Chapter 7: Where Soul Meets Body

"And I do believe it's true

That there are roads left in both of our shoes

But if the silence takes you,

Then I hope it takes me too.

So brown eyes, I'll hold you near,

'Cause you're the only song I want to hear

A melody,

Softly soaring through my atmosphere.

Where soul meets body."

Death Cab for Cutie

"Where Soul Meets Body"

May 13th

Sometimes, and only on rare occasions, it is perfectly acceptable to act like a small child. When the ice cream truck that has not graced your neighborhood in what feels like forever, makes its reappearance after several years, it is quite alright to grab whatever change you can carry and purchase one of those ice cream bars that will inevitably go to your hips, but disregard that because its more or less the most beautiful part of your day. Nor can fault be found in the joy that comes with the occasional call into work, claiming you've come down with whatever is going around this week, only to spend your morning with a bowl filled with all the cereal in your house (from the high-fiber, low-fat, low-cal bran you buy because you know you should, to the sugary rings of colors and flavors that lure many a children with their catchy slogans and cartoon characters, who do not deserve said cereal themselves), and perching yourself on the nearest piece of furniture that will swallow you whole to indulge in mindless cartoons for hours on end. Because on these occasions, where child-like behavior is permitted, it is the sad realization that there will be less and less time to partake in such activities as one ages.

And in saying, I like to take advantage of my age regression whenever possible. Like…right now.

It wasn't even hot outside. Well, the weatherman (who in my opinion, is too happy, too often) said it'd be 77 degrees at least with minimal cloud cover and some other meteorologist jargon that I pay little if any attention to. Either way, I could feel the cold glass of the window on my nose and the palms of my hands. I didn't want to press my face too hard on the window, because I was unsure that I could remove the marks of two sets of handprints and a upturned pig-nose from the glass.

"Is this where we're going?" I ask hurriedly. It's only a revised version of my earlier repeated question "Are we there yet?" (and it's cousin "Are we there now?") which grew to be annoying, not only to my trip-mate, but to myself, seeing as the answer was always the same. I couldn't hold back the squeal of delight when I was answered with a sigh and a "Yes." I had to hurry and slip on my flat tennis shoes (which perplexed me somewhat…I was certain I'd never used them for tennis, but it seemed all shoes with a rubber sole and no definable heel were deemed as such…weird) before we exited the car. I was a little confused by the lack of people here. One would think that on a perfectly sunny day, such an area would be swarming with people unpacking lunch coolers, children running around and scraping their knees, old people sleeping on lawn chairs that were consuming them whole, and the occasional half-naked girl, prancing about in all her Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition glory, making us all feel inadequate and fat. But there was no one. Not a soul. Weird? I believe so.

"Why isn't anyone here?" I ask my companion, who has been eerily silent for the past 23 minutes or so.

"It's a Wednesday." he replied as though that is the be-all end -all, or end-all be-all, or all-be-of-all-ended-end-be, or whatever it is my mother says when someone has the final say in something. She doesn't entirely makes sense all the time anyway, so who cares?

"Oh." I reply. Maybe (and I emphasize maybe because it would be all too ironic and scary if after uttering this statement I am struck by lightning), there is a little bit of The Garden of Eden everywhere. Granted, we're not in paradise, as I have yet to see a single fruit tree that I would give my life for, but it's the closest I'll probably get within the continent. Or the state at least. I forget what it was called when we drove up; North something-or-other campgrounds. The name isn't important. There's a little bit of everything here. There's a lot of grassy areas, for people (like me) who don't like sand. But here's still a lot of sand, making up the shores of a lake or something. I was never good with bodies of water. An ocean is bigger than a lake, that's bigger that a pond, but smaller that a marsh? Or is that a bog? And is a marsh the same thing as a swamp? Why am I thinking about this? I skipped school so I could not think for a day.

Skipped is not the appropriate word, and I humbly apologize to anyone who has properly skipped school. Skipping school requires one to either leave the school day early or not go at all with no parental, administrative or governmental consent. My parents didn't have too much of a problem with me…"disregarding" my in-school responsibilities to whisk out to the country for a day. They understand that I'm graduating in…soon, and that whatever the teachers have to tell me, they should have done so sometime within the past four years.

I can't say I was thrilled when my parents went along with this scheme, that turned out not to be a scheme at all. You'd think that any self-respecting father (especially my self-respecting father) would be in utter outrage the his daughter would actually consider skipping school to gallivant (where do parents get words like that anyway? Gallivant? I mean honestly, it's like they've got a dictionary of their own or something…) off into the countryside with some boy! Alone, no less! But no, not my dad. My dad trusts me. His daughter doesn't do things like that, with…boys like that. Has he forgotten what a little hellion I used to be? Does he think it just disappeared into magical happy fairy sunshine dust? No siree, Bob (no pun intended). I can be crazy. For all he knows I might come back home with a piercing that I can't show to polite company. Take that, dad.

That almost sounded believable. Almost.

In my inward rants on bodies of water, school, my parents immense trust in me, and how exactly I'd look with a bright pink eyebrow piercing, I didn't hear a single thing Arnold said. That sounds like I'm exaggerating, but I honestly did not know he was even talking at all.

"Did you hear me?" he asked, for what may have been the third time. As I said, I was not listening in the least.

"No. Not even a little. No. Not at all. Sorry." I replied. Suddenly the zipper on my red hoodie became very interesting.

"I asked, where would you like to sit?" he said. Yay. He's not mad. Like I expected that. Actually I did. Even the most patient of people get upset by me. What can I say? I have the tendency to get under people's skin without really knowing it. Call it a talent.

"Umm…somewhere sunny. And grassy." Hahaha. So deliciously vague am I. Sunny? Grassy? Sounds like 75 of the earth, genius. Wait, 75 of the earth is water. Okay, how about 75 of the 25 of the earth that isn't water. So that would be….25 divided by…Shut up Brain, shut up. We're skipping school, remember?

Unknowingly, Arnold has left to find someplace "sunny" and "grassy". Running to catch up to him, I notice that he has stopped. The worst case scenario suddenly pops in my head. There's a dead body just beyond where he's standing and the police will think we did it, and we'll be on the lam. I'll have to ditch the red hoodie, because it'll be too conspicuous and easy to identify. But when our food supply runs out we'll have to stay in a dingy old motel and we'll be picked out by the motel owner, and then we'll have to kill him too. It'd be a killing spree that'd never end until we make our way to Canada, where I'll have to work in a bacon factory and Arnold will have to work in a maple syrup factory and the only incentives to the job is that you get free bacon and syrup, and everyone knows that you can't eat bacon and syrup everyday and not draw attention to yourself, which will lead to more running and hiding, and maybe more killing until we can hitch a ride to Iceland.

When I finally do catch up t o him, I'm out of breath and tired. "Where's the body?" I ask, in one quick hurried breath. He looks at me the way my mother used to when I asked if the carrots could feel it when I ate them and if their families missed them. Almost like he wished there was a straitjacket in that cooler he was holding.

"Are you sure you're okay? You're not making any sense at all."

I looked past him to where he was looking. No body. Oh well. No Canada this time. What he did find was nearly as breathtaking as a dead body, but far less nauseating. Ahead of us was a hill with one tree on it. It was practically something out of a painting: a perfectly green hill with a lush green and pink dogwood on it.

"That'll work." we said in unison, before making our way to the top of the hill.

"I can't believe it. I've been training for three weeks, and I can't even beat you up a stupid hill." Arnold said, collapsing next to my feet.

"You can take the girl off of the track team, but you can't take the…track team off of...the…hmmm."

"Sounded a lot better in your head, didn't it?" He said, still gasping for air. Lightweight. Coach Summers would rip him apart.

"Yes." I said, in slight defeat. My attire was less than glamorous; so much so that Fergie herself would be disappointed. What's her deal anyway? She's always gallivanting (there's that word again…) around, spelling things. Was she a spelling bee champ as a child? Well, my dear FergaliciousDefinition, those days are over, and I recommend you move on. We are all very capable of spelling "delicious" with your name in front of it. Anyway, I decided (without much thought as to where I was going, seeing as I didn't know where I was going) to go with a faded red hoodie, and funny-looking cut-off sweat pants. The kind that end just under the knee. Add to my list of fashion victim offences, slip on tennis shoes. Looking at my calves, as I have for most of the day, I realize, yet again, that I am paler than sin. I am literally the palest thing in the world. If I were a superhero, I would have the amazing ability to blind people with my legs of incredible paleness. Thank Heaven it's sunny; I may be able to soak up some color. Kicking off my shoes, I lay back on the grass, before realizing that Arnold has set up camp under the tree.

"Oh, you wanted to sit in the sun?" he asked.

From upside down (had I been sitting upright he'd have been behind be, but seeing as I was laying down, I could very well look up, or down in any case and see him perfectly. And upside down, of course.) 'Well, kinda.' I wanted to say. I did describe my ideal spot as "sunny" and "grassy" not "under a tree" and "grassy". Not to mention, I was still cold, despite the temperature.

"Sort of." I started. "But, we can sit under the tree, I mean, it's no big deal." My body was instantly mad at me, sending a bad case of the shivers right up by back. Even I couldn't stop the spastic twitch that suddenly threw my upper body to the left. 'You idiot!' it screamed. 'We're freezing and you go and agree to sit under the tree!'

"Did you take your iron supplement before we left?" Oh fanbloodytastic, just jump onto the Prescription Train with everybody else. Three things I was not going to think about today: School (That was successful…), Fergie as a solo recording artist (That was inevitable, she's everywhere) and medication.

"Yes, I did." said. Whoops. Too much edge on that one. Maybe I should apolo-

"It's cool. Here, this side of the tree is exposed and sunny, and we can sit there, okay? Best of both worlds." he said. I'm glad we have different temperaments. I couldn't handle someone as irrational as myself. Why do you want to be in the sun so badly anyway?"

"I was hoping to get a tan today." I replied as superficially as I knew how, hair-flip and all. It may not have been my hair, but I can flip it as much as I like, thank you.

"Isn't that what tanning beds are for?" Arnold asked, laughing as he moved the food and blanket to the other side of the tree.

"Tanning bed? No way? You want me to get cancer or something?" I said, clearly without thinking. I was alright joking about it, but evidently, he wasn't alright with me being alright joking about it. I was going to have to pay for that one. "Sorry, I wasn't-"

"It's fine." he said, cutting me off. I was partially convinced that it wasn't just my bad version of a joke that set Arnold in a foul mood. Something bigger than this was going to happen. Something bigger than the both of us.

"How old is the Packard?" I asked, focusing my gaze on the pale green car parked below us. It was still lonely on the faded black asphalt of the parking lot.

"My grandpa says he's had it since 1937, but he's often wrong." Arnold replied casually. I could tell he was smiling, though I could not see his face. We were both finished eating (I finished first of course) and lying on the grass, staring at the sky. So much for no cloud cover. We winced in unison whenever there was a flash of sunlight over us between the drifting clouds.

"Are you going to take it with you to college?" I asked. That's more what I was trying to get to.

"That has yet to be decided." Uh, darn these calm, cool, collected answers. Who did he think he was, me?

"The Packard or college?"

There was a pause before he answered. A long pause. A long pause that made me nervous that he'd either fallen asleep or was actually considering not going to college. "Both."

I sat up now. In my sudden change of position, my head band/headscarf nearly fell off, but I steadied it. "Why wouldn't you go to college?"

"I never said I wasn't going-"

"But you implied it."

"Well, why should I?"

"I'm not going to speak to you if you're going to be so…ridiculous." I retorted, resuming my sleeping position on the soft ground. "Wake me in an hour." I added, laying on my side and crossing my arms, which, conveys the look of genuine anger to people, but it rather uncomfortable. Eventually, I fell asleep, although I can't remember. What I do remember is waking up. Isn't that strange? You can remember waking up, but you very rarely remember the last few minutes before you fell asleep. Life's weird like that, I think.

What I woke up to, was not the south side of the hill that I fell asleep on. Instead, I woke up to Arnold, sitting up, kind of like that statue…The Thinker, or something. Except he was sitting on the grass. Wearing blue jeans and that old green hoodie. And, most obviously, he was alive. I'm still feeling funny from this morning which will inevitably lead me to say something I either don't want to, or that I don't mean at all.

"Are you feeling better?"

"I'm still mad at you." I replied without thinking. My head felt dull, and cloudy, like I was still asleep. Hopefully, I was able to hide it long enough for him not to notice. But then again, I was never very good at keeping things out of Arnold's range of attention.

"No, you're not. You're just feeling loopy because you took all your meds at once this morning." He said, smiling that stupid smile that it's so stupid I can barely comprehend the stupidity of it. Stupid stupidness.

"I did no such thing…" I started, picking at the grass for a minute. Stupid grass. "How'd you know? How do you ever know?" Yup, I'm definitely feeling loopy. Very few, if any, people are aware that too many meds (or too many of my meds, more specifically) can lead to two things: a crash, and episodes of thoughtless irrationality. And judging by the impromptu nap I just took, I think I've thoroughly covered that portion of my day.

Arnold lay down on the grass next to me. Oh fantastic. Hopefully I've got that funny taste on my tongue that you get when you eat and then fall asleep back to back. "Because…" he started. "When I pulled up, I saw you pop a handful of 'something' into your mouth, and I highly doubt that your mom makes bite-sized Eggs Benedict."

I grumbled and stood, wavering only slightly. I was obviously more angry at myself than at him, but distancing myself still felt like a good idea. The tree we were sitting under earlier was only a few feet away, but it fulfilled its purpose. The bark was rough enough that I could feel it through my jacket. It wasn't getting any warmer outside, and something about the sudden cloudiness made me think rain was in the near future.

"What's wrong now?" he asked coming over. As if he weren't going to come over. I was a tad loopy, but I wasn't deluded. I wasn't sure what he was doing, but after a moment, I was abruptly leaned forward, and Arnold was separating me from the tree. It wasn't until he spoke again that I realized where I was. For some reason, my eyes turned to narrow slits as realization dawned on me in regards to our current sitting position.

Why did this…person have this effect on me? I am fully capable of sitting like this with a person of the opposite gender and not get all…funny. In truth, I really did. I could hang with any guy on God's green earth and hold my own. Because I'm Helga. Helga Pataki. Before I'm a high school student, or a cancer patient or a descendant of a family of East-European hotheads, I'm Helga Pataki. And because I am Helga Pataki, I've spent a great deal of my life building walls. I built a few to make sure my parents never realized how I really saw my childhood; how hurt and discouraged and upset I was or why. Then, came school. I built another set to make sure people left me alone. My business was my business and not just anybody was going to be able to get in. And since then, a little wall would come up if anything happened at all. Even for the people I trusted, I felt the need to erect walls. Call it instinct. A small one for Phoebe, letting her get closer than most, but not too close, and of course, a number for Arnold. For the sheer fact that he was able to breach any security system I had instituted without any brute force. He needed to be shut out more than anyone.

What frustrated me more than most anything I could think of in this state was that I had failed. I'd failed to keep my walls up. And this fact only really bothered me when I thought about it too much. My line of security was rapidly being infiltrated, and there was nothing I could do about it, for the sheer fact that there was nothing I wanted to do about it. The reflection on the night I told my parents how I felt about them for the first half of my life was not something I looked back on with embarrassment or regret. Nor the night that I told Phoebe or Arnold. Could I honestly be angry at them for caring too much? For wanting to help, knowing that it was for my benefit; that these walls weren't protecting anyone, least of all me? No. I couldn't. But you better believe I could pretend.

"I'm alright. This thing is just…itchy." I said, open palm smacking my head in a few places. Gerald called it "Patting Your Weave" or something to that context. I've never had a weave, but if they were half as annoying as the torture device on my head, I was happy I hadn't. After I'd appropriately smacked my I.Q. down a few points, I decided that there was no way to avoid it, and leaned back on Arnold's chest. Instead of the concave mass of skin and bone that I assumed Arnold's chest and upper body was, I was (pleasantly?) surprised to find that it was…not. It was much like walking down stairs in the dark and finding that there is one step more than you perceived. Only, most certainly, more welcomed. I found myself wondering what his bare chest looked like, before involuntarily smacking myself in the forehead again.

From behind me, Arnold asked, "Are you alright? Is your…head still bothering you?"

He was too polite. I nodded. My head. Not my hair, not my hairpiece, not my wig. My head. It was obvious to him that I was wearing hair that I was not born with. The wig wasn't very long, barely shoulder length, and pulled into low pigtails on either side of my head underneath my ears. It curled at the ends, like real hair, and was easy to clean. The only problems I had with it: it was very blonde and very shiny. My hair was blonde, of course, I'd attempted to keep it that way, without dying it. A losing battle, I realized; even before my chemotherapy, my hair was darkening to a dirty-blonde, something Olga's had not. Second, it was very synthetic. My hair was thick and somewhat brittle, more stiff, and a little bit wavy at the roots. This hair was bone-straight and laid out in thin, unrealistic layers. In a nutshell, it was wasn't mine.

"Well, what can I do to make you feel better…?" Apparently, I was being spoken to again. I should work on not getting so lost in my head so often.

"Go away." Well, that came out nicely. "Go away to college and don't regret it." Much better, Helga. I peered over my shoulder, but I couldn't see what he was gazing at. Whatever he was looking at, was making him think.

"Helga, my reasons-"

"Screw your reasons, Arnold! Whatever your reasons are aren't good enough. You have no reason to stay here. What's here, Arnold? What's in Hillwood that's not out there?" I asked, losing rationality again.

"What if something happens here? What if I miss something right here?!" he asked, stabbing the ground with his index finger.

"Like what? Your grandparents are in the best shape I've ever seen anyone their age. And I'm sure they want to you to go, too. And if you ask me, a Boarding House is no place to live forever, so if someone were to move away, it'd probably be for the best, and frankly-" I went on. It wasn't the loopiness anymore, I'm just weird.

"And what about you?" He asked, closer to my ear this time. Hopefully his peripheral vision isn't good enough to see my blush from here.

"What about me?" I asked, quietly. Fantastic job at not making your voice crack Helga. Peter Brady held a note better than you uttered that last sentence.

"What if something happens, and I'm not here?" he asked, as if that were the only thing it took to sway me. Gale force winds (whatever they were) didn't sway me. Of course, I wouldn't know a gale force wind if it knocked me over. Which it wouldn't. Because I can't be swayed. So there.

"What if anything happens to anyone at anytime for any reason at all? Are you going t drop everything in your life for them?"

"Yes. That's what you do for people you care about." Care about? Oh geez, he's turning his head now. Abort blush! I repeat, abort blush!

"Well," I started, after the shiver in my stomach subsided. "Part of caring about people is respecting their wishes and…going away to college." He looked at me hard for a minute, either hoping that I'd crack or look away. No such luck. "Will you at least consider it? At least apply, and then make a decision, okay?" I asked. He smiled at this. Bingo, baby.

"I've actually already applied." he confessed. My face probably read what I was thinking. "I haven't heard back. I wasn't sure…I wasn't sure if I would actually go. Even if I were accepted."

"Whatever you decide, when you do get accepted, make sure to let me know, alright?"

"When I get accepted? Look at our little optimist…" he replied, tightening his grip on my sides. I let out an inaudible sound, that I could hardly classify myself, at his accidental discovery of, what I shudder to admit, my "spot".

Yes, it is true. Every female (and quite a few males) on the face of the planet has a "spot"; a place on her body, that is completely unrelated to sex or sexual organs, that when engaged, will turn her into Jell-O. Or pudding. Or Jell-O brand pudding. Which ever you prefer. Either way, I was the equivalent to high sugar, Cosby-endorsed dessert snack at the moment.

"Hey, don't get used to it. As soon as this stuff wears off, I'll be back to normal, and doubting everything again." I chimed, beaming. With the combination of his breath on my neck, his hands on my waist, the flying saucers in my stomach and the insatiable need for my blood to rush to my face and make me look like a tomato, I figured I could either run screaming into an open field, or shut up and let it happen.

What happened next…I can barely believe it happened at all. Mostly because A) It happened, like…in just half of a millisecond, B) I've ran this scenario through my head quite a few times and it never panned out like this and C)…it was just very, very fast. If I weren't there, I probably wouldn't have believed it happened at all. It was that fast.

Not long after the conversation died down, I was getting used to the eruption of emotions that were going off and throwing my brain into a mass of confusing and frightening realizations. Arnold was still leaning forward; quite possibly attempting to mold his upper body to the arch of my back. Whatever the reasoning behind it, I was surprised to find that there was something on my ear. Lips. There were lips on my ear. His lips. Arnold's. Arnold's lips were on my ear.

I was somewhat (psht…yeah right, I was floored) unsure how to react. Did he even know where his mouth was? Did he fall asleep back there? In a brief lapse of judgment, I turned quickly towards where the ear/lip contact happened. In so doing, I presented my brain with both good and bad news.

The good news was that I eradicated the feeling in my stomach that accompanied the previous meeting of my ear and his mouth. The bad news was that I didn't eliminate said feeling long enough for me to enjoy it. Because I decided to move so quickly, I found myself in an all new dilemma. I was now face to face with my biggest fear. And did I mention? His lips were no longer on my ear.

They were on mine.

It definitely was not an earth-shattering kiss. It was in no way a "Last Dance of Prom on The Season Finale of Teen Angst Drama Blankity Blank Blank". In theory, it was barely a kiss at all. You could barely say our lips were even touching. Well, they were, definitely touching but…the short and short of it is that we were not kissing. It was not a kiss.

Except for the fact that neither of us really did anything to stop it once it happened. We both sat very still, and very silent. I could hear the sound of a distant wind and I could feel his breath on the patch of skin between my nose and top lip. It was difficult to differentiate whose nervous tremble I was feeling on my lips: his or mine. At some point, we were simultaneously compelled to do something. Apparently, it was…to move forward, strangely enough. I know that I was obviously having a brain dead moment, but I'm not sure of his excuse.

And then, in the midst of this…whatever all of this was, I hear a sound that resembled a wooden baseball bat being broken in half. Arnold and I both jumped, turning towards the sky, where the offending sound was produced. The sky had grown darker since the last time I looked at it. Granted, I was looking at it not a few moments ago, but I failed to notice how rapidly the daylight faded into a darkened sky. It barely looked like it was three in the afternoon, but closer to the early evening.

"We should leave." Arnold said, seriously. To be precise, a bit more serious than I expected. Is it just me, or were we about to…something?

"Why?" I asked, hastily. I hadn't really meant to ask, but his abrupt change had my head swirling.

"Well, we are under a tree, on a hill, made primarily of sand, and it's raining. Just about all of these factors don't do well in regards to lightning." Oh. I didn't put all of that together, and frankly, I wasn't aware that it was raining at all. As soon as we stood and emerged from under the canopy of leaves that hid us partially from the weather, I realized it was raining. In fact it was pouring; I could barely see the Packard from the top of the hill. Yanking the drawstrings of my hoodie, and peering back at Arnold, I awaited his signal before advancing down the hill. We were both completely soaked by the time we were inside the Packard.

"Are you sure you're okay? You look cold."

"Yes. If you ask me again, I will stab you."

"With what? Your teacup?"

I attempted to stare daggers at Arnold, but it was none too easy in my current situation. I sat directly across from him on my father's recliner, and he on our faded couch across the living room. The only light came from the two open windows on my side of the room and a few lit candles. Arnold sat next to the old camping lantern my dad used a total of four times in a failed attempt to get me to enjoy camping. It was the kind that burned off of funny smelling oil and was mostly made of glass. It fulfilled its purpose and shed a dramatic cast shadow over the far end of the room where we hadn't lit any candles.

Upon arriving home, I found two things: a note from my parents. It was longer than most and basically read that they had errands to run and were going over to their Senior Financial Analyst's home for dinner and wine. Attached was a twenty-dollar bill in case I wanted to order pizza and a list of leftovers that Olga had dropped off for me. Next I found a blown fuse box and no electricity. Actually, I didn't find that as soon as I entered the house. Arnold and I had barely had enough time to get inside before the electricity went out. Seeing as I know nothing about fuses and Arnold (coincidentally) knew even less, I invited him to stay until the our clothes dried and the electricity returned. Little did I know that neither would be accomplished within the hour. Or the next. Or the one after that.

My parents had, in the most literal way I can explain, locked away all of the coffee in my house. There were those annoying, impossible-to-remove little plastic pulley things on one of the cabinets under our sink, keeping me from a cup of Folgers. Thank you, mom and dad. Because of this, my alternative was a box of green tea bags that Phoebe gave me for when I wasn't feeling well. The tea was barely hot; I'd forgotten that faucet water, microwaves and stoves are all electrically powered. Arnold's ingenious idea was to take a teacup, fill it with bottled water (something we were surprisingly not lacking), and balance it over the oil-burning lantern. It worked, and in combination with Olga's leftovers (which consisted of foods that were meant to be eaten cold), I was thankful for at least that much.

The candles near the recliner flickered from a soft breeze coming in through the window to my right that was slightly ajar. The wind crept into the room and over my face, reminding me of the conversation in the Packard on the way home.

"So what inspired today?" I asked. The car ride was quieter than I liked, and even though I was coming down from my high faster than I thought, I was still bored. Not too mention I needed some kind of conversation starter for my next question. "I mean, the campground, the picnic, why'd you do it?"

"I'm not sure. I just thought we should get away. Do something fun before graduation." Arnold replied, glancing over at me,, something he hadn't done much of on the ride over.

"Thanks, Arnold. I had a nice time today." I replied, sliding down further in the seat.

"Well then, mission accomplished." he beamed.

A few moments later I attempted to shift my wig over a little. The rain sank through the wig and onto my scalp, making it itch as it dried. "Umm, Arnold?" I asked, scrunching my face, and trying desperately to scratch my scalp through the layers of synthetic hair.

"Yeah?" he asked, focusing on the road.

"Would you mind if I…if it makes you uncomfortable, that's fine, but…I'd put it right away, it's just-" I stopped. Beating around the wig would get me nowhere. That wasn't a play on words, either. I was still trying Gerald's weave-patting technique, and it really was getting me nowhere. "Would you be okay if I took my wig off?" I asked, breaking the question up in a few places.

Arnold stayed silent for a few moments. The rain outside was deafening, but his quietness as disturbing me. He looked like a cross between being deep in thought, and telling an inside joke to himself. Needless to say, I was confused, and somewhat worried that I'd ruined a seemingly perfect day.

"You…I mean, do you…" Arnold stammered.

"If you're not comfortable with it, it's fine." I interrupted. "I mean, Phoebe doesn't like how it smells, and Olga doesn't like looking at it when it's not on my head. She doesn't mind touching it, I guess, because she likes to comb it and brush it and all that." have no idea why I thought any of that was supposed to make him feel any better about being uneasy about seeing me without my wig.

"Helga, it's not that. At all. It's just…I didn't think you trusted me that much. I know how…guarded you are sometimes. And I know you don't trust people that easily. And especially after you told me you had cancer, I felt like…I felt like I forced you to tell me. That you didn't want to in the first place, and hat everything after that, me going to chemo with you, was just because I already knew your secret."

"So, you're saying that-"

"I am saying that," he started. "I am saying that your trust, if nothing else is an honor." he said. His voice held not so much as a crack, and yet, his words were unmistakably sincere and honest.

I often asked myself why I liked Arnold. Why I bothered with someone so ambitious and determined and eager when I could surround myself with people who were meek, modest, and although caring, generally uninterested, seeing my reluctance to reveal myself as nothing more than a personality flaw.

"How could I not trust you?" I asked out loud, but to no one in particular. "You have done everything I've ever asked you, without me ever having to ask at all." I finished. Taking a hold of the rim of my hood, I pulled it down to reveal the whole of my wig. The top was undoubtedly disheveled; I'd been wearing the hoodie all day, and the only exposed hair was the low pigtails. Without meeting his gaze, I peeled the front part of the wig, along with the wig cap, and slid it down the back of my neck. Before I knew it, there sat my wig, in my lap, still tied back in its low little ponytails.

Arnold's eyes didn't meet mine until I'd been looking at him for a while. It wasn't any sort of confirmation that I wasn't grotesque. Olga had done plenty of that the day she cut it. Usually, the last thing I'd ever want is Olga within two feet of me with any device. That could possibly damage me. But she was, more or less, the only person I knew who had actually cut hair in a decent fashion (practicing her "skills" on Dave, who never seemed to complain) and didn't mind doing so late at night. I called her around 11:43 PM, asking her to cut my hair. Cut, not shave. Something about losing all of my hair at once made me nervous. I didn't have much hair, really, but I wanted to preserve what I could. And when she was finished, when my thin dirty blonde strands littered my shoulders, lap and the floor around the bathroom toilet, we stood in front of the mirror, besmirched with droplets of toothpaste, face wash, and water stains, and cried until we laughed. Our parents found us and hour or so later, collapsed on the floor, holding one another and laughing uncontrollably. I think there was some kind of moment of understanding between Olga and I that night. She tried desperately for years to get close to me, and after a while, I think she gave up, not because she no longer wanted a relationship with me, but because she just couldn't anymore. Me calling her that night to do something I never would have had done by any other person alive may have been what gave her hope to try again. And it gave me the hope that this time, it might work out.

My hair was cut, in a nutshell, like a boy's. It was pretty dark by now, and cut close in the back, and an inch or so longer in the front. The hair as softer than before, and thinner, but it still moved like boy's hair. It didn't bother me as much as I thought it would; I'd advanced to the point of going out to the mailbox without my wig or a hat on. Granted, I'd be outside for a grand total of 2 minutes, but it was nearly 121 seconds longer than if you had asked me to do so a year ago.

I ran my hand up and down my head, the way I'd seen countless guys do, Arnold included. Laughing nervously, I was about to say something, Arnold reached over and grabbed my left hand, which had been sitting on my lap over my wig.

"Are your clothes still soaked?" he asked quietly. I don't remember my reply, I don't remember getting out of the car, rushing to the house or unlocking the door. I do remember, however, having a sudden wave of embarrassment come over me upon realizing the situation. I was alone, in my house, with Arnold. Anyone else would have thought of this as a matter of coincidence, but I knew better.

Actually, I didn't, but it's pretty unbelievable nonetheless.

"I'm gonna go get some towels and blankets and…stuff." I stammered before heading up stairs. The friction of my sweat pants and hoodie against my wet skin was unbearable, but standing by my front door staring at Arnold was no better. A few minutes later, I came downstairs, having peeled off the sopping hoodie and hurling it into the dryer, looking obviously dejected.

"Something wrong?" Arnold asked.

"There aren't any blankets in the house. They're all outside, on the clothesline." There was nothing more I wanted than a cup of coffee, my favorite comforter, and an evening on my couch watching TV.

"Well, we can just-"

With that, the kitchen lights, porch lamp and mysterious humming that comes from the downstairs closet that my family never seems to use suddenly shutdown at once, and the house was very nearly completely dark. Looking around the room and then back at Arnold, I had to ask.

"You were saying?"

Resting my now empty cup on the floor, I swung my leg over the side of the recliner and propped myself up. Probably noticing my movement, Arnold sat up a little more.

"Where are you going?" he asked, as I approached.

"If you don't mind a stab at your masculinity, I figured we could share." I replied, draping the blanket over him, and then crawling under, once he was covered. The blanket was covered with faded purple, pink and yellow flowers and hearts. It was a hand-me-down straight from Olga; one that I didn't mind keeping as it was in good condition and…well, sometimes I like pink and purple and flowers. Sue me.

"I never thought you to be one to sleep with such a-"

"Hey, if you're gonna dog it…" I began, slowly moving away from him and taking to cover with me. Before I was fully aware of I, Arnold had snaked his arm around my waist, pulling be (and the blanket) back to our previous position, only much closer.

"Let's not be hasty, now…" he urged, laughing. Needless to say, I was rather disappointed by his following actions. In a split second my forehead was recovering from an impromptu and frankly, disorganized kiss. Yes, that's right. My forehead. Despite this being my second "kiss" of the day (and I use that term loosely), I must admit, I was none too pleased.

"Arnold…?"

"Yeah?"

"When you pitch, what are you thinking about? I mean, what's running through your head right as you're letting go of the ball?" I asked.

He looked confused at first, which wasn't unexpected. The question came out for nowhere, for him at least. Either way, he answered, even if after a few seconds of contemplation. "Um, I kind of imagine the ball in the catcher's mitt. Like in slow motion or something. It's a little weird, I guess."

"So you pretty much aim the ball for the catcher's mitt? Is that what you're saying?" I asked, now incredibly interested.

"I guess you could say that. Why do you ask?"

"No reason in particular. I was just surprised, is all." I replied non-chalantly. He was falling right into my…well whatever it was, he falling right into it.

"Surprised? Why would that surprise you?" he asked, curiously. Oh it was almost too easy.

"It's just that your aim and everything, it's really…bad."

"What?"

"Your aim is kind of…off, is all I'm saying. It's not awful, Arnold, it's just…" I finished, trailing off intentionally. I'm so good, I scare myself sometimes.

"What…I…you haven't been to one of my games in weeks, how would you know about my aim?!" Arnold asked, frantic. A bruised ego was a small obstacle in letting him see the error of his ways.

The living room was practically pitch black by now, but I could still make out the outline of Arnold's features. Our close proximity prevented him from looking me dead in the eye, and as a result I could nearly make out his strong brow, cheek and jaw line. "Well, let's think on it. Just over a month ago, you kiss my eye. And then, this afternoon, I get one on my…whatever this thingie is-" I said, motioning to the space between my nose and top lip.

"It's called a philtrum." Arnold interrupted.

"Yeah, philtrum, whatever. And then just now, I get nice, big one on my forehead. So just basing my conclusion off of this evidence, I'm thinking that maybe your aim could use some help."

Arnold looked to be in thought for a moment. At least he wasn't offended, which was a distinct possibility, but still unlikely. "Well, this is a bit of a shock. What do you suggest I do to remedy this?" he asked, mockingly.

"Well, there's plenty of techniques, and-"

Okay, so maybe I wasn't expecting this. In reality, I'm not sure what I was expecting. But that's how life works, I think. I was never expecting to, within the year, anyway, get a 3.7 average GPA in all my classes senior year, get cancer, tell anyone that I got cancer, catch pneumonia, get rained out during a picnic, lose electricity in the middle of May, and end up kissing Arnold in my living room.

…

I'm kissing Arnold in my living room. In the dark. Without proper parental supervision.

I told my dad not to trust me.

I decided (once I fully realized who, where and in what manner I was kissing Arnold, and in turn being kissed by Arnold) to keep my eyes completely closed. Mainly because I wasn't sure what there was to look at if I did open my eyes, and it seemed a bit disrespectful to have your eyes open during a kiss. It was similar to sniffing a meal someone made for you before you eat it. Besides that, opening your eyes kind of takes away from the effect.

About a minute after we parted, I started thinking again. Something about eh way he stared at me eased my nerves. Something about the way his left middle finger sat in the nape of my neck made me feel safe. And something about the way the electricity jolted back to life revealing two pairs of very swollen lips made me think this was far from over.

That chapter, was very satisfying. It wasn't at first, let me tell you. I was extremely unhappy with it when I started. I wasn't sure how to properly convey why Helga was being so…strange, but once I did, I was able to make everything else fall into place. I'm not sure if the situation Helga was in is the "norm" with cancer patients; I'm getting all my info from one source, so it could be uncommon as far as I know.

I tried to maintain a "progression" in this chapter that a lot of others seemed to be lacking. In the beginning (God created the Heavens and the Earth...I'm kidding. That's the first thing that pops in my head when I hear "In the beginning"…and if you're unsure about where that's from, check page one of Bible. First…10 words of Genesis. Yeah, baby.) the mood was very silly, a little jumpy from one thing to another, then towards the middle, got more serious and by the end, I wanted it to be lighthearted, but not silly. I think I did okay with that.

BTW, the end? Yeah, check the end of chapter four. I keep self-alluding myself (I know the first self was redundant, but I like how it sounds). Anyway, I really liked that line when it was originally posted and I thought I'd recycle it. I was always a fan of Captain Planet, and I think he'd be proud,

As I've said before, I hate (with a bloody, red, fiery, hot passion) writing kissing scenes. I hate them. I love reading them, or watching movie wherein they are featured. But, I hate writing them. I don't understand them, at all. It's not an activity I take part in very often. Or ever. Anyway, I spend most of my day avoiding other people's…oral cavities, so, although they can make or break a story, and are genuinely the most romantic expressions in the universe, I do not enjoy writing them. They are very hard to write. So if there's a long lull in a chapter or I don't post a chapter for a long time, it's usually because there's a kiss in that chapter, and…I'm readying myself.

What else, what else? I wanted to get Helga's perspective in this chapter, because I haven't decided who's POV the next chapter will be in. I might flip flop between the two of them. And if you thought chapters 4 and 6 were heart wrenching, wait until chapter 8. It'll kill you. Not really. But you might cry. A little. Probably not. The last chapter may just be in third person. I'm still deciding.

And to my anonymous reviewer, I just have to thank you. You have no idea how much your review meant to me. I've never been through any of the things I write about, and the only thing I hope to take away is that it stays as true to reality as possible. Because it's so easy to write something, and not really care about the people who really were going through something similar to this and how they felt. So, I'm just glad that I'm doing this justice, and that you appreciate it. I seriously read your review a hundred million times, and I've never been so moved in my entire life. So, before I fill up an entire page, I thank you and commend you. I sincerely appreciate your review.