Arnold treated their daily vocabulary assignment with more focus than the rest of his studies. A truth he kept close to his chest, and meant to keep that way.

That wasn't to say he wasn't a good student in other areas; mid-to-high average, well-rounded grades with mild, curious interest typified his academic life. But whether it was in trying to say the right thing to the people who needed to hear it, treading cautiously with others, or even state-wide spelling bees, Arnold took some interest in words. Much interest, now that they spurred his need to identify and better understand the vexing qualities of the pink-bowed, pig-tailed girl who maddened him.

Yesterday's word was ennui, which he felt better described him, and the drifting afternoons he'd spend laid out on his bed, cloud watching through his glass ceiling in blue detachment. Though, he still wondered if there was something else in those thousand yard stares he'd catch her in lately. Either way, the constructed sentence for the assignment came easily enough.

Today's word was blithe.

adjective

1: lacking due thought or consideration : CASUAL, HEEDLESS

2: of a happy lighthearted character or disposition

Arnold scoffed softly, shaking his head at the definition. Sure, he thought, I can see that, as he recalled Helga flipping a switch on the very off-limits Tilt-A-Whirl control panel, distracting the operator just before the ride started, when he and Gerald were already seated. They had made eye contact, briefly, her toothy smile growing wider for each shade of color drained from his face, just as the ride began and spun them for a swirling surge of illegal centrifugal forces and half-digested fried-dough.

The assigned sentence came easily, once again with a barely concealed pseudonym: "Hilda often showed a blithe disregard for public safety whenever she took the wheel." Arnold marked the word on his hidden Hell Girl vocab list, thankful they were still too young to drive.

A blessing for sure, when he was dating a girl who was already trouble enough.

… … …

Dr. Bliss set her pen and notepad down, and addressed her patient with her undivided attention, hands loosely clasped in her lap. "I think you may need to find a new way to cope, Helga—without Arnold."

Helga whipped around, eyes blown wide and the overhead light caught on her toothy sneer, tongue rearing to strike at the ridiculous notion, this—betrayal. Her impending outburst was paused only by the years of goodwill between them, granting Dr. Bliss's raised hand the thin benefit of the doubt she implored.

"Now, that doesn't mean taking Arnold out of your life, or not having his care and support. That said, I'd say these recent developments speak to another truth at hand. You have each other now, Helga, your hearts deepest desire come true at last, which was the very hope that served as your coping mechanism for daily life."

Dr. Bliss's palm upturned, further placating Helga, whose shoulders dropped incrementally as she spoke, her tension slowly easing down, but never away. "But now that having Arnold isn't just an idea anymore, he isn't an infallible figure. You can't pray to, or worship him anymore, and have it work."

Dr. Bliss leaned back in her chair, continuing to meet the silent, brimming girl with her patient care and appraisal. "If you want the kind of support that you had before you two were together, you'll need to fill that role with something else."

Helga turned back with her arms crossed, her expression even less becoming, "Oh, so you're saying I gotta go to church now? Crack open the Bible and eat my wafers and take confession? Be a 'good little girl' every Sunday? Puh-lease."

"No."

"So I gotta, what, go into crystals or hare krishna or some other hokey new age 'spiritual' crap?"

"Nope, you don't need to do that."

Helga flashed her opened hands apart in a gesture of sardonic welcome, as if daring the ludicrosity of fate to strike her right there and then. "Or what, join some cult, or those pathetic self-improvement seminars where the speakers scam sad suckers and saps outta their money?"

"No, Helga. It doesn't have to be any of those things," Dr. Bliss countered softly. "Some people choose philosophy, vision and focus exercises, meditation or enlightenment."

Arms crossed again, Helga eyerolled and swiped her deadpanned gaze to her therapist's tome of encyclopedic reference of the human psyche, and felt her guard harden further. "So, okay, then yeah, you do actually mean all that fluffy 'spiritual' mumbo jumbo crap, like at those sad little corner shops where they sell readings, or what the drunks at my mom's meetings always ramble on about."

"Maybe, but not everyone chooses to follow a path, but instead make one that works for them. But the rituals, the practice, your creative and poetic expression, those can all be a part of it. And as your needs change, your rituals can change, too."

Helga kept her sight trained to the bookshelf, pretending to read the titles. Anything to keep her eyes from meeting her therapist's—any sign of admission. Or weakness. Even if each breath coming out was, in fact, drawing more and more of her anger and opposition out of her. Her eyes fluttered shut, sucking in her breath like she could turn the recycled air into stone—into strength, inside her.

"…So, what do you do?" she asked quietly.

Dr. Bliss blinked in mild surprise, on the spot. "Me? You mean do I have any rituals I use to cope with life?"

"Yeah, or are you gonna tell me that this shrink stuff is enough to top you off, or are you just 'stable enough' to not need it?" Helga replied, a bitter bite in her words, a recoil in her face.

Dr. Bliss paused, the subtle shift in her posture spotted on Helga's periphery like a sign her therapist had written a mental note–she suspected, glumly, to address her self-deprecating remarks later on.

"I may not need a shrine or an idol to make it through my days Helga, but, beyond my own customary therapy, as recommended for my profession, there are other ways I take care of myself. I wake up extra early and devote the first hour of my day to myself. It's quiet, and I don't have to share it with anyone." Helga's eyes finally slid back to meet hers. They thinned in a look that her therapist had come to read as some sort of inner recognition.

Dr. Bliss continued. "Some coffee with the sunrise, a walk, a book, or just an hour in the bath to think, or do nothing. Then I get myself ready for the day. For me, that's self-care."

The former It Girl's resultant eye roll and crossed arms made their trademark return. "Tch, well maybe going through some simple motions and a bubble bath is enough for someone like you, but that's gonna do jack for me."

"Well, Helga, I'm at a point in my life where the majority of my needs have been met, and any ongoing internal issues I have need only maintenance," Dr. Bliss's eyes darted to her upper right in a brief moment of private musing. "And sometimes the occasional tune-up. But you're still just beginning."

Whatever distant composure Helga held tight snapped, breaking out of her detached front as she shook her fists in anguished demand. "But I've already been doing this for years! How long does this mental health crap take?"

She kept her voice soft, with a compassion and patience Dr. Bliss wished she could give any of her patients to internalize for themselves, present company much included.

"As long as it's helpful, Helga. You have a hard home life. And while you've made some progress, there's still more I think therapy can help you with. You've already gone further along than you may realize."

"Then why is it still so hard?" Helga ejected, face flushed with frantic impatience. She wiped her bangs from her brow, pressing back on the tension headache forming there, and amended—"I mean, sure, I was able to confess my feelings to him, and he finally returned them, but now I've just got a whole new host of problems to deal with!"

"It's a process, Helga."

She groaned, grabbing at her hair in fistfuls.

"I know this is hard for you, but sometimes change comes with unforeseen challenges. Even good change."

Helga's hands dropped in exhaustion, closed her eyes and sighed in self-reproach. Her voice settled into a low, aching alto. "I know, it's just, I always thought he'd… I just thought that if I was finally, finally able to have Arnold return even just a fraction of the feelings I've had for him, that everything—my life, would just, just be…"

"Nothing's perfect, Helga."

Her face twisted away, recoiling, her squeezed-shut eyes stinging from a salty wetness she fought to suppress, thinking herself stupid. That something so transparent, so clearly obvious could summon tears. Pathetic.

Her voice cracked out, "But, why can't it be? Or at least, can't it just be easy? Or just easier? Why can't just being with Arnold be enough?" She punched her fist into her palm, swallowing. "Cripes, is it too much to ask that the hard part already be over?"

"Is it, Helga?"

… … …

Arnold woke to the recently familiar splatter of bird shit on his skylight ceiling.

Great.

After unplugging his potato alarm, slipping on a pair of loafers and rubbing the crust from his eyes, he glanced at his carpet and realized there was so much splattered this time that half the light breaking in through the glass overhead was dimmed. He ascended the stairs, flipped the latch, and climbed out onto the roof.

The great expanse of golden sky peppered with purple pink wisps of dawn cast warm, pleasant tones over the surrounding cityscape, warming and illuminating every surface it touched. It even made the rest of the shit splattered roof give off a kind of cozy sheen.

Kind of.

Dirty feathers and cracked open bird seed crunched underfoot, another avian conquest taken earlier, around the crack of dawn. No birds remained, save the occasional gull. He watched his step, investigating the pitted surface.

He sighed. The shed was plastered, and Grandma forgot to cover the piano last night. He wouldn't enjoy cleaning that. Not that he was any stranger to cleaning up bird droppings.

There just never used to be so much of it.

Why did this keep happening lately? Who kept leaving all this seed? And when? At night?

Whoever did it, this time they left one of the birdseed bags behind, curled up and windblown around the base of a standing vent. He extracted it carefully, and upon examination, spotted some errant strands of hair in the torn plastic. In the rays of the morning light, everything looked golden, but he gave the evidence a slanted, scrutinizing look. He could think of a few culprits. His roof did have fairly easy access via the fire escape, and it's not like his place of residence was a secret.

But only one potential culprit occupied Arnold's thoughts all the way through breakfast.

Some scrambled eggs and a few bacon slices later, the morning stampede rocked the entrance door to Sunset Arms on its hinges as he held it open, telling his parents, no, I don't know why the birds are doing it again, and no, thanks, I can clean it. No, really Dad. Yes, Mom, I'll use the vinegar-based cleaner. Animal safe, I know. No, I don't think we should bar the fire escape, Dad, you have to understand that that's unsafe, OK? I'm sure whatever's going on will work itself out. Sigh, yes Mom, it's still better if you and Dad stay home until I get back. Remember "the boundary" we talked about? Up to here, and the backyard? No Dad, not past the fence. Just until we hear back from the doctor, OK? Yeah, you can tell me more about Malinowski when I get back. Quinoa cupcakes for dessert? Er, maybe tomorrow…?

Gerald shot him a pointed look as Arnold came down the stoop at last.

"...So did it—"

"Yeah," Arnold deadpanned as they started walking, "it happened again."

"Man that bites," he tried to commiserate but couldn't hold back his chuckles. "You sure someone ain't filming an Alfred Hitchcock sequel up there? You know you can always fill me in on the deets."

Arnold scoffed, his deadpan somehow deepening. "Hah. You wish."

"Yeah, you're right. If Hillwood did have something like that goin' on, Fuzzy Slippers woulda already told me."

"Maybe he can tell you who's dunking 20lb bird seed bags all over my roof."

"Arnold!" Gerald snapped his fingers, "Wait a sec—film! Phoebe lent me a few of those mini wifi surveillance cams? They hook right up to your phone! We use 'em all the time at my place now, they're great if you're," he caught himself, dialing back under Arnold's imploring look, "uh…"

"...You guys need surveillance around your house? Since when?"

"Well, I mean, Jamie O...y'know, he kinda runs with some people…" Gerald fidgeted, pretending to adjust his hoodie, "I mean, you probably already got the picture…" He sucked his teeth and looked away, avoiding Arnold's growing concern.

"...Look, I just—don't really wanna talk about it…but yeah, anyway," he sniffed and gestured disarmingly to ease the tension. "We'll catch whoever's tryna reenact 'The Birds' at your place, man, alright? So you don't have to keep scrapin' bird shit off that sick skylight of yours."

"...That'd be great. Thanks Gerald, and uh," Arnold cleared his throat as his friend pursed his lips, already sensing his double-back. "As for the other thing, well… you know you can always tell me what's going on anytime you want. Uh—if you want to. Okay?"

Gerald chewed the inside of his cheek, lopsiding his small, rueful smile. "Right. Thanks man."

Arnold told himself he didn't need to worry—this kind of news about Gerald's older brother wasn't unprecedented. He trusted Gerald would fill him in if things ever got really hairy. And he and Gerald were solid as always, even if he found they shared a bit less than they used to, since they'd started dating—particularly, girls who were also each other's best friends. They found things were a bit less messy when they kept some ground rules up over the past year, which was…experimental, to say the least.

When they met up with their girlfriends on their usual route to junior high, Gerald greeted Phoebe with his trademark flirtatious look, which she returned shyly before they held hands the rest of the way.

And he had his usual greeting with Helga—or what had lately been their usual; the same amount of no public hand holding among peers, per Helga's demand, but with less teasing and banter than he'd often looked forward to.

They exchanged their half-smiles and pleasantries. He felt their unspoken chemistry and fostered connection as they walked side by side, despite her thousand yard stares as of late, which she denied were there when he pressed, and the growing distance he'd sensed between them. Along with his own simmering resentment, and distrust, which cast its eye for any tells of seeds or bird shit on her shoes.