24: Through This Haze and These Storms of Doubt

It was eight A.M. on Saturday when Helga rapped impatiently at the door of the boarding house. Birds were chirping in the yellow sunrise; kids running up and down the sidewalks already in preparation for the first promisingly pretty weekend of the year. Sweat trickled down her thighs and the backs of her knees as she waited there, gulping in the spring air.

Arnold was still wearing pajamas when he appeared in the doorway, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Oh, hey, Helga," he said in surprise.

"I'm ready to communicate with you now."

He blinked. Helga began to fidget with her hands as the anxiety in her stomach bloomed.

"Huh?"

"I said I'm ready to communicate with you," she snapped. "Aren't you even listening?"

"What? I mean – okay – just – give me ten minutes." He began to run a hand somewhat feverishly through his hair. "Let me just get dressed and –"

"I don't have ten minutes. If you make me wait that long I'll lose my nerve and chicken out. Or vomit all over your cute little square of gentrified grass here. Probably both."

He considered her for a long, agonizing moment, seemingly deciding whether or not to take her seriously.

"Either get your butt out here or I'm leaving," Helga threatened.

Slowly, Arnold nodded. Glancing behind him, he closed the front door and stepped out onto the stoop, barefoot and shivering slightly in his boxers. The two of them sat down beside one another on the concrete.

Helga took a deep breath, staring at the rusting fire hydrant across the street rather than at him. She'd refused to allow herself to imagine how this conversation might go, knowing that if she did, one of two things would happen: she'd either conjure up enough humiliating rejection scenarios to scare herself into paralysis, or worse, succumb to sweet daydreams of the possibility of a happily ever after and find herself crushed once reality struck again. It was better to try not to expect anything at all, she'd decided. She just had to get it out there. Spit out the words, shed them like poison, or a molting skin, or a weight she'd been carrying inside of her. She could make a run for it afterwards, and if need be, she would.

"I never really wanted to break up with you," she mumbled. She could feel his gaze burning into her, but she kept hers determinedly on the hydrant across from them, her nausea mounting.

"Arnold, there's only one person in this entire Godforsaken, shittastic hellhole of a universe that I've ever wanted to be with, and it's you. It's you, okay? I've been tragically, pathetically, revoltingly in love with you since we were in preschool and I never stopped."

As if acting on instinct, Arnold reached over and squeezed her hand, but she pulled away from him.

"But I've also spent my whole life feeling kinda shitty about myself," she went on skittishly, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "And I know now it's not fair for me to blame that on you, or expect you to make everything better for me, cause you can't do that."

"I—"

"It's just, sometimes I used to think, some people, like Olga, and Lila, they're just born princesses from the start, and they go their whole lives like that, like they go their whole freaking lives just believing their fairy godmothers or some shit are looking out for them, and they know boys will fall all over them because they're so pretty and smart and kind, and they're used to that. And I actually kinda sorta like Lila now, but I thought, maybe that's what you wanted, you know, a girl who didn't act all messed up like me, someone who's all full of sunshine all the time and sickeningly sweet to everyone and junk like that."

"Well, I—"

"I don't know what you do or don't want, but I kept getting confused, and I know you're not a dishonest person, believe me, I know that, but the longer we were together, the more eaten up about everything I started to feel, cause you're kind of shit at communicating, too, sometimes. I mean, no offense, but you are. I really, really wanted to believe you liked me back, but you never told me in so many words, and aside from that the whole problem is you always have to go and be the nicest person in the whole freaking universe, to everyone, so where is that supposed to leave me, Arnold? How was I supposed to know whether you really wanted to be with me or just felt too bad about turning down a girl whose heart started bleeding all over you every time she opened her friggin mouth?"

"Helga, I –"

"I know I'm a real asshole sometimes. I really want to not be, but I am because my head always messes with me and sometimes I can't even tell what's real and what's not. I would get angry and j-jealous, and instead of trying to talk to you about it like a normal person I would just... be an asshole. That's entirely stupid, and I'm sorry for all the times you had to be at the receiving end of... me." She scratched anxiously at her arm.

He took a deep breath. "I know you are."

"I hope you know I never really wanted to hurt you or embarrass you. Even when we were little and I would do stupid shit like glue feathers to your butt or barrage you with spitballs, I wasn't trying to make your life miserable. I… I just wanted you to notice me."

To her surprise, Arnold let out a short laugh at this statement. Helga leapt to her feet, wounded.

"Okay, you know what, just screw this," she snarled. "I didn't come here and spill my guts to have you laugh at me."

"No, no, Helga, I'm sorry," he said, looking guilt-stricken as he tugged at her arm. Resentfully, she sat back down. "I didn't mean to laugh, I just – I was thinking about all those spitballs you used to throw at me," he recounted nostalgically. "Sometimes I'd come home and more and more of them that I hadn't even noticed would start falling out of the back of my shirt, and one time I took a shower and–"

"You're missing the point."

"You have never made my life miserable, Helga Pataki."

Her heart skipped a beat. "I haven't?"

"No, you haven't. Not when we were little, and not now. And you shouldn't feel like you need to be full of sunshine all the time. If were, then... you wouldn't be you. And who you are is enough. It's more than enough. Because, well, there's no one like you, Helga."

She swallowed.

"You're special, as a person, and you're special to me. And maybe - maybe I haven't always been good at telling you that, and I'm sorry." He rubbed the back of his shoulder with one hand. "You were always great at putting things like that into words. It's just… it didn't always feel easy for me." He was giving her that fixated, thoughtful gaze that sent goosebumps prickling down her arms. "I felt overwhelmed sometimes. Just - I didn't even know what it meant to be in a relationship with someone, and then all of a sudden, we were in one. I felt sometimes like I was just wandering around in the dark. Like I didn't even know how to, you know, get through puberty, let alone how to be a good boyfriend."

Helga chewed on her lower lip. "Well, I didn't either, obviously. Know how to be a good girlfriend, I mean."

"We were both doing our best at the time," Arnold reasoned. "We were only little kids at the beginning. And even if maybe it was dysfunctional sometimes, I wouldn't trade it for anything."

She felt her face heat up. "Neither would I."

She began to shuffle her hands again uncomfortably. In the increasingly bright sunlight, she could see his eyes swelling with something she still didn't know how to interpret.

"Do you think… if you want to… do you think we could have another chance?" he asked finally.

"Yes," she said immediately. "If you do, I mean. Then I do, too."

"I do, too," he echoed firmly, sending her heart thrashing around in her chest at full speed. He paused. "But if we're going to make this work this time, I think we have to do things differently."

"Differently how?"

"Differently like, we're going to talk about stuff this time. Stuff like – when you're upset or angry or feeling bad about yourself. You have to promise that you're going to tell me, Helga. I care about you so much, but I'm not a mind reader."

She studied her dilapidated fingernails. "Okay," she conceded. "That sounds fair. But you have to promise the same thing. You're gonna talk to me, about your feelings and stuff. I mean, your real feelings, about me, and everything, no matter what. Even if you're afraid of hurting me or even if you're not sure. You have to be as honest as you can be, or we're going to end up even worse than before."

His green eyes flickered as he stared at her. Her stomach flipped over again. "I will. Of course I will."

"And other terms and conditions will apply, too," she added hastily. "The no PDA rule is still a given. And don't think you can pull off any of that mushy bullshit either, like giving me flowers for no reason or sticking love notes in my backpack. You know I hate that stuff."

"I know."

"Chocolate's okay, though. Any kind of food is okay. Just as long as it's not some gross health food."

"Got it." He was smirking at her now. Helga felt like she might melt on the spot.

"Anything else you wanna add?"

Arnold shook his head. "I think you just about covered it."

"So… are you saying we have ourselves a deal?"

"Deal," he agreed.

She spit ceremoniously into her hand and held it out for him to shake.

Arnold stared at her outstretched palm, his face filling with incredulity. "Really? We're going to shake hands?"

"You said deal, Arnoldo."

Rolling his eyes, he took her hand and shook it, but his expression soon transformed into something much more hesitant. "So... do you… think it would be okay if I kissed you now?"

She managed what she hoped sounded like a casual chuckle. "Well, that depends, Football Head. Is anyone watching?"

He looked left, then right. "I don't think so."

"I guess you have your answer."

And she squeezed her eyes shut as he wrapped his arms around her waist and brought his lips to hers.

It had been an awkward and emotionally painful month and a half, and Rhonda hadn't so much as broached the subject of Samuel with Connie. She felt fairly sure, however, that the boy she'd been so enamored of had spilled every last detail to the pretty blonde. She could just tell, by the way Connie glanced at her sometimes, catching her eye with some semblance of both guilt and curiosity in her expression.

"It's so gross how some people think it's okay to wear dresses even with their fat thighs bulging out all over the place. Can you please look across the cafeteria?"

"Ew, no," Connie retorted in response to Kelly's command. But she looked anyway, and snickered at the sight. Rhonda followed the girls' gaze to the table several meters away from them, where a slightly overweight girl she'd never met before was sitting, indeed wearing a mini-dress that rode rather high up her legs. The girl was also eating what appeared to be a foot-long subway sandwich, Rhonda noted. The observation might ordinarily have prompted her to grimace in disgust, but lately, she'd been feeling less and less inclined to chime in with the brutalization of other girls. She offered nothing to the conversation, choosing to focus instead on twirling her fork around in her own California salad.

"You got the math homework for me to copy?" Emily asked Rhonda, looking hopefully across the table while Rhonda sighed and reached into her bag. She did, in fact, have the math homework, an assignment Lorenzo had stayed up until one A.M. helping her with.

"Code red," Kelly interrupted. "The human rat nest is getting off the lunch line."

Rhonda looked over to where she was pointing to see none other than Nadine, scanning the crowd for a table to sit at with her tray of food in hand. Rhonda felt rage begin to boil in her blood.

"That hair," Kelly lamented again. "Does she know what a brush is?"

"Don't talk about my friend that way," Rhonda heard herself say coolly before she could stop herself. Kelly looked up, raising her eyebrows with an almost amused expression painted across her features, her lips quirking upwards. Rhonda barely restrained the urge to smack her.

"Sorry, Rhonda, but your friend needs to learn the meaning of shampoo and condition."

Rhonda's fingers curled up into fists. But it was Connie who interjected suddenly.

"Rhonda said Nadine is her friend." Connie's voice was quiet and even-toned. Rhonda glanced up, meeting her clear blue eyes. "And besides, I think her hair is pretty like that. It's a natural look."

There was a pause, a fraction of a second during which the two girls continued to stare at one another.

"Thank you, Connie," Rhonda said finally. She rose slowly from her seat. "Nadine has always had a very avant-garde sense of style, if you ask me. Now if you'll excuse me, ladies, I'm going to say hi to her."

She waved gracefully at Connie. Then she brought her bowl of salad over to the table Nadine was headed for, grinding her teeth nervously.

"Rhonda," Nadine said, looking slightly surprised as she peered over at the place Rhonda had left behind.

"Hi, Nadine. I was hoping I could eat lunch with you. If it's okay with you."

There was a short pause. Then, mercifully, a smile that lit up Nadine's face as she sat down and began jamming her straw into the carton of chocolate milk on her tray. With any luck, Rhonda thought, there would be stories about grasshoppers and camouflage stick insects to follow.

"You should have told me earlier, Eugene," Sheena said fiercely. He'd expected tears, truthfully. She was terrified of violence of any kind, certainly not barring the human-to-human variety. But she wasn't crying. She wasn't even shaking or trembling.

"I know, and I wish I had. I know you would've helped me."

"I would've helped you seven months ago, and I'm going to help you now."

"How?"

"However you want me to."

He managed a smile, small but genuine, as he reached out and covered her hand with his.

Miriam Pataki was in the kitchen, trying to make a cake. She didn't seem to have much hope that it would go the right way. Martha Stewart made it look so easy, Arnold guessed, with her chocolate-fudge-Oreo mix, two hundred and fifty layers, and accompanying ruffle icing. But the glossy photos in the magazine had only translated into a mound of something that looked more rubber than homemade dessert, and a counter covered in flour and eggshells. A blender containing the remnants of spiked smoothie sat in the sink; Miriam had all but already downed its contents.

Her family hadn't yet acknowledged her efforts. Big Bob was sitting on the couch in the living room with remote in hand, eyes locked on the flickering light of the TV screen. He'd always liked to mock the people in suits on the news, Arnold remembered, burping and yelling "For crying out loud!" every time they smiled and said Back to you, Sandy as they lamented the latest serial killer or pedophile on the loose.

A burst of rain-laced light streamed in through the open window, carrying a tiny breath of relief in the humid kitchen. Miriam jammed the last of the contents of an icing container onto her confection and turned to the two teenagers sitting at the kitchen table.

"Okay, sweetie, what do you think?"

"What the hell is that, Miriam?" Helga asked, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms defiantly over her chest.

"It's your pre-birthday birthday cake," Miriam told her. "Two hundred and fifty layers."

Helga's gaze flitted towards her mom's hopeful face, but her own expression remained stony. "I guess this is what happens when Olga's off gallivanting with the greats in Sweden instead of home working her magic, huh?" she retorted, eyebrow raised.

"Well... I tried," Miriam replied helplessly. She wiped her flour-coated hands on her dress. "Olga's going to be home tomorrow for your actual birthday, honey. And then she'll make you her own cake."

From the living room, they could hear a furious guest speaker on the five-thirty segment, demanding that the president take steps to euthanize the homeless.

"Finally!" Bob shouted triumphantly at the screen. "Someone on this nut job channel who's got some sense in him!"

"B!" Miriam called out. "Aren't you coming in to celebrate?" Her voice was hardly loud enough to drown out the TV.

"What?" Bob screamed back. "Oh, yeah yeah. Fine."

"I'll get some plates," Miriam said. "You'll stay and eat with us, won't you, Alfie?"

"Of course, Mrs. Pataki," he told her, smiling warmly.

"We don't want to eat that mess, Mom," Helga snarled at her. "You can eat it."

But Bob was already wandering lazily into the kitchen, stretching, and Miriam brightened just a little.

"What's this?" he demanded, the expression on his face much like his younger daughter's. Arnold sometimes thought he and Helga were mirror images of one another, although he would never, not unless he wanted his bones pounded to dust, say that out loud.

"Helga's birthday eve cake," Miriam told him, the smoothie giving her voice a wobbly edge. "We have to enjoy every second of this. She's only going to turn sixteen once."

"Oh," Bob raised his eyebrow, scratching at his head. "Gee, you know, this is really... a lot, Miriam. But if it means something to the girl, then…"

"Helga loves chocolate cake," Arnold piped up suddenly, against his better judgement, and in spite of the heated glare Helga sent his way. Bob looked at him, raising his large eyebrow. Then he nodded slightly.

Helga mimed vomiting into her hands. "Thanks a lot, everyone, for your all too sweet messages of support, but I'm blowing this popsicle stand," she announced, chair scraping against the tiles as she stood up.

Without even thinking about it, Arnold reached over and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Come on, Helga. Your mom made this special pre-birthday birthday cake for you. Let's just stay for a little bit."

And he couldn't help his smile at the flush that crept up her neck and around her ears, her pulse quickening at his touch. She scowled grudgingly.

"Fine. But if we get food poisoning from this crap, I blame you, Arnoldo." She offered her mother a sideways glance. "Thank you for your efforts, Miriam."

Then she sat down again, rolling her eyes, and Arnold didn't let go of her hand the whole time Miriam cut the cake into thick, crumbling slices.

Author's Note:

I rewrote that first scene with Helga and Arnold, like, 30 times. I'd venture to say that I enjoy writing things that are emotionally angsty, but I'm not so good with writing straight up romantic and/or happy.

In any case, you guys, I'm planning for the next chapter to be the last one. I appreciate your feedback so much, I hope you're doing well, and I hope you have a wonderful week!