Chapter 2...hoped you liked Chapter one. One more thing before I start…

HERE'S THE DEAL: I LOVE YOU ALL DEARLY…YOUR ALL VERY CLOSE TO MY HEART. BUT FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS ARNOLD, STOP TRYING TO FIGURE EVERYTHING OUT! IT'S CHAPTER ONE FOR GOODNESS SAKE! I KNOW YOU'RE GONNA BADGER ME TILL I CRACK BUT LEMME TELL YA, I DON'T CRACK EASY…SO, WATCH YOUR BACK. AND REVIEW!

killer scissors- Yeah, it's from Helga's point of view. Sorry about Flowers In The Attic…It's such a weirdly intriguing book. See you at school!

MizCam- I have a fan! Really, you're too nice! Thanks for reviewing!

Jae B- No! NO! You haven't figured it out, and you won't because I haven't told you yet! So there, genius boy! Just kidding, but thank you for not telling anyone!

TheBaldOneMpls- If you think I'm gonna do what I think I'm gonna do, then you're probably thinking the same thing I'm thinking. And if you think I'm thinking what you're thinking I'm thinking, then I think you're thinking the same thing I'm thinking you're thinking I'm thinking. And if YOU understood that…then you need a nap, cuz I do too. Thanks for the review!

Ahhelga- I swear, you are the nicest person! Lord, everybody needs to review like you…do happen to have any, hypnotic devices that can be transmitted over the internet to…just kidding, thanks for the review. (But really, do you?)

Smoking Panda- Was that a (good) "hmm…interesting" or (a here we go again with another Helga feeling bad for herself I'll pretend to read it while I secretly despise it) "hmm…interesting"? Cuz I prefer the first one! Thanks for the review.

swords rock- I'm not even speaking to you. No, I'm giving you a hint or a clue, or a…let me get my thesaurus…cue, indication, inkling, notion, wind, tip, innuendo, insinuation, undertone. Yeah, you get none of the above. Thanks for the review!

Brat Child2- Oh come on, Brat Child, not you too! If everybody figures out her "condition" no one will read. So as of now, everybody pretend you're completely confused, and you have no idea of what's going on! Thank you for the review!

RuffMaster- Hola there! Sorry about Helga being the main character (again) I relate to her better than the other characters (girls) so it's just easier for me to write about it. Too late to change it now. Not to mention the reviews…love the reviews! Thanks for submitting one!

InuYasha's Kagome- No! I'm not telling you, you can't make me! I won't do it!! Sorry, I got a little crazy there. It's just…everybody's trying so hard to figure it out…it's so hard! Okay, thank you so much for the review, you're reviews are always really nice!

Silver Kitten- Thank You so much! I really wrote the first chapter a long time ago, so I didn't really think it was all that good. I fell like I have to show a different side to Helga's parents than in most other stories (they're the complete opposite from in Back Home). Everyone's got their preferences, I guess. Thank you for noticing!

Starry Nights- Yes, I love Flowers in the Attic, and the 2nd book, Petals on the Wind. Haven't read any more though, it's all about her 2nd son and Chris from then on. But thank you for reviewing!

Vampire-Athyna- You're too sweet. Your stories are also very, very well written. Don't sweat updating, I haven't updated Ruthless or Back Home in forever (but I will, soon!) Thank you for the review!

And to all I forgot, so sorry! My friend Katie dished out a bunch of compliments about this story to another friend of mine, so I'm eager to put this up. It's not quite the best, but I like it. Hope you do too!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hey Arnold…at all.

Chapter 2: A Slap From Reality

November 2nd

"C'mon, girls. Team meeting."

I suddenly have a sharp pain in my stomach, but that may have been from the rather large lunch I had not one hour ago. Today is the fateful day where I have to break yet another tidbit of bad news off to Coach Summers. It's been at least three weeks since Mom and Dad issued the command. I won't say I was completely broken up by it, but I refused to speak to either of them for the next week or so. I stalled enough though, saying that I'd tell her the day after our big meet against South Hillside, which wasn't big at all. In fact the turnout was worse than ever, fifty or so people…total. Then I claimed that she'd vacationed to Texas for a week, and I couldn't get a hold of her. Or did I say Oklahoma? Wonderful, I can't even keep a track of my own lies.

The steep, crooked concrete steps leading to the track field have never seemed more steep or more crooked. If I don't reach the bottom soon, I may die of acrophobia. In the distance, I can see the entire track team (minus myself) doing sit-ups in the grassy center of the track field which is also (rather conveniently) the football field, and obviously not enjoying it.

"Coach Summers…" I whisper, hoping she won't hear me. But then I remember that she'd got more ears than the government. She probably heard me before I said anything, I was certainly thinking it loud enough.

"Your late, Pataki…" she replied, not so much as turning around. I swear this woman has eyes in the back of her head.

"Can I talk to you for a second." This is going to be anything but easy.

"What about…?" she says turning around. If ever there was a surlier woman known to man, she was this one. You can tell how her entire day was just from being within two feet of her. And today, she wasn't in much of a "talking" mood. Maybe I can stall for a few more days…or weeks. But of course, there's a down side to every idea I have. I'd slack off the least little bit, and Coach Summers would notice, and inform the principal who would call home, and that's just be the end of it. Mom and Dad would know I haven't quit the team, thus landing me in more trouble I care to think about right now.

300 words, four pages, in by next Tuesday. An essay on what? The Da Vinci Code? The Biography of Thurgood Marshall? No. Because of course, writing such a ridiculously long report on such books wouldn't be quite as tedious and redundant. Instead, my teacher (the psychotic one that she is) is making me (yes, ME) write an essay on…The Prince and The Pauper. Yeah, it's an easy book, and yes it's not even all that hard to understand. But the last time I actually read it was sixth grade when Phoebe gave me copy for my flight to North Dakota. And even then, I can't say I enjoyed it all that much. So while everybody else gets to read their dog eared copies of The Catcher in the Rye, I have to fish around under my bed for my book that I received 700 million years ago. That or pay $8.50 for a new one. And money isn't what I'd call…abundant, seeing as my last paycheck is fast approaching.

I wasn't quite as broken-hearted when mom and dad told me I had to "sacrifice" my job, as when I had to out and out quit the team. Not that I don't like my job, there are times when it's actually bearable. But then with Mark breathing down my back every thirty seconds, every body else treating me like some leper, and then there are the Harry Potter releases. I swear, I don't get out of there until midnight comforting thirteen (sometimes thirty) year olds, that a new shipment will be in in 2 days, and they won't be the tortured object of the school bus (or water cooler) until then. People sometimes…crimeny. So long to my employee discount. It actually came in handy every once in a while.

The Prince and the Pauper, by Mark Twain, is a wonderfully intricate satire of the social distinctions between the

One, Two, Three, …Nineteen? Great, only 281 more words. Maybe if I use big words she'll accidentally count them as two. I'm too bored for this. I write better when it's due the next morning. I hear snack break…

If Olga buys any more can of cat food, she'll practically own the Fancy Feast Corporation. Sometimes I think he eats better than all of us. For some reason (that is still unknown to me) I had the impulse to come over to Olga's house today. It's homier than our house, and slightly quieter. And thank goodness, far less interrogations. I can walk up to her door, ring the bell, and not have to worry about more than a cheery hello and a hug. That and Gilligan trying to gnaw at my ankles.

Why on earth anyone would name their cat "Gilligan" is beyond me. It's a nice name and everything, but it only has one link. It's not as though he was even worthy of having the island named after him. Frankly, the Professor would be a better name for the fat ball of fuzz, or Ginger. But then again, it's none of my business. Heck, he's not even my cat.

Olga always keeps one room furnished for me, just in case I do decide to pop over, or I've just had a fight with Dad over something stupid. Or both. It was simple, perfect for short visits. A bed, small and clean, which is fine with me, a small table, and a few other essentials. The alarm clock was always set for half an hour before school started, in case I collapsed on the bed, and didn't wake up until the next day. I'm sure Dave gets tired of me, coming by his house all the time, eating his food, fattening his cat. But, he never complains. Not from what I've heard anyway.

I don't think I'll be spending the night here tonight. In fact, I'd better go home now, otherwise, Mom and Dad will be sipping coffee and going over my profile with the police, and posting photos of me on milk cartons. Do they do that anymore? Anyway, I think it's time to get going, before anybody gets home and start asking questions. I can't very well say that I don't love this house, but I can't say this isn't a relief leaving.

Olga and Dave,

Thanks for the room. Gone home, see ya later.

Helga

P.S. Fed Gilligan. Just so ya know. Bye.

It's simple enough. Had it been Olga, she would have littered it with a bunch of hearts and flowers and junk that no one appreciates at the end of the note. No tape, so I just slip it in the crack of the door, so if and when they open it, it's right there. Or it'll fall on the floor, and Gilligan will devour it, and they'll spend the whole evening wondering why there's one less Ho-Ho in the box and why Gilligan is one can of Fancy Feast fatter.

Olga gets all peeved when (and this may be the only thing she really gets upset about) the screen door isn't completely closed. And now, since it's windy and everything, the door swings open and knocks against the side of the house, so I make sure to shut it. Turning around, I can't say I'm too thrilled about my first encounter.

"Hey, you were a no-show at practice today…"

That's right. Practice just let out. I need to remember to time my escapes better. "Um, Yeah. Olga needed me to babysit today." Funny how I'm coming up with lies so easily now. I used to have to plan them out ahead of time, but now, they just sorta spill out of my mouth.

Arnold looked a little perplexed, not that I blame him. After all it was a little weak. "Your sister has a kid? When'd that happen?"

Good Grief. I'll be lucky if I remember anything today. Next to Phoebe, Arnold may be one of the few people who aren't related to me, but know more about my family than those who are. He was at their wedding, and he'd probably be updated whether Olga had a kid or not.

"No,…her cat." I say, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief. Thank goodness for that big, stupid cat. I'll have to remember to pick up some of those nasty little herring fish strips he seems to like so much.

"Coach Summers let you off for that?" he asked, a hint of surprise in his voice. It was a little unexpected; Coach Summers wasn't one to let anybody miss or be late for a practice unless in the most dire of consequences. Coach Scots, who coaches football across the campus from us, once had to interrupt our practice because his "boys" couldn't differentiate between his shouting and hers.

"Yeah, well. I didn't exactly tell her what I was babysitting…" This is starting to get confusing…I'm now lying about a lie I never told.

"That's cool. Babysitting your sister's cat, I mean…" he replied, breaking the silence. He tried so hard. Even a task as menial as looking after a cat, had a bright side, and who better to discover it? I will say, however, it is very hard to maintain a gloomy attitude around him for long. Which is fine with me.

"How was practice?" Maybe if I directed him away from mine, he'd forget about it all together. And even if it didn't…it was worth the try.

It took him a minute to reply. "It was good. Coach says I'm probably going to be starting pitcher for the Greensville game next Thursday." If he wasn't beaming with pride when I first saw him, he was now.

"Cool. I'll be sure to drop by and see it."

Little did I know, until about a minute later, a strange look swept his face, I couldn't quite read it, but I knew I'd said some thing wrong or…revealing.

"What?" I replied, hoping to lessen whatever fault I'd admitted in my now idiotic reply.

"How can you?' he asked, switching his duffel bag to his other shoulder.

"How can I what?' Maybe I wasn't confused. Maybe he'd heard me wrong. Maybe not.

"How can you make it to my game? The track team has a meet at North Hillsdale the same day."

How I didn't faint right there in the street, don't ask. My face seemed to freeze up completely, I couldn't tell how my face looked or what expression it wore. This probably would have been the end of me, had I not concocted some lie that may have very well save my butt…again.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, right. I guess that's what I get for missing a practice…" I say, dramatically slapping my forehead, as I oftentimes do when I say something stupid. And it's very clear that I've just said something stupid. Before I realize it, we're three houses from mine, and I "volunteer" to deliver their now empty trashcans to each of their homes. "See ya later." I say, feeling the least bit guilty.

"Yeah, I'll see ya around." He says, before turning around and heading in the other direction. It did make me a little sad to see him go. Besides a few select people, I found myself opening up to him very much unlike I had with others. It would have been a relief to just tell him and be done with it; he's (more or less) the only person that it's been a challenge keeping this from.

Soon, though, I'll be able to have a complete conversation with somebody and not worry myself to death over whether or not they can read my mind. People are very strange like that sometimes, they can almost pick you apart piece by piece until every intimate detail of your very being is out there in the street. I give up after the Carlson's trashcan. I don't even bring mine in, so sad. Shutting the door behind me, I lazily drop my things on the kitchen table. Try as I may, I fall asleep within ten minutes or so, and wait for Mom and Dad to come home, and usher me upstairs for a few more hours of uninterrupted slumber.

Not sure if that answered any of your questions (seeing as most of them were "What does she have?") You'll find out, promise. Actually, you'll probably get it before the end, Chapter 5 at the earliest. If you know anything about it, it's very obvious to figure out. I read this to my sister and she asked why I always say "Mom and Dad", and why Miriam isn't in the house as much anymore. This is my favorite part, I think it'll put it up next chapter or Chapter 4. Much love and review!

-PointyObjects