Everyone changes with time. A day, a week, a month, a year... they all count. So how much can a group of rag tag 4th graders from P.S. 118 change with junior high, high school, and a whole bunch of history between those seven years? A whole lot.
Years Later
A Sense of…
PART I
Helga was not sure about what time Arty's sleek silver Rolls-Royce rolled up to the front of the Linshaw household, but by the time it did she was grateful. She had alternated between running up to the front widow for a peek of the silver car and weaving a precarious conversation with the half asleep Stella Linshaw, who had taken to dozing off every ten minutes or so.
Helga gave the older woman another glimpse of her rather flimsy, not to mention rather demented, smile before leaving the house, which Stella returned with her genuinely bright smile that lent Helga some comfort. A sliver of comfort to be truthful, but as the saying goes, something is always better than nothing.
"Don't forget to call me Friday after school so I can show you around the daycare and get you set up, okay?"
There were no words that Helga could actually vocalize to the woman who had basically given her back a direction to her life, or at least a semi-direction, so she simply nodded her head and said, "I have your number in my cellphone."
During the time that she had spent with Stella in the Linshaw household's kitchen, Helga had decided that Stella had moved past the associate on paper phone number and moved her up into the associate by cellphone number. Her husband, Miles, came downstairs to check up on his wife and her guest during the waiting time for Arty. He made them more coffee and poured them in new cups, washing out their old cups, before he kissed his wife on top of her head, murmuring something to her that was obviously meant for her ears only, and went back to bed, but not before sending a soft smile in Helga's direction.
Helga was getting this distinct impression from where the P.S. 118 version of Arnold H. Linshaw got his meddling, but kind personality from. Just being in the presence of one of his parents was enough of a clue, but to be in the company of them both, even if it were for mere minutes in Miles Linshaw's case, was a telltale sign.
With a final wave at the lethargic, heavy-lidded Stella Linshaw, who was steadily being guided into her house by the recently awoken Miles Linshaw, Helga silently settled herself into Arty's expensive car.
"I would say good evening," Arty began with a hint of a smirk on her smooth, sun-kissed apricot face, "But considering that the sun will be rising in a few hours, I'll stick with a good morning."
Helga looked over at Arty, noticing that the other blonde looked as put together in a pair of purple pajama pants and a white t-shirt, with her hair mussed from sleep as she did when she was in her professional uniform.
Helga could not help but be jealous of the older woman.
Arty raised an eyebrow at Helga over her sleek dark purple Armani glasses, after the younger blonde kept quiet, not even bothering to give Arty a sarcastic remark. "No answer, hm? That will do perfectly for me… a non-talking Helga G. Pataki… Now, non-speaking Helga, we're off to the Pink Flamingo, I suppose?"
Helga nodded a 'yes' and Arty immediately drove off in the direction of the much despised hotel.
It was about five o'clock when Arty's car parked in the brick driveway of a two story, brick front miniature mansion in Upper Hillwood.
Almost an hour ago, when they were at the hotel, Arty advised— read, ordered— Helga to leave behind all the extra clothing and things she did not want, as she, as in Arty, stayed in the parking lot. Artemis J. Richardson, née Marquis, refused to set one Manolo clad foot on the soiled ground of the Pink Flamingo. This advice left Helga with one, little over a half filled, duffel bag and all three of her precious guitars.
Although she was a confessed shopaholic, extra clothes, Helga could live without, but her guitars were another thing.
After pulling into the driveway, Helga retrieved her things from the trunk that Arty had advised Helga to put her things in and trailed behind the much taller woman as they entered the house through the two car side garage. The sound of Arty's three and a half inch heels clicked on the gray, paved garage floor, echoes bouncing off the walls as they passed two expensive cars sitting silently in said garage, gleaming from what appeared to be a new wax job.
Helga did not have enough time to stop and check out exactly what kind of cars they were, but from what she knew and saw of Artemis J. Richardson, she knew that they had to be expensive if Arty owned them.
They climbed a small staircase to exit the garage and enter the house, or rather the pocket sized mansion. From the looks of the enormous stainless steel washing machine and as equally large stainless steel dryer, the significantly larger than normal ironing board, oversized steam presser, and economy sized laundry products Helga realized that she was, obviously, in the laundry room. An Amazon's, or perhaps a giant's, laundry room, but a laundry room no less.
"Leave your things here, Alfie will…" Arty trailed off, sending her duffel bag a look of disgust. "Clean them for you."
Helga arched a blonde eyebrow, "Alfie?"
"My butler, sometimes driver, semi-repair man, and all around house caretaker. His daughter Patrice works around here too. She's one of the two maids… She's about twenty… I think…" Arty's sentence trailed off as she tried to calculate the exact age of Patrice, Alfie's, no, Alfred's daughter.
Arty had a butler; somehow, Helga was not surprised. Having a butler seemed to fit Arty's image of wealthy heiress and lawyer extraordinaire perfectly.
As she laid her little belongings on the laundry room's polished white marble floor she mused on this Alfred, Alfred the Butler. Alfred was probably very proper, well-mannered, and skillful with a very posh English accent and dry wit to top of his character. Just like on the TV.
Helga smirked to herself at the thought of a black suit uniformed butler, 'pish posh'ing around the house, with a 'cheerio' inserted here and there.
It was a funny thought… at least it was, in Helga's mind.
Arty did not question Helga's small smirk, instead she ignored it and led the younger female out of the laundry into a small back foyer that stood next to the large, stainless steel and brick, decorated kitchen. Standing in a black uniform, by the kitchen's island table was Alfred the Butler.
Arty led her to Alfred, standing her right in front of the older man, who had a black coif that was peppered with gray strands. "Helga, this is Alfred G. Cadbury, the house's caretaker." Arty said as she addressed Helga. "Alfie, this is Helga G. Pataki, our guest and my semi-protectorate." Arty said, addressing the butler.
"Hello, it is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Pataki." Alfred said dryly, looking down at Helga with light brown eyes practically screaming of the same disdain his face held, holding out a white gloved hand to the teenager. But this disdain was not what Helga was concentrated on, no, instead she more focused on the fact that this older gentleman, did not only have on a black suit, he had very pronounced, very posh English accent. Helga stood there, staring blankly, just waiting to hear a 'pish posh' or even a 'cheerio' come spouting of the tight-lipped mouth that was curved into a ever deepening frown.
None came.
After being stared at by both adults, she realized that she had failed to present herself in proper etiquette. She held out her hands, shaking Alfred's hand as the older man withdrew his own hand as quickly as possible. "It is a pleasure to meet you too, Alfred."
From the looks that Alfred was sending her way, Helga could guess that it was anything but a pleasure for him to be in her presence, but to be truthful, Helga did not actually care one single damn, or even two damns as a matter of fact, about what the older men thought of her. Ridicule from strangers was something Helga was quite used to.
"Would you like something to eat, Miss Pataki?" Alfred asked, eyeing the teen's gaunt figure, "Unless this is some new emaciated look you American teenagers are going for…?"
A veiled, dry insult.
Alfred G. Cadbury was fulfilling Helga's entire stereotype for a butler. Well mannered, dryly sarcastic, and English… Her life was gradually setting itself up, ready to dive right into the never ending, bottomless pit of cliché.
"No thank you Alfred, I would just like to go to sleep."
"Really, Miss Pataki?" He looked at the purple bags, nearly bruises, under her eyes.
Even more sarcasm, Alfred was on a roll… perhaps he was butter?
"Yes, thank you."
Arty, who had silently watched the exchange between her former warden and her new semi-ward in amusement, decided to intervene before anything could escalate too far. Leaving two highly sarcastic persons in one room too long could cause interesting, not to mention dangerous, reactions. "I'll take Helga to her new room Alfie, her things are in the laundry room and they need to be properly cleaned." She said, putting an extra emphasize on the word 'cleaned,' she kissed the butler on his cheek, bade him a goodbye, and led Helga to the back staircase— a staircase that stood between the back foyer and kitchen area.
After reaching the top of the stairs, Arty pointed to a set of wide open, double doors standing next to the staircase.
"That," Arty said, gesturing to the room behind the open set of double doors. "Is my room, I have a set time to go to sleep, and a set time to wake up, don't wake me up any time in between, unless it's a emergency… this is one of my rules, and it's an important one."
With that said Arty continued to walk down the open hallway, passing three rooms with their doors wide open, giving Helga a glimpse at their design and decoration, passed the two story front foyer, as well as the two story family room, before they reached the end of the hallway.
Next to the front staircase of the miniature mansion was another door that obviously led to another room, and just like every other door, it was open. Arty reached into the room and flicked on a light, even though the slow rising sun was already shedding a few pale yellow-orange rays to partial light the room.
"This is your new room." Arty said gesturing to the earthy tone themed room. "There is a bathroom on the left and next to it is the walk in closet." She walked further into the room, opening up two doors, one revealing the bathroom, the other revealing the walk in closet.
Arty motioned to the bathroom. "Why don't you go and take a nice, relaxing shower… and leave your clothes out here, so that Alfie can wash them."
Helga threw Arty a questioning gaze and the older woman knew exactly what that look meant, and exactly what Helga was asking
"No worries, Alfie is used to this. He's been taking care of me since I was five and that was…" She hesitated for a moment, not actually wanting to reveal her age to Helga. "A little while ago. Alfie's a professional at these things. I sometimes even send him out on a pad and tampon run for me, trust me, he's used to these things. "
Helga still looked hesitant, so Arty took the situation into her own hands, sometimes being physical was easier than trying to talking to a person, especially when they were as stubborn as Helga G. Pataki. Arty pushed Helga into the bathroom, closing the door separating her and Helga with the slam of the sierra painted door.
"Just take a shower," Arty said, speaking to Helga through the door. "You'll feel much better… and I'll find you some clothes for you to sleep in for the night. In the morning we'll discuss the house rules and go talk to your principal, McNealy, McNeill, or what ever that man's name is."
Arty left without really giving Helga a chance to actually voice her opinion, but that had clearly been Arty's plan.
Helga turned around and faced the princess sized bathroom, with a double sink, shower, as well as jet bathtub. She looked down at the pale tan colored marble tiles with veins of light brown and burgundy running through it, and then she looked up and caught her own dark blue eyes in the mirroring, seeing the same reflection she had seen in the Pink Flamingo's mirror for days. But, perhaps it was the pale light coming through the sun roof that gave Helga the extra, more detailed reflection of what seemed to be a not just a skeleton, but a skeleton's skeleton. Helga had become a basic frame, a frame that was meant for something to be built around, but she was lacking all those that made her body. She no longer had any muscles, and her skin had melted away, sinking and sagging into her body.
Her clothes looked ragged and they hung from her body, like men hanging from gallows, no longer having care and at the mercy of the elements around them.
Helga basically looked like a severely starved street urchin. Now she could see precisely why Alfred G. Cadbury looked upon her with thinly veiled contempt. It was pretty obvious why.
She looked back at the glass door of the shower, already set up with a sea green loofa and a matching, large towel right beside it, waiting by the shower. Deciding to follow Arty's instructions, she peeled off her Pink Flamingo disease infected clothes, folding them neatly before poking her head outside of the bathroom into the room, her room, noticing that the door of the— her room was closed. She placed the neatly folded clothes on the floor before she closed the bathroom door and hopped into the shower.
Using the loofa she scrubbed her body clean, she scrubbed so hard that when she came out of the shower and saw her reflection for the second time that early morning, she saw how pink and raw her skin looked. It was delicate from all that scrubbing, in fact it actually was stinging Helga, perhaps she should not have used that much hot water. Whatever the case was, her skin was sensitive.
Helga once again poked her head out of the bathroom into the— her room, seeing that the door was still closed. However her former clothes were gone and on top of the bed were a pair of pink pajama pants and a pink tank top waiting for her. She crept out the bathroom slowly, almost as if she expected someone or something to ambush her, but once she got to the bed, she quickly grabbed the clothes and got dressed. Hesitantly she climbed into the bed, underneath the warm, earth toned red down cover, resting her head on the plush pillows. For the first time in weeks, in more than a month, Helga could lie done in a bed and not feel that she was being infested by germs.
Needless to say, it was a good feeling… which explained why Helga fell asleep within minutes…
(Y/L)
Sorry, but I still don't own Hey Arnold! I do own YL. But I do own the idea and concepts of YL, oh, and anything you recognize and think is not mine, is probably more often than not, not mine. Thank you Justin T. Melanson, Drucilla Black, Luvya, Laurel, Demille, Shadow Goddess Akhet, DKB, Twilight Sazuka, OyoaOverson, Crystal949, Bea, and Tormented Urban Girl for reviewing YL, reviews really do help motivate a writer to produce another chapter for their audience. Now, you guys know I don't ask for much, but right now I'm going to ask for a little itsy-bitsy favor. At I have an original story up called So Much Space (http/ formerly Cut and Paste, it's under the same name, S.L. Cipher. I just want ya'll to check it out and tell me what you think. If you like YL, you'll like SMS, its starting off at a normal pace, but its going to have its dramatic turn in a few chapters, so please stay tuned for that… so to wrap this up… PLEASE check it out for me, pretty please! As you can tell, I'm not above begging...
PS:
Crystal949, There are quite a few chapters left, this is going to go through the rest of their junior year and their senior year… and a sequel is a strong possibility, I already have the plot in my head.
Twilight Sazuka, Thank you, but YL is littered with so many mistakes that no many how many times I edit each chapter, I will always find something wrong.
Next Chapter: A Sense of… Part II
S.L. Cipher– The Queen of Eville (No this not a spelling mistake but a higher echelon of evil, look it up in The New Cipher Dictionary of Cipherous Lexiconography) who will gladly accept all criticisms, advice, reviews, praises, and flames with a large Cheshire Cat Smile. Why the Cheshire Cat Smile? Why, because Cheshire Cat Smiles will always piss people off and Cipher loves pissing people off because it is exceptional fun... Especially when they try and attack you. Which is exactly why when one wields the Cheshire Cat Smile it is important that they must also wield a mace and a sword.
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«·´¨·The Cipher ·´¨·»
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