The flashbulbs blink

The cameras wink

But they know nothing

Of what's beneath

The Coco Hut was empty and strangely quiet, but Arnold closed the door behind him and walked in anyway. He flipped the light switch and stood still for a moment, marveling at how the silence only amplified the swirling notes in his head. He tucked the key Mr. Simmons had entrusted him into his back pocket.

While Simmons helped build this tiny community and stuck with it as long as he could, it had morphed organically over the years from a grade school project into an underground teenage hangout. Like a mother bird kicking its children out of the nest, he delved back into teaching his next batch of students and handed the baton off to Arnold. "I know you'll take care of the place, Arnold. Never stop being creative!"

Taking a deep breath, Arnold began to wind his way through the tables and chairs towards the upright piano wedged into the corner next to the stage. On another day he might have gone up to the boarding house roof and tried the grand there. But his grandparents, kind as they were, had done nothing to ease his feelings. He couldn't stay for fear he'd incriminate himself further—he shuddered to think what Oskar or Ernie might say. At least he was alone here. He discarded his jacket, tossing it over the arm of one of the eclectic chairs Sheena had upcycled from the curb. He took a deep breath and carefully pulled out the scratched and battered bench.

Fingers grazed the smooth keys and then he was immersed in sound. Thoughts and ideas that had swirled in his mind for days on end were finally able to emerge into being. Twenty minutes into a particularly wrenching segment that he couldn't quite get right, he started at a slight scraping noise coming from the ceiling. Were there rats in here? He sat still, listening carefully.

Before he could decide whether to continue playing or start looking for the source of the noise, a huge rending crash shook the room and a blond blur tumbled down onto one of the empty tables. When it landed, a string of curse words issued forth that would have been sufficient to make a younger Arnold blush.

He knew that voice. "Helga?!"

"That's my name," he heard her grunt. She kicked one of the toppled chairs off of herself and struggled to her feet.

He sat, limbs frozen, remembering a time when Helga had burst out of the wall of his bedroom. He choked out, "Are you okay? W-what are you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doing?" She rolled her eyes at his gaping mouth as she combed chunks of ceiling tile out of her hair. "I'm breaking in, that's what."

"You could've knocked." He pointed dumbly at the door.

She snorted. "Sorry I didn't remember my manners."

Arnold shook his head. Helga had literally crashed into his day. The music was louder than ever and there was no way to make a clean exit.

"But why are you here?"

"I could ask you the same question." She blew her bangs off her face and stood hesitantly.

He squinted at her. "How long were you in the ceiling?"

"What's it to you?"

So it was a stalemate kind of a day. A cacophony of bass assaulted his chest as he turned back to the piano. He shrugged. "Whatever."

"So… I couldn't help overhearing…"

Arnold tensed as his fingers touched the keys. "Um… yeah. It's something I wanted to try out. You know… just noodling."

"Isn't that some kind of jazz term?" Helga patted the dust off her shoulders and hopped lightly onto the edge of the stage.

Shocked, Arnold nodded. He'd never seen Helga play an instrument, let alone indicate any particular interest in jazz, although she frequented (and at times, participated in) many dances and performances where jazz happened to be. Her collaborations with Phoebe didn't really count—Phoebe was merely the background support, and even that was occasional. He suspected Helga allowed it to make Phoebe happy.

Either way, despite her prowess in the literary sphere, Helga's interest in the jazz world seemed no more or less powerful than their classmates'. Arnold considered himself an oddity anyway; even Gerald could only humor him so much when he came over to study. "Don't you wanna listen to the radio?" he'd say as Arnold delicately held up a classic vinyl record. What did Helga listen to? He studied her from his vantage point—she was sprawled back on the stage, one leg bouncing lazily over the other.

"But obviously that wasn't just jazz." She interrupted his thoughts with another nudge of conversation.

He shook off her leading statement and tried again, "Why'd you come here Helga?"

"Oh, I don't know… I guess for the same reason. To try something out." Her head lolled towards him and she exhaled haughtily. "Alone."

Arnold laughed and touched the lowest note. It filled the room with an ominous resonance. "First come, first serve."

"Well, Shortman, I've been breaking in here much longer than you have. I've got dibs." Her foot paused, a potentially dangerous sign.

"You can't make me leave." He smiled calmly and pressed the next lowest note.

Usually at this point the conversation would have escalated into an argument. But Arnold had discovered a pleasantly disarming effect on his companion. It was harder for her to counter a smile with an outright frown these days. Not impossible, and, more often than not, dependent on the person, but definitely harder.

"Oh yeah?" Helga's mouth twitched.

"Yep." He felt the impulse to play a chord and managed a glissando into another.

"Them's fightin' words, Hairboy." Happily, she didn't leap off the stage to proceed beating him up; quite the contrary, she resumed bouncing her leg.

He took this as something like encouragement so he tried something bolder. The melody that had plagued him for most of the year he finally allowed to leak out through his hands, and before he knew it, it took hold of him and carried him further than ever before. He didn't know how long it was before he chanced another glance at Helga, but when he did, he saw she was sitting bolt upright, watching him play. He faltered.

Helga suddenly turned her head to survey the empty room. Arnold looked back down at the keys, trying to keep going, but he lost the thread.

"D-don't stop!" Shocked at this unexpected remark, he blinked. Helga was looking at him again in a disquieting way. "It's nice."

Arnold slowly shook his head once. "I don't know how to get back to it."

"Oh." She nodded just as slowly, like she understood. "I get it."

"What?"

"The muse."

"You mean music?"

"No, Sherlock. The muse. It comes and goes. It just hits you, you know." She balled one hand into a fist and lightly tapped it into her other palm. "Then you've got to get it out."

"So is that why you're here?" Arnold leaned back slightly and crossed his arms. "Are you saying you have to get something out?"

"Okay, you got me." Helga flopped back onto the stage and stared at the gaping hole in the ceiling. Old crumbling insulation poked out around the edges. "I come here to practice, okay?"

"You mean for Slam Jam?" Arnold was surprised.

"Sort of."

"Why?"

"Same reason anybody practices. To get better," she counted on her fingers, "to conquer stage fright, stuff like that."

Arnold let another laugh escape him.

"What's so funny?"

"You, Helga G. Pataki, get stage fright?"

"I'm human, ain't I?" She glared at him, a challenge.

"Well, yeah. But I never would have thought you'd… I mean, you've been standing on stages for years!"

"So?"

Arnold changed tack. "Wanna try out your new stuff?"

Helga jolted. "Now?"

"Yeah, I've gotta see this stage fright thing first hand."

"Arnold… Arnold, Arnold, Arnold." She shook her head. "I can't do that. The creative process is not something you want to tamper with. We accomplished stage performers follow a strict code."

Accomplished. Sophisticated. "And what's that?" He smirked, waiting.

"Invent the most ridiculous superstitions possible and adhere to them religiously for all eternity."

"Huh?"

"I do my weekly practice alone and win. If I change it up, who knows what could happen?"

"You still win?"

Helga scoffed.

"No one's as good as you."

Her mouth opened and closed. The music still lilted long after it left the piano.

"Anyway…" Arnold checked his battered pocket watch. "It's getting late." He reached up to rub the back of his neck and looked awkwardly at his knees. "I'll let you practice." His foot left its comfortable perch on the worn pedal. He stood to grab his jacket off the flowery chair, and then suddenly thinking of something, rooted around in his back pocket.

The key sailed in an arc and landed in her hand. "What's this for?"

Arnold looked at her like she was crazy. "So you don't crash through the roof again? You can give it back tomorrow. Just lock up before you leave."

"Weren't you listening, Hairboy?" She tossed the key back. "Superstition. Don't break the habit."

"Whatever you say." Arnold slyly looked over his shoulder at her as he opened the door, one arm halfway into a sleeve of his jacket. "But you're forgetting something."

"Huh?"

"It's too late. We already broke it." He smiled again as the realization dawned on her face and then slipped out.

She was right though—playing the piano had given him a slight therapeutic release. It was a start. He pulled the door shut gently, locked her in, and hummed his way towards home.