Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.
The brain may be a wondrous organ, but it is also selfish. In extremis, it will divert all available resources to ensure its own survival, to the detriment of all other bodily functions. The trigger need not necessarily entail a life or death situation; sometimes a strenuous bout of sporting activity is all that is required. In the aftermath, the brain may release endorphins to inhibit the communication of pain signals and introduce a sensation of euphoria in the process, or otherwise suppress other neurological functions.
With that explained, let us now witness the case of two adolescents walking home after a particularly disastrous football game.
"Nice going, Footballhead!" exclaims the girl, clad in a tattered pink dress which right now looks fit only for incineration. "Brilliant outcome, Mister Master Strategist! Not only do you get us used as pawns in a sick game between two tyrannical bullies, not only do you get us strung by our clothes on the crossbar…but now we've lost our field, the one and only place that prevents us from potentially becoming roadkill by playing in the street!"
The boy, whose head the girl is truthfully describing, wears a weary expression and equally tattered clothing, all indicative of the footballing disaster that was experienced.
"And by the way, Mister," the girl is not done with her beratement and accusations, "I'm sure you were copping feels on me during all the pileups —" and she recalls there being lots of pileups — "and are you really sure you didn't sneak an upward peek when you helped me down from the crossbar?"
"No Helga, I didn't," the boy designated 'Footballhead' replies laconically. "And yes, I'm sure." Understandably, he prefers to focus more on the pain and fatigue his body is transmitting. At least it provides a distraction from the incessant whining of the girl designated 'Helga'.
Eventually, they reach the front stoop at Sunset Arms, the boy's destination. Perhaps he is relieved at having to part ways with her.
"Well, I'm home, Helga. I'm sure you can see yourself home."
Perhaps not: he is relieved to be parting ways with her. But his wish is about to be denied.
"HOWZAT, KIMBA?" A voice is heard, its tone so emphatic that Footballhead and Helga can hear the upper case and italicization, even the italicization of the question mark.
Out of nowhere appears the deceptively sprightly figure of the boy's grandmother, only now she is kitted in full cricketing garb: appropriate shoes; long white pants and sweater; shin pads and helmet. Additionally, she is dual-wielding a pair of cricket bats, easily twirling them as if leading two thematically different marching bands at the same time.
"Arnold, what's going on?" appeals Helga, curious and caught off her guard.
Arnold – for that seems to be his name – appears unmoved by the outré spectacle and simply explains: "It's Tuesday. Grandma's been at the Ouija board again."
"That's right!" confirms the mischievous nonagenarian. "And today I have channeled the combined auras of Jacques Kallis, Andrew Flintoff, and Ricky Ponting! I have become a vessel for the CRICKETING GODS!"
And yes, the children hear the bold upper case as well.
Suddenly, the divine forces give way as their vessel's consciousness comes back to the fore, having noticed the children's bruised and battered appearance.
"Goodness, Kimba, and Eleanor! What happened? Did your game get out of hand?" she asks, her maternal instincts engaging.
"Something like that, yeah," offers Helga and begins the final stretch for home, only to find her way blocked by a Kookaburra Onyx held at her neck level as if it was a saber. The gesture is accompanied by an incongruously kind elderly voice.
"Now Eleanor! What kind of patriot would I be if I didn't offer help to the First Lady in dire need of emergency care?"
"But.." the girl attempts to mount a protest that seems doomed as it starts. Indeed it is, as the grandmother turns her attention to Arnold. "Kimba, see to it that our First Lady receives the necessary medical attention!"
Arnold realizes the futility of further debate and simply sighs: "OK, Grandma!" Then to Helga: "Helga, inside."
Helga carries a similarly resigned look as she reluctantly follows Arnold into the building. Unseen by them, the grandmother goes into a spasm as if being possessed again, though this time she is fighting the attempt at possession. "No! Get thee away from me, Cameron Bancroft! Back! Back, I say!"
"I'll bet your grandma is in on this, Footballhead!" the surly cynic sourly surmises.
They are in Arnold's room, with him dressing her cuts, applying antiseptic ("Ouch! That stings! What are you using, lemon juice? Salt?") and band-aids.
"A little extra time with me after you've already had your hands all over me on the field!" she continues, little realizing that the alone time has drained the adrenaline from the game and triggered her brain to release its pain-dampening endorphins. The euphoria is starting to set in, so her words are said in a tone transitioning from bitter to frivolous.
"Helga," Arnold counters, "we were on the same side. I had no reason to make any unnecessary contact with you!" Unknown to him, his brain has started a similar process to Helga's. The pain dampening is there, but instead of the accompanying euphoria, his neural chemistry is being altered so that he is willing to be less cautious around Helga.
Tensions have been building between the two since that game, maybe long before, and will momentarily be coming to a head.
"You know, Footballhead?" it begins with Helga in a…is that a giggling voice? "Ninety percent of the time I can't stand you. The other ten percent…you make up for it all. Almost enough to make being with you…kinda tolerable."
"Oh, I'm so glad my lady looks down so kindly on me," Arnold replies acerbically as he applies the last band-aid. "There, you're good to go," he concludes, though his tone has softened for this sentence.
Helga, her mind swimming in fatigue-induced euphoria, finds herself unable to move. In front of her is Arnold, caught on to her reluctance to get going and moving his face closer to hers. "Helga, are you OK? I said you're good to—"
He is interrupted when Helga cups his cheeks and moves in for a short kiss. Soon the bliss wears off to be replaced by her logical faculties. Having realized – to her utmost shock – what she has done, she searches her mind for a logical rationalization. She's still searching when she hears Arnold ask: "Helga, why'd you do that?"
With the search still underway, she forgoes waiting for suitable possible answers and launches with: "Well…you've had a terrible day and none of your plans worked and you must be feeling down in the dumps and so I thought—"
"You thought the best way to cheer me up was by kissing me?"
"That's right, Bucko! JEEZ, why must you attach some significance to everything we do? Besides, I only did it out of pity! Do you really think I'd enjoy kissing your rough, chapped lips?"
No, NO! Remember how Arnold is willing to be less cautious? Watch it manifest!
"Ha! Rather chapped and rough than those strips of sandpaper you call your lips!" he spits back.
"Sandpaper," she quietly mutters, her eyes wide at his display of audacity. Then her eyes narrow as her anger and disbelief build to a boiling point. "SANDPAPER?" she repeats, her incredulity at critical levels. "Come here and I'll show you sandpaper!"
She pulls him back for another kiss, again on his lips and for longer than the first time. She expects him to resist; she is surprised that he doesn't. She pulls away, self-satisfied at her achievement. "How about that, Footballhead?"
"Meh," taunts Arnold, seemingly in 'No F's Given' mode. "No technique, only pressing."
"Oh yeah," retorts Helga. "Like you're the consummate kisser! What are you, a closet romcom fan? Be my guest and show me the right technique!"
"Very well!" Arnold doesn't back down as he reaches for her cheeks and slowly presses his lips against hers. There's the initial contact, then he starts a caressing motion which she immediately reciprocates. The kiss continues with neither participant wanting to stop, both enjoying the intimacy that is contributing to the residual euphoria. It ends with a slow, distinctive smack as their lips part. Slowly they open their eyes, and at that exact moment, chemical equilibrium is restored in each other's brains.
Not a good thing, as: "WHAAAAH!"
They scream upon realizing what has happened. Silence pervades the room and persists.
Until...
"Footballhead…Arnold? I'll be leaving now." Helga speaks in a collected tone. "I will pretend this never happened. Chalk it up to insanity. Mental deficiency, chemical imbalance, WHATEVER! Just know this: anyone other than the two of us hears of this, they'll be reading your eulogy the next day. Understand?"
But before Arnold can answer, Helga has up and sprinted from his room to rush down the stairs and hurriedly exit the building with only a perfunctory goodbye to anyone gathered in the vicinity.
Arnold is left wondering.
1) Why did Helga kiss me?
2) Why did I not mind it?
3) Why did I jump at the chance to kiss her back?
4) Why did I let her go so easily?
It is that this point that he considers his grandmother's Ouija board as a possible source of guidance. Who knows? Maybe divine intervention is exactly what is required to understand the mind of Helga G. Pataki.
Helga's sudden and hasty departure is witnessed by Pookie from the rooftop. She has changed out of her cricketing kit and his now holding a commentator's microphone, into which she whispers: "Well, we've had another thrilling day at stumps today. Michael, do you have any final thoughts?"
Beside her stands Michael Holding, former West Indian bowler and renowned cricket commentator. He speaks into his mic with his stately Jamaican accent: "Yes, Gertie, a truly fascinating day. At first, I was doubtful. The romantic travails of a pair of children really shouldn't amount to much in the greater scheme of things, but I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't truly impressed by the games and tactics employed by the two. Today we saw how Shortman was trying every possible ball to stump Pataki or get her to make a mistake. He must have used every variation of spin and swing to get her out. But she was up to the task and defended her wicket as if possessed. Oh, she made a mistake on that last ball, smacking the ball back to Shortman who couldn't hold on to it and dropped an absolute sitter. No doubt he's kicking himself for his carelessness and is hoping his mistake won't come back to haunt him at a later stage. Who knows, maybe Pataki will stop her constant defending, open up, take some risks and finally hit Shortman for a six. Or maybe Shortman will finally be able to bowl his maiden over. You know in Test Cricket: tomorrow is another day."
The commentary has attracted Phil to the roof, to see what the commotion is all about. He sees only Pookie and realizes that it is Tuesday.
"She and that dang Ouija board!" he mutters before heading back inside.
That's it for this one-shot tale. Thank you for reading; hopefully, you found some enjoyment here. Whether or not that's the case, drop a review or a comment.