most annoyed voice that I can muster, digging into my dessert. The heck with manners, I've never been much for them. I certainly don't see why I have to exchange pleasantries with Rhonda Wellington Lloyd of all people.

"Oh, nothing." Rhonda smiled. Okay, something was definitely going on. "I was just wondering what it must've been like. I've never had a kiss with death before."

"What are you blathering about, Lloyd?" Now I'm annoyed. I can think of about fifty different things to do that are more enjoyable than a luncheon with the most pretentious girl in our school.

"Why, Helga, I'm only trying to make sure that you're comfortable. What with this weather and all, I want you lips to get chapped."

"Can the semantics and get to your point!" I snapped.

"You can't go keeping secrets from us, Helga. Especially juicy ones like this. We girls have to stick together. You know, unspoken sorority rules. And we have a right to know when a guy goes off the market."

I covered up my shock my angrily thumping both my bendy straws against the table, removing them from their wrappers and slamming them into my chocolate milk carton. She couldn't possibly have anything on me! We were too far away for anyone to see, and no one else knows about it except him. And he wouldn't have said anything because no one would believe him. She's just playing a hunch, trying to get me to say something incriminating. Ha! Nice try sister, but Helga G. Pataki ain't nobody's sap! I can outmaneuver Miss Moneybags here any day of the week. "Since when do you consider me one of the girls? We both know that I'm not anything like the rest of you, and I have no desire to start."

"That may be true." Rhonda readily admitted. "But as fellow carries of the X chromosome, we're supposed to look out for each other. Especially where men are concerned."

"You have got to be kidding. Look, I know the boys better than anyone else in your little clique." I smiled, hoping to turn the tables on this serpent and cast her out of my garden before she slithered onto the truth. "So if you want me to ask someone out for you, just say it. And after I have a good, long laugh, I'll try to remember to pass along the message." There. That ought to keep you quiet for long enough.

"I was thinking more about you." My opponent shot back, determined to maintain her dignity and obviously certain that she had my number. If only she knew how right she was. Rhonda usually is an idiot when it comes to this kind of thing, but I supposed every now and then, even a moron has to get one right, even if it is purely by accident. "I saw that awkward look on Arnold's face, Helga. Something obviously happened between you two."

Okay, fine, you want to play hardball? We'll play. The difference between you and I is that I don't suffer from a handicap of dignity or social status. "Well doi! Of course something happened between us, Princess! It just isn't what you think. He was probably feeling awkward because I socked him one."

"You what?!"

"You heard me! I let him get acquainted with Ol' Betsy! He was getting all mushy and concerned and. . .treating me like I was some kind of invalid. What else was I supposed to do? I have my pride, you know."

Rhonda looked furious. I could practically see smoke coming out of her ears. "Do you mean to tell me that you hit that poor boy when all he ever did was care about what happens to you? Not that I see and reason why he should!" Ouch, somehow, it hadn't sounded quite that bad when I had made the lie up. Too late now. Nice going, Helga Old Girl.

"That's exactly what I'm saying. He can care about me all he wants! That doesn't change the fact that I can't stand the misshapen little cretin!"

"What. . .what kind of monster ARE you, Helga?" Lloyd spat as she moved away in abject horror and disgust.

"The kind that's in love with him." I mouthed silently, no longer feeling very hungry.

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It's been a long time since I've tied Arnold's shoelaces together. He really went down spectacularly, taking the hapless Eugene with him. On occasions like this, I have a special laugh that I use, letting the world know that I'm the trickster. Arnold knows it well. He looked at me as our class entered the guy, clearly upset. Can't say that I'm sorry, my love. Last night I begged you, but you chose this. I can't be held responsible. Besides, you left your shoes right out in the open before changing into your shorts. What else was I supposed to do. Still, he does look good in that blue tank top. . .I shake my head to clear the reverie. Now isn't the time. I trot over to the rest of our class in my pink shorts and white T-shirt. Finally, a class worth participating in. Coach Wittenberg's idea of teaching is organized chaos. Today he launched one of those big, bouncy red balls at Geraldo and told us to get a game of dodge ball going. Perfect. Now here's a sport where I can really exorcise my aggressive tendencies.

As the captain, Tall Hair Boy unsurprisingly decides to square off against his best friend. That leaves the rest of us to stand by and wait for Tweedledee and Tweedledumber to pick the rest of us poor souls out of a lineup. I'm not overly surprised when I'm the fifth player called, third one on Gerald's team. I may not be popular, but everybody knows that these kinds of sports are where I'm an asset. I had expected Arnold to pick me just so he could keep an eye on me. Maybe my steady stream of torments I've unleashed on him today are finally getting to him. Funny, they never have before.

I love being on the aggressive side first. Having a chance to strike down all the other kids in the middle just gives me an incredible feeling of power. It's a fairly predictable round, the weaker players go out quickly, and there just isn't enough room in the middle for them to dodge at their level of skill. As we start to separate the wheat from the chaff, that's where things get interesting. I can see Arnold coaching moves to the rest of his team via hand signal. Sid's supposed to break left. Curly is twitching back and forth, not paying attention. Nadine's goal is to fad back, letting Arnold come up front. Eugene is going to play the decoy, making him self an easy target, and Arnold is going to try to leap in and catch the ball. It's a bold move.

Gerald could tell that something was definitely up. We all knew the basic signals, but I was on the angle to see Arnold best. Dramatic irony strikes again. I locked eyes with Johanssen and gave him the slightest of nods. Gerald slammed the ball far right into the center, intentionally missing everyone and putting it right into my hands. Now the game was afoot. I Pulled my arm back and prepared to let it fly. So, Arnoldo, but you're not going to get this one. He knew I was coming for him. His eyes narrowed in a dare. So he wanted a dance, eh? Not a problem. I could do this all day. I held the ball in the palm of my hand to build the tension before finally releasing. Half a second later, I knew I had him. I bounced the ball just inside the ring, far earlier than he expected. He was right in its path, and there was no way for him to catch it. That didn't stop him from trying. He dove low, and the ball knocked him on the stomach before his chin hit the floor in a collision I knew would damage his beautiful skin. To his credit, Arnold seemed more shaken then hurt, but there was an unmistakable cut on his chin, and he had to be sent to the nurse's office for a band-aid. Gerald ended the game quickly after that, all the fight had gone out of Arnold's team. We took our turns in the center, but I paid little attention, and let myself be nailed from behind. It's only a stupid game anyway. I didn't bother waiting for a dismissal from Wittenburg, I immediately went to the locker room to change back into my dress after being eliminated. It was the end of the day, anyway. The bell rang minutes later, and I walked mindlessly out the front door, not even bothering to wait for Phoebe. Gerald caught up to me. Great, now I was going to get blamed for a simple accident.

"What is with you, Helga? You didn't have to go so hard on him!" Gerald asks in a tone that demands answers. He and I have never liked each other, but it's a rare thing that he actually confronts me.

"It was just a game. I didn't try to get him hurt, alright? Besides, your little friend is fine. Now if you'll excuse me, I have. . .an appointment."

"No! It's not okay! You've been tearing into Arnold all day! Way worse than usual! He spent the entire weekend worried about your well-being, and this is how you pay him back?"

"Yeah, that's right. Do you have some kind of problem with that?!" Will you just leave me alone!

"Yeah, I've got a big problem. Something has been going on ever since you went into that hospital. My own best friend won't even talk about it! And now he's being abused for no reason! So I wanna know what's going on between you two."

"There's nothing going on, okay?! Everything's the same as it's always been! I hate the little twerp, he has some misguided idea that I'm not really the monster I really am. Don Quixote gets slapped once again by the face of reality but refuses to see it for what it is!"

"And you expect me to believe that?" How much nerve can Geraldo have?

"Yeah, I do."

"Well I don't! I think it's pretty obvious what-"

"You don't think at all! There's nothing to discuss! If I want your opinion, I'll ask for it. Now go join your pathetic little friend for all I care! Just leave me alone, Johanssen! You're both the most pathetic fools I've ever met, and you can fall off the earth for all I care!" As I start to turn away, I can feel Arnold's eyes on me. As I cast my gaze to the left, I can see him looking at me. He doesn't seem disappointed or angry. He looks hurt. Deeply hurt. Like he did that one time my dad called him an. . .I shove Gerald out of the way, but he doesn't lose his footing. I don't bother to see what he does next, I'm already gone. It's a good ten blocks to Hillwood Medical Center, and I only turn around after five before I turn around to make sure that I'm not being followed. I feel like I'm going to break into pieces if I have to endure one more thing today.

Somehow, I make it through those final few blocks and stop at the steps in front of the medical center. As my feet hit the first step, I can see a flock of pigeons suddenly take wing from the roof, a cacophony of coos following their flight path. Their noise triggers something deep inside of me and I drop my books, sinking to my knees on the cold, hard steps, wishing to heaven and the stars above that I were anyone but myself.

"Then he began to call down curses on himself and he swore to them, 'I don't know the man!'

Immediately a rooster crowed. Then Peter remembered the word Jesus had spoken: 'Before the rooster crows, you will disown me three times." And he went outside and wept bitterly."

--Matthew 26:74-75

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The fact that this chapter has been released on time is nothing short of a miracle. Up until a few minutes ago, I didn't see anyway how it would be possible. But they say he works in mysterious ways, and here is your new update, right on time. Go me!

I hope you're all recovered from that last chapter with the wongo dream. Like I said, I my goal was to disorient you all as much as possible, and it would appear that in that goal, I succeeded. That always makes me happy. As I'm sure you've noticed, FFN has been trapped in read-only mode for some time, so I'm really happy that I was able to get that last chapter out to you a day early. It turned out to do a world of good. Otherwise, you'd just be getting it now, instead of this one. And IMO, this one is a lot better.

Which brings me to a bit of good news. I had so much planned, that even after everything you've just read here. . .there are still two chapters left! I can't believe how much it took just to write all this. I haven't added anything new to my plot, but I definitely can't wrap it up in one chapter now. Looks like you'll all get to squeeze an extra week of enjoyment out of my little story. Now don't everyone groan all at once. . .

This was a very pivotal chapter, I feel, because it really has so much to do with the relationship. There was a lot I wanted to show here. As you can see, I'm not much for happily ever after. In some ways, this may have been the most important chapter of my story so far, but that's entirely up to you to decide. All I have to do is go through the painstaking process of coming up with this story in my brain and translating it into a medium that you all can appreciate. You're the ones that actually have to digest this thing and let me know if it was worth the time and effort while I look on begging to not have messed it up. A little melodramatic, I know, but that's often how I feel. I wonder if the rest of you go through this.

Anyway, this will be the end of the file for the week, so you know the drill. There's a little window in the bottom left corner of the page that says Review. Click on it and say something. I'm always desperate for feedback! But of course, that's not the only way to contact me. As always, you may send your questions, comments, compliments, complaints, love letters, death threats, marriage proposals, and ransom demands to:

Lord Malachite

11/29/04

6:13AM, EST

E-mail: ranger(underscore)writer(at)yahoo(dot)com

AIM: Asukaphile26