12: If You Hear from Him, Let Us Know

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Lila," Arnold said.

He'd ridden his bike over to the Sawyers'. It was one of the last days of the year he could manage to do so before the streets became too caked with ice and slush. The two of them were sitting on the living room couch, an arm's length apart from one another.

Today, Arnold had brought along a pint of strawberry ice cream. The week before, it had been a tube of hydrocortisone cream, and peppermint-scented anti-inflammation oil from his mother's collection of Green Eye remedies, which had all but done the trick clearing up Lila's rashes. Evidently, her allergic reaction hadn't been anywhere near as serious as her doctor had initially cautioned. Still, Arnold was finding it impossible to shake an unreasonable sense of responsibility for the whole incident.

"Oh, Arnold," Lila told him sweetly. "You're oh too kind. I'm ever so much better. Hardly itching at all anymore."

He smiled. "That's good to hear."

"Yes. Thank you."

He nodded, tugging a bit awkwardly at his shirt. The two of them proceeded to stare at the container of ice cream, which was growing softer on the coffee table in front of them.

"I'll scoop some up for us," Lila suggested.

"Maybe later?" Arnold said quickly, rubbing his arm. "I did make dinner reservations for seven."

He followed her into the tiny, ramshackle kitchen, watching while she opened her freezer and placed the ice cream carefully next to a tray of flower-shaped ice cubes.

"Lila," Arnold said hesitantly. "I'm sorry. I really am."

"Oh, don't be so silly," Lila responded breezily.

She was just as pretty as she had always been, Arnold thought, as she leaned over the countertop to study him. Her hair fell across her collarbone in perfect, shining curls; flecks of gold danced in her hazel eyes. And as he looked back at her, his mind began to tunnel backwards in time. He found himself imagining how this would have felt at age nine, or ten. How happy he'd have been, if he could have somehow seen this moment – like a movie reel, or a sneak preview of the future. Oh, good, he would have thought, looking triumphantly at the teenage Lila and Arnold, together on a real live date. I knew it would work out in the end.

"Arnold," Lila sighed heavily.

"I know, I know, it wasn't my fault," Arnold said hastily, wringing his hands. "But being attacked like that can't have been fun for you, and I—"

"Shh." Gently, she moved her hand across the counter, placing one fingertip against his lips.

"I…" he mumbled, feeling his face flush. He could count every freckle on her cheeks, see the coatings of mascara on her eyelashes.

"Arnold," she said again, and her voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. "I want you to know that I'm trying. I'm trying just ever so hard."

Arnold took one step backwards as she brought her face closer to his and almost tripped over himself, catching his footing again just in time.

"It's a bit difficult for me," she continued.

"Sorry." He hesitated. "I don't know if I understand."

Her smile looked a bit unsure, he thought, as she gazed at him. "Well, to be just perfectly honest… neither do I. I never had feelings like that. For you. But I'm certain I'm trying to make this work."

"This?"

"You're very shy, aren't you?"

He swallowed. "I… I guess so."

"You could have told me, you know. If you felt so strongly for all this time," she said slowly. "Did you… are you the one who…?" But she just trailed off vaguely, playing with her hair.

"I—the one who—what?"

Lila sighed again, clasping her hands in front of her. "I know I'm pretty, Arnold, and just… just ever so intimidating, perhaps. But there's more to me than that."

"I know," he told her quickly, mostly because he was completely at a loss as to what else to say.

"The other kids always called me Little Miss Perfect. Do you think I am?"

"Huh?" he gaped at her. "I mean… what I mean is — I never thought you were perfect, Lila, I just—"

"You didn't?" she said, suddenly looking terribly hurt.

"No! I mean, yes!" he spluttered. "I mean—it's not—I enjoy spending time with you, I think you're really great, I…"

"It's okay," she said quickly.

"No, I—"

"I'm ever so certain we should get going soon, if the reservations are for seven."

"Oh," he said, looking down at his watch. "Are you sure? I mean, we still have enough time that—"

"I'm sure. I'm oh so certain I was starting to get bored anyway."

"Right. Let's get going."

He smiled half-heartedly at her as they headed to the front closet and began pulling on jackets and scarves.

"Warm enough?" he asked her, because the plan was to walk to Bigal's Café. She nodded, completely decked out in her white gloves and matching hat and scarf. They began to head out the door and down the cement steps.

"I just love this time of year, you know, when the weather gets oh so cold, and snow starts to fall, and the whole city just gets…"

But the words seemed to die in Lila's throat at the sight that met the two of them on the sidewalk. Both teenagers froze in their tracks, staring.

His bike – the bike his father had given him for his thirteenth birthday – was resting in front of them. It was exactly where Arnold had left it, beside the stoop. But it had been completely desecrated. Both tires were so flat they appeared to have been slashed with a knife. The seat and chain drive were glowing with some sort of neon orange spray paint, which was still dripping into the cracks in the sidewalk, apparently having been freshly applied.

"Oh," Lila breathed softly.

All Arnold could do was stare. In the shock of the moment, the air around him seemed to be thinning out, as though no amount of it would be enough to feed his lungs.

"How awful," Lila tried again.

Some part of his brain knew he was being stupid. But suddenly, Arnold had no time to gather the willpower to stop the tears that pricked instantaneously at the corners of his eyes. He became painfully aware of Lila's focus shifting onto him and felt his stomach cave in as he attempted to suck in another deep breath. Having to deal with the embarrassment of crying in front of Lila over a non-motorized vehicle was not exactly what he wanted right now.

"I'm ever so sorry." Gingerly, Lila reached out with one gloved hand and placed it on his shoulder.

"Yeah – well – I – " What he really wanted to say was me too. What he wanted to give her was the number of alleyways in Hillwood this bike had taken him through. He wanted to explain how he and his parents had trekked to the edge of the city together, riding all the way to the boardwalk of Cyclone Island, stopping only for hotdogs with all the works in paper wrappers (his dad's favorite). He wanted to describe that one summer when the Patakis had still been living in Big Bob's Beeper Emporium, and just as he'd arrived, Helga had stepped out of the front door wearing a strapless sundress, which had distracted him so badly he'd crashed his bike into the mailbox and spent two months repaying Bob for the damage in weekly installments.

But he couldn't say any of that. He couldn't manage to get any words out at all.

"What a terrible accident," Lila said wistfully.

Arnold remained motionless, glancing back and forth from the bike to the girl beside him.

"It's just such a shame," she continued. She shook her head.

"Sorry, I… accident?"

"Oh, yes."

"Somebody did this," Arnold blurted out, as though the obvious needed voicing.

"Don't say that," said Lila pleadingly.

"Lila," Arnold snapped. "There's no way this happened by accident. Look at it. Somebody wrecked my bike."

"It could have been an accident," Lila insisted, her voice growing increasingly high-pitched. "I just hate thinking someone could have done something so mean on purpose."

"How on earth could a bike be vandalized by accident?"

"I… I don't exactly know." She bit her lip.

Arnold inhaled slowly.

"There's no use mulling this over now," he said finally, quietly. Lila nodded quickly, looking relieved.

"Let's not let this ruin our dinner. I'll worry about it later," he added, not just because of their dinner reservations, but because truthfully, he couldn't bear to worry about it now. Crime happened in Hillwood – that much was just an inevitable part of living in the city. But why had someone taken the time to do something like this? It would have made more sense if they'd just stolen the bike. The senseless act of destruction that the perpetrator had chosen to carry out instead gave Arnold the prickling feeling that someone had actually personally targeted him, as though knowing full well the bike's meaning to him.

Pushing his bike up against the Sawyers' front stoop as carefully as he could so as not to get paint anywhere, he managed to swallow the burning feeling at the back of his throat and offer Lila a tiny smile. She returned it uncertainly.

They walked to Bigal's in complete silence. Arnold, caught in his cloud of thoughts, was unable to figure out what else to say. Lila followed suit, walking beside him silently with a slightly trepid expression on her face.

Now Serving Foie Gras! read the sign at the front of the restaurant as they arrived at the entranceway. Bigal's had grown exponentially more expensive over the last few years. They were met with a long line that snaked out the front doors and down the sidewalk. It made Arnold very glad he'd thought to actually make reservations. What would they have talked about if they'd had to wait in line for an hour? After skirting through the crowd of people, they gave the maître d' Arnold's name and were led through the loud, bustling café.

"Oh, look who's here," Lila said suddenly. They had just passed by the tank full of lobsters, their claws bound with rubber bands. "Hello, Harold!"

Arnold followed Lila's gaze to the table directly behind the crustaceans. Harold Berman was indeed sitting there, by himself, staring very intently at his menu as the two of them walked by. He was so focused on what he was reading that he didn't even look up upon hearing his name.

"Harold," Arnold tried. "Hi."

Still, Harold didn't glance away from the menu.

"Please be seated," the host instructed them then, pointing to an empty table. Arnold looked over and shrugged at Lila as they slid into booths across from one another. A young man wearing a sullen grimace and a nametag reading "Reynoldo" appeared beside them.

Wordlessly, Reynoldo began pouring them glasses of water from a silver pitcher. He filled Lila's first. As he picked up Arnold's, however, the pitcher slipped out of his grasp. Before Arnold knew what was happening, his hair was sopping wet, as was his shirt, which was so soaked it began dripping water onto the floor.

Arnold reached up on reflex and rubbed the water out of his eyes.

"Whoops," Reynoldo said. His face was strangely bored looking. "Let me wipe that up for you."

He dipped into the pocket of his apron and pulled out a rag, which he began dabbing at Arnold's temple with.

"It's okay," Arnold told him quickly. "I'm fine."

"Ooh, they have fettucine and alfredo sauce," Lila said dreamily. "I just love fettucine and alfredo sauce."

"Why don't you get it?"

"Oh, no." She gave him a faintly horrified look. "It has so many calories."

"Oh… right…" Arnold glanced down at his menu again. He had been planning on getting a cheeseburger and fries, but suddenly he felt awfully self-conscious about that decision. Wait a second, was that a girly thing to think?

"I think I'll get the sparkling water and Caesar salad. I just adore Caesar salads."

"More than fettucine alfredo?"

"Almost as much as fettucine alfredo."

"That sounds good."

They stared blankly across the table from one another. Lila looked down, apparently intensely interested in examining her nails.

It felt to Arnold like a hundred or so minutes before Reynoldo appeared at the table again to take their orders, and another hundred minutes after that until he'd come back with their food. When he spotted their water again – with a towering salad for Lila and a burger (no cheese) for Arnold – his stomach leapt with relief.

"Ooh, thank you ever so much. It looks just delicious."

"Thanks," Arnold echoed after, but there was a loud crashing noise as the second plate in Reynoldo's hands fell to the floor. Suddenly, Arnold could feel something slimy trickling down his forehead.

On reflex, he leapt out of his seat. The burger was in his lap; his hair dripped with the condiments and stray lettuce leaves. Fries were spilling every which way – down his shirt, onto the table, onto the floor. The shattered remains of the plate Reynoldo had broken were also on the floor.

"Oh, no!" Lila yelped out, holding her hands to her face as though she'd just been witness to a horrific crime scene. Arnold blinked at her from behind the grease coating his eyelashes.

"Whoops," Reynoldo mused. He looked down at the watch on his wrist. "Sorry about that, kid."

"I…" Arnold muttered, staring down at the mess surrounding him. He didn't want to make this butterfingered young waiter feel badly, but on the other hand: really?

"I'll go get you another one," said Reynoldo, and was off again before either Arnold or Lila could say a word.

"Arnold," Lila said slowly. "Maybe you should go… rinse yourself off?" She cringed. "There's mayonnaise in your hair."

"Yeah… you're right." He paused. "Go ahead and start eating. I'll be right back."

He began to make his way towards the bathroom at the back of the dining area.

As Arnold stood over the sink, splashing water onto his face and attempting to wipe his head with wads of paper towels from the dispenser, the eerie feeling that someone was out to get him increased.

But that didn't make any sense, did it? He stared, bewildered, at his reflection in the mirror. He was being paranoid. Wasn't he?

When he decided to return to the table, having come to the conclusion that he was clean as he was going to get until he had access to a shower, seeds from the buns were still falling from his hair.

It was an accident, he reminded himself firmly again. Lila was studying her phone, silverware still rolled up in her napkin and food untouched. She was politely waiting for his second burger to arrive before starting in on her own meal, it seemed.

"You didn't have to wait for me, Lila," he told her.

"Oh, Arnold. Don't be so silly. I wouldn't want to start without you."

It took another twenty minutes before Arnold's burger was ready.

He smiled uncomfortably. "So, erm, you were saying earlier that you enjoy the weather this time of year?"

"Oh, yes. And the holidays. They're my absolute favorite, but I– "

"But you?" He prompted her.

"Hold on - Arnold - AUGHHH!"

Arnold heard Lila's horrified scream seconds before he felt the hot liquid trickling across his scalp and down his back, scalding his skin. He leapt out of his seat on impulse. Their waiter had returned seemingly out of the blue, carrying a now half-empty pot of coffee, the other half of which had just been poured all over Arnold's head.

"Oops," Reynoldo said in a bland voice. "Sorry, that was an accident."

But Arnold couldn't contain himself anymore.

"An accident? How could it be an accident? We didn't even order coffee!"

"Arnold," Lila mumbled. "I'm certain that -"

"Excuse me for a second," Arnold said, chair scraping against the floor as he stood up. He was going to have blisters on his back from the burning water.

"Arnold, I'm ever so certain you're embarrassing me."

But Arnold ignored her as he caught Renyoldo by the sleeve of his white collared shirt. "What is this about, anyway? Why are you doing this?"

The young man blinked uncomfortably. "Look, kid, I –"

"Wherever you were going with that coffee, it wasn't to us!"

"I… got distracted… thought you guys ordered some."

"Oh, come on!"

"Okay. Fine."

Arnold crossed his hands over his chest, blinking.

"He slipped me five twenties, okay?"

"What?"

"Dunno anything else," Reynoldo continued, in the same monotone voice. "I just needed the money. No hard feelings, right?"

"Who slipped you five twenties?"

"Him," Reynoldo motioned with his thumb toward the table near the lobster tank, where Harold Berman was still sitting by himself. "Chubby kid with the hat. Said he wanted me to mess a few things up for you tonight."

Lila's eyes expanded to the size of saucers.

"But, I," Arnold mumbled, struggling to take this in. "Why?"

"What am I, a mind reader? Go ask him if you want to. He already paid me up anyway." Reynoldo shrugged and began to walk away towards the next table, refilling a middle-aged couple's mugs with the remainders of the coffee pot.

"Arnold," Lila whispered. Even amidst all of the other noise surrounding them in the restaurant, he could hear how rushed and frantic her voice sounded. "You look… you look ever so angry… hold on for just a moment… don't do anything brash, calm down, just—"

But Arnold had had enough. He stood up and marched several feet towards the small table until he was right beside the boy who'd threatened to beat him up so many times in elementary school.

Harold was bent over the placemat in front of him. He was coloring, Arnold realized, with a set of primary-colored crayons meant for the small children who frequented Bigal's with their families.

"Harold."

"Whadda you want? I'm busy here, can't you see I –" He broke off and let out a small yelp as he looked up. He was clutching the placemat in front of him to his chest like a shield.

"Why?" Arnold asked evenly.

"Why what?"

"You know what!"

"I do not!"

"Why'd you do it?"

Harold let the placemat fall to the table and began to fiddle with the blue paper wrapper on a crayon instead. "I dunno what you're talking about."

"Look, Harold, your cover's already been blown. The waiter told me. So you might as well come out with it now. Be honest." Arnold ran a hand through his sopping hair, wincing as a tomato became dislodged and fell to the floor. "Don't you remember… don't you remember when I helped you work out day and night so you could lose weight? When I got you your very own pet cat in the seventh grade after Cupcake died? When—"

"Cupcake," Harold said, sighing fondly. "I miss her. Gingersnap's a close second, though. Actually, it's tied. Yeah, it's tied. Gingersnap and Cupcake. The two best pals a guy could have."

"Harold."

"What?" Harold pouted, but his face was filled with shame. "Okay, okay. You're a good pal, too. Look, I wouldn'ta done it on my own, alright? I was… I was helping… a friend."

Arnold's eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

"Well… I mean… a friend, sorta."

"So… you were helping a friend, sorta," Arnold repeated slowly. "To dump my dinner on me. And hot coffee, which might give me third degree burns, by the way. And my bike?" he added, looking warily into Harold's eyes. "The bike my dad gave me? Was the destruction of that… also your doing?"

Harold looked down at his hands. "Yeah," he said quietly.

Arnold shook his head, numb with disbelief.

Harold looked up again. "And that's not all of it, either. Just… just don't touch your second dinner, alright?"

"Why not?"

"It's gonna be laced with la… la.. what's the name of that stuff again? You know, the stuff that makes you shit your pants?"

"Laxatives?"

"Yeah, that's it. Wouldn't touch that meal, if I was you."

"I—"

"And I guess I shouldn't unleash the lobsters, or set fire to your table, either. See, I was told to unlatch the tank, and then figure out how to push your napkin up against the candle while you were in the bathroom, and then —"

"Harold!"

"What?" Harold said nervously.

"Are you going to give me a reason for any of this?"

Harold said nothing, rubbing his hands against his temple.

"You were at the movie theater a couple weeks ago, too. Were you on your mission then?"

"Yeah."

"Who told you to do all this?" Arnold demanded.

"That's information I… I can't give to you."

Arnold sighed testily, staring the boy in front of him up and down.

"Well, why did you agree to do all this?"

"The money!" Harold wailed. "I just wanted money. I wanted the money cause I wanted Patty to have a nice party, and… and… and… I failed, even at that." He thrust his head down into his hands and began sobbing.

"But… but…"

"I didn't think I'd get a lot of money or nothin, just a little money. Only now, I don't have anything at all."

"Harold—"

"Just leave me alone, Arnold! You have no idea what it's like being me! Patty never even asked why I didn't get her anything for her birthday! You know why? It's cause she knows I'm a big dumb loser, and she never expected anything different from me!"

"But Harold, I—"

"I said leave me alone, Arnold!"

Beside himself, Harold knocked over his chair as he stood up, bolting out of the café in tears.

He was the loveliest boy in the whole world.

It was all Rhonda could think as she ran her hands through his hair, across his chest.

He was perfect.

And she was the one he was spending time with. Still.

"You're beautiful, Rhonda Lloyd."

Samuel's voice came out almost as a whisper. In the light of the moon pooling through his bedroom window, she could see only those glittering amber eyes, and the shapes of his football trophies on the wall behind them, marking every single one of his victories.

"I'm ready," she whispered back. Her voice carried through his bedroom like the promise of a high school lunch bell.

And Samuel didn't even stop to ask her if she was sure.

"So… I…"

Lila was trying to make him feel better, Arnold thought. But she didn't know what to say to him, it seemed.

And neither, really, did he know what to say to her.

"I'm ever so sorry," she finished. "About your bicycle, and your clothes, and just, well, just everything. I can't imagine why somebody would purposely want to hurt a sweet boy like you."

He looked down at his knuckles, internally debating what, if anything, he should tell her. There was a thought in his head. But that thought was a bad one, an uncomfortable one, and to him, in all its unbearable rawness, a devastating one. And telling her would make it a real possibility. He wasn't sure that was a responsibility he was willing to take on.

"I don't know," he said quietly.

The evening light outside had faded quickly, the city lit by streetlamps and skyscrapers instead of the sun. On a better night – Arnold thought – he might have done more than walk Lila home. He might have stepped inside with her, laughed with her, sat with her on her couch until they were both too tired to sit up straight anymore.

But he didn't feel like doing any of those things, right now. He was too focused on trying to figure out whether he was going crazy, or whether it was indeed possible that the only girl he'd ever loved was really so dead set on destroying him. Whether Helga Pataki had actually paid Harold to pull all of those stunts tonight.

He didn't want to believe it was even a possibility. But wasn't it too much of a coincidence - the fact that Harold and Curly had both been present for the disasters of Lila and Arnold's first date, and the fact that Curly Gammelthorpe was friends with just about one and only one person in Hillwood?

And besides, who else had ever had any motive for wanting to make him so miserable?