READ IT NOW: Before I start this chapter, I realize that my dedication was a tweeny bit selfish. Yes, I love my mom, but there are a lot of people who have had it worse than me. So, in addition to mi Madre, this story is also dedicated to my best friend, Andrea and my other friend Carl, and to their families, all of whom have suffered losses that I hope no one will ever have to experience.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hey Arnold, or the song below…

Chapter 4: Realize, Rectify, Scrutinize, Satisfy

Well I'd lock my hands behind my head,

I'd cover my heart and hit the deck,

I'd brace myself for the impact if I were you.

Dashboard Confessional- Am I Missing

January 18th

Birdhouses. They're pretty extraordinary little pieces of architecture, aren't they? I mean, they're not like "people" houses, of course. They don't need plumbing and mirrors and three piece dinette sets. But they are homes, nonetheless. And though they can't appreciate it, I personally think it's nice to give them something to look at while their "home-shopping". Of course they can't decipher it, but it's the thought that counts.

Yeah right.

At first, I suppose it was a good idea. Considering the mood I was in, it wasn't really like me to break out my bright blue acrylic paint on one of these days. But I did, and a thin black permanent marker to boot. The poem wasn't bad, I'd managed to fit all of it on one side of the birdhouse, writing immaculate and tiny. After an hour, four different paintbrushes, two Peach Iced Tea Snapples, and my 2004 Warped Tour Compilation CD, my wrist started to hurt, and painting became a sloppy and frankly boring activity.

I tried pacing the house for a little while, which didn't work out so well. My footing was still unstable from two days ago, and I practically fell into an end table and broke a vase. Well, actually, it wasn't really a "vase". It was a molded lump of clay I'd "made" in seventh grade and painted orange. I'd broken it several times before, but decided against hunting for Super-Glue this time and tossed all but one of the pieces into the garbage can in the kitchen.

An hour later, after a nap (or one thousand-four hundred forty successive mini-naps lasting 4 seconds each), a knock on the door distracted me from scrubbing the invisible dirt off of my old cleats and forced me to walk back down the steps.

I can't say I was thrilled to answer the door at God's-knows-what-time-in the afternoon. I could have sworn on a copper penny that my parents let me stay home from school so that I could rest, not answer the door for every door-to-door peddler in the state.

Needless to say I was hesitant about answering the door. For the past 39 hours all I'd been wearing was a pair of flannel pajama pants, a ratty T-Shirt and some bright pink slipper socks that Olga had bought for me. Not quite a sight for sore eyes…or any eyes for that matter.

"Yes?" I answered. Opening the door entirely wasn't an option. I decided to stick my mussed and muddled head out of the doorway.

"Helga, is that you?"

Good grief. Who else would make house calls to the isolated and infirmed? Of course, seeing another human being besides my parents was a nice change, but seeing another human face that I could easily find myself spilling my innards to was not nice.

"Ugh…unfortunately." I said, trying not to make any indications that I wasn't in as great as shape as I could have been.

"Are you alright? You weren't in school today and I came to drop off the notes from History, and um…" he said trailing off.

"And what?" Wonderful, he had me asking questions. If the conversation went in this direction any longer he'd be sitting at my kitchen table while I make us coffee.

"Sugar, cream…a teabag?"

"A teabag?" Arnold asked.

"Olga's thing…" I said, resting a cup of coffee on the table. I've never made "real" coffee before, so I brewed up a mug of instant. Walking around the kitchen wasn't bad, but as soon as I sat down, it took every fiber in my being to not rest my head down on the tabletop and go to sleep.

"So…how's everything?" I asked, hoping to keep the conversation as far away from me as possible.

"I could ask you the same thing. How are you? I mean, you've missed a couple of days lately, I was just wondering if something was up." he said, holding the bright yellow mug with both hands.

"I've been a little sick lately, nothing big."

"But every time I see you in class, your sleeping, or you at least look tired or something."

"Just stress, I guess." I replied with one of the vaguest answers ever invented. It almost makes you feel bad for stress. It gets blamed for everything. You can put stress on a keyboard key, but that doesn't mean it's going to start acting weird and lie to all of its friends.

"From anything in particular? Anything I can help out with?" he said, still fingering the mug. He'd bitten his pinky finger to the bone and the end was noticeably redder than the rest of his fingers.

'I'd like to just get out of this house…' I thought, turning my head in the other direction, pretending to hear something on the other side of the kitchen.

Reading my mind, Arnold decided to fill the silence. "Ya wanna go for a walk? Just for a minute, if you're not feeling up to it, that's cool…" he said, getting up.

Within ten minutes, one change of clothes and a note taped to the front door later, I found myself in 53 degree weather, strolling down a sidewalk with Arnold. And for the first time all day, we were having a conversation about something other than my well-being.

"So, he gets so mad at Mr. B, he storms out, cursing and yelling, and runs right into the assistant principle and gets suspended right there."

I tried to laugh. Honestly, I did. And nothing makes me happier than kids (Chris Peterson I particular) getting what they deserve for cursing out one of the school's best teachers. For some reason, I guess I didn't sound too enthusiastic, because the discussion drifted back into my waters.

"It's cold out, isn't it?" I asked, inadvertently blaming this portion of my grand master lie on the weather. I tried pulling my jacket closer to me, which was useless, seeing as it was almost 2 years old and a little too small for me.

"Something's going on…" Arnold said, out of pretty much nowhere. I wasn't sure where exactly he was going with this, but I could feel myself falling deeper and deeper into a trap.

Before I could say anything, he spoke again. "It's not school, and it's not stress, and it's not just you being tired. I know something's going on."

I tried to defend myself, but no words came out. Arnold however had no trouble speaking openly. "I'm not saying you have to tell everyone everything. Continue this façade if you want, but know that you don't have to with me."

It wasn't even below freezing outside, but I knew my face was. The temperature, aided by the wind resistance on my face kept my tears in place, until I made it home. I sat on my stoop, breathing heavily, knowing that Arnold wasn't going to chase me. He knew when I needed to be alone with my thoughts. No, he wouldn't chase me…not right now anyway.

Later on, Olga came by, Gilligan in tow. She's under the constant impression that I actually like that stupid cat, even though I do. While he nibbled on the toe of my sock, I had my second cup of coffee that morning, even though it's not really good for me. I watched the cream in Olga's cup rise and blend as she dipped a small brown teabag in and out of her mug. Though perfect in every sense of the word, she had her moments of odd strangeness.

I kept myself busy for the rest of the day, not that there was much of it left. It was almost six o'clock and the sun had already set. It made me long for being twelve years old in the summer, playing outside until it was too dark to see a foot ahead of me. Spending the whole day in my pajamas and not caring either way. But now, I am seventeen years old in the winter, longing to be outside for any reason at all. Spending the whole day in my pajamas because I'm too wimpy to go to school and tell my friends that everything is most certainly not okay.

Coming downstairs for the first time since my parents have come back home, I make my first stop in the living room. Dad always seems tired coming home from work, as if he's been unloading crates all day. I'm not trying to underestimate he importance of hiss job; it does put food on the table after all. On to the kitchen, where mom reads her latest issue of Kiplinger's, your average financial magazine, and sips at her coffee. Sitting opposite of her, I skim the cover, and try to find what could be so interesting about a magazine about money. How to have a Relaxing Retirement, The Truth about Hedge Funds and How To Make Your Money Work For You, not to mention more "riveting" articles, none of which catch my attention. Making my way to the coffee maker that I neglected earlier this morning, mom decides to speak.

"How many cups have you had today?"

"Just two." I reply, seeing as the last one didn't really count. Olga convinced me to try hers with a teabag in it, so technically that mug was tea.

"I don't think all that caffeine is good for you. No more for the rest of the night." she says, taking another sip, silently mocking me.

"Do you need me to do anything for you mom?" I asked, ignoring her refusal.

"Like what, dear?" she asks, not looking up right away. I quickly eye the trashcan in the corner.

"Oh, I don't know. Sweep the stairs, vacuum the upstairs hall…take out the trash…" I suggested. With any luck she wouldn't ask about the trashcan.

"Does the trash go out tomorrow?" she asked.

"Yeah." I fudged. The trash doesn't go out until Monday morning, but she didn't need to know that right now. "I would have done it earlier, but Olga came over and Gilligan got into it."

"That cat…I suppose. But wear a coat, and don't stay out there too long."

"I'm taking out the trash, mom," I replied, trying to calm her nerves. "Not going to a nightclub."

There's something magical about walking outside in cold weather. The winter air hits you, and something happens. Even when you're layered under two sweaters and your dad's coat, you can still feel it. My initial purpose for coming outside was to take out the trash and to go back outside. But as long as mom knew where I as and that I was properly dressed, I thought I could linger outside for a little while.

I did actually take the garbage can to the curb, thus accomplishing my said mission. Without thinking, I began to tap my fingernails on the lid of the plastic trashcan. Actually, they weren't really my fingernails, just the tips. My nails were pretty short, practically invisible apart from the silvery-blue Olga insisted that I colored them with earlier that afternoon. I couldn't identify what I was tapping right away, but I could tell it was what I called my "Piano Instincts".

"You miss it, don't you?"

I wasn't the only one taking note of my own habit that night. I wheeled just in time to see Arnold, dressed as he was before; or maybe he'd changed his coat or something. Now, Arnold was anything but frightening. But that night spaced so perfectly between those streetlights, he scared me. He scared the life out of me, and I could feel my skin getting thinner and my secret wilting.

"Everyday of sixth grade, you complained about having to take piano lessons. Look at you now." He said inching closer. I noticed I was also inching, towards the door. But before I'd made it too far before he started up again.

"Look, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable this afternoon…or if I am right now." he said, with obvious remorse.

I shook my head until I found the ability to talk again. "No…"

"It's just that…lately, no…not even lately. Since school started, you've been distracted a lot. And I feel bad that I haven't noticed until now. And I know you've probably heard this from a thousand people, but I want to be here for you, and if you-"

"No." I interrupted. I tried to purse my lips together and not look like I was on the verge of tears. But, with me, nothing goes right. As soon as I opened my mouth, I tried to suppress my breathing, which only became frantic, more panicked breathing. I can't win. "No one…no one's said that…"

Ugh…stop Helga. Stop it.

"What?" he asked. He probably can't understand for all this breathing. I need to sit down.

"I mean…Phoebe has, and my parents and Olga obviously. But…" I had to stop myself. Backing away, I fall backwards on to the stoop and try to catch my breath. Before I could, however, he'd perched himself next to me, and closed my left hand in both of his.

"I don't expect you to tell me everything right now. And, I'm sure this is really hard for you, whatever it is, but…" he began, his voice trailing off.

God, Helga

You're such a baby

Stop it. Now.

"I have to go inside now." Where this shred of common sense came from, don't ask me. The last time I went to Psych class, Ms. Sutton said something about Fight or Flight, something about how some animals will fight for territory or mates, and others just run, fly, scurry, burrow, away.

Despite my nature, flight was looking pretty nice. But my mind (and tone) changed as soon as he grabbed my arm.

"Let go of me!" I hadn't meant to be so loud; reflexes probably.

"No, something's wrong; just tell me!" I would have been bothered by his tone, except I yelled at him first, so it was validated. Besides, one thought was still on my mind.

I needed to get away. I couldn't let him see me like this. Vulnerable, scared…sick. I was already tired; it was 11:30 at night, after all. It seemed like I might have had to punch him, just once, just to get him away. Who would have guessed that my excursion to the trashcan would end in an all out fistfight with my best friend?

"Get away from me!" I shot back, flinging my arm upwards, hoping it'd loosen his grip. I tried to run towards the door, but forgot my attire. Had I been wearing my track shoes (or stayed on the team) I would have been home free. I escaped for a fraction of a second, before his powerful arm shot back out and snatched me back into captivity. I keep forgetting he's a pitcher; it's his job to snatch things out of the air.

Before I could stop or deny it, tears were running down my face. I tried to wipe them away with my free hand, but as soon as one disappears, there are five to replace it. Oh great. I'm sobbing now. I wonder if it's possible to run out of tears. If so, I pray I'm on empty.

He's probably wondering why he didn't just let me go and avoid all this mess. He has to eave. Or I have to leave. I can't tell him anything, not now at least.

"I need to go inside now…" It takes forever just to finish my sentence, and twice as long to convince myself that I won't burst into tears as soon as I'm on the other side of the door.

"What happened? You used to be able to tell me anything…" he says, his voice completely different from its prior tone.

I can't make out anything else he says. I've begun to sob again, this time soiling the entire sleeve of my dad's coat. But he's right. I never would have done this if I'd still have my backbone.

His large square fingers were still wrapped around my wrist, making it easy to lead him to the steps. He needed to sit down to hear this, and I needed to sit down to tell it.

Last summer is too early for a beginning, and last week is too late. I started with my first visit to the hospital, not really saying what is wrong, expecting the worst reaction. That visit was what essentially gave me my bad news, a "checkup" revealing the worst news I've ever gotten in my life. The procedure kept me there for a few hours, the aftermath in bed for a whole day.

"I'm surprised you didn't figure it out already…" I said, wiping my face off with my sleeve. As hard as this was becoming, or as I'd imagined it would be, the words were flowing rather easily. Arnold was a smart kid, but often very dense. He has a million questions floating around in those beautiful green eyes, but they'd be answered soon enough. I think he sensed that I was going to tell him, because his grip eased up a little.

"At first, I was able to control how I was feeling. I took my meds everyday, I ate right and I thought I'd be okay. And for a while I was." The air seemed to get all of a sudden colder. I wish I could invite him inside, if only for a minute, but then mom and dad would get mad that I've told people, and the yelling really wouldn't have helped at all. I can endure the cold. Just so long as he knows.

"…but after a while, track, and work kinda…got too hard for me to handle. I was tired all the time, my grades were slipping, and…I couldn't juggle all of this. So I quit." I hoped this would stifle any suspicions he might have had that I was suicidal. People automatically assume that when you stop being active, you're suicidal. Not me. If at all, I was willing to anything to live.

I could feel his eyes burning into mine and I hoped he could just see inside my mind so I didn't have to say anything else. I had to tell him now, as much as mind advised me to do otherwise. But if I didn't tell him right away, I might never have. Up until now, I'd avoided looking him straight in the eye, for fear I'd break out crying. But I was already crying, if not bawling uncontrollably. He'd opened his arms, ready to give comfort, and I was more than ready to stain his coat with my tears. But I couldn't. I had to look him in the eyes. He had to know I was sincere.

"Arnold…"

There was no turning back now. He had to know.

"Arnold…I have cancer."

I waited. And waited. And waited. He waited. And waited. And waited. We sat on that stoop for what felt like years. My eyes, already drowned in saline, his, wide and probably more scared than me. Part of me expected this. The part of me that gave Dr. Hamilton the same look when she told me. Hodgkin's. Cancer. I had cancer. I'm 17 years, 10 months, and 20 days old. While my other seventeen years old friends picked up their class rings, I was busy getting by tri-weekly does of chemotherapy. While they shopped for prom dresses and tuxedos, I picked up my medication from the hospitals pharmacy. And while they toasted to being young, in love, and ready to se the world, I was calculating how many sessions I'd have until I was supposed to start college.

About a minute after I'd told him, I stopped shaking. Something about how he stared forward eased my nerves. Something about how his head fit on top of mine made me feel safe. And something about how I could feel each of his own tears penetrated the part in my hair made me feel like he cared.

READ THIS TOO: There! So now ya know! Sorry if it's not as "GASP!" as I may have made it out to be. And the last line, I totally made up in 30 seconds…sorry if it's too sappy. I really wanted this to be longer, but oh well...

Some things I gotta clear up: Last chapter, I mentioned a "goose-egg" on Helga's head. Now I thought this came from the south, but I asked DarthRoden if he knew what I meant, and apparently it isn't. In my family, a goose egg is that annoying little lump that you get on your head when you bump it against something hard. They don't last long, but that's all I meant. Sorry. And I couldn't put this at the top of the chapter because some of you shadier characters would have skipped everything and gone straight to the "good" part. So enjoy, and review please!

Next chapter: Make It Count

Special thanks to my mom for help with information, Andi for encouragement, Carl and Steve for plenty of laughs at 4 in the morning on Yahoo, and PullmanLover who was supposed to grammar check this, but I got lazy and impatient, and did it anyway (sorry...)