You don't trust me
To do it on my own
Blind in dual spotlights
Stranger in my home
Helga ran to the door and peered through the small, grimy window panes. When Arnold was finally out of sight she made her way back to the empty stage.
"Great, just great. Of course, of all the people, the worst person in the world who could possibly show up..." Helga trailed off, stomping on the creaky floorboards. "This was supposed to be the perfect place. And now Arnold could magically appear at any moment!"
Helga rubbed her temples. She ignored the hole in the ceiling. That could be fixed later.
She'd tunneled her way into the building through the vent system per habit, but she hadn't counted on the ghostly piano music. Anxious to get out of the dark (and away from the murky expanse of cobwebs), she paused to consider her options. Crossing to the middle of the ceiling seemed dangerous, but it was necessary to decide whether to resume her normal route or to turn around and make a quick getaway. Of course, she didn't believe in ghosts, having pretended to be one once, but potentially running into someone as crazy as Curly pretending to be one bothered her slightly.
She'd lain in the cramped wedge of space for several minutes, face pressed to the grate, gaze fixed in awe on the blond boy below. It was generally assumed that his grandmother had taught him how to play—and they did keep a fantastic grand piano on the roof of the boarding house—but she didn't know he'd kept it up all these years, nor that he'd gotten so good. Resigned, she made to turn back and give him his space, intent on finding another deserted spot to do her work, no matter how long it took, but the weak tiles beneath her unfortunately thought otherwise.
It was admirable that Arnold was able to simply go along with whatever excuses Helga fed him, whether he believed them or not. Most people would get frustrated or angry and give up, but Arnold was different. She'd snapped Phoebe's patience few times, but for the strength of their friendship it never did much harm. Although Arnold's patience stretched pretty far, one day she was bound to destroy it, but for now she was grateful he sensed her need to be alone.
Even so, she would check the front door next time. Helga inhaled deeply and reveled in the room's silence. She looked at her watch and counted: one, two, three, four, five. When Brainy didn't emerge after the customary allotted time, she relaxed and closed her eyes.
A raging flood of pent up emotion that had pooled in her heart all week surged up from her chest. All the thoughts and ideas she'd never let her classmates, let alone her beloved, ever discover poured from her mouth and filled the room. The majority of it never even written down, the vast volume of these words would be heard only once and by her ears alone as it reverberated like angry bees off the battered walls. This was the poetry of her soul.
In this way, she divested herself of the muse's hoard, stashed and rolled up and crammed into the spot between her left and right ventricles, to make room for the safe ideas that could be performed before an audience.
Once, in a feat of craziness or stupidity, she'd bolstered her bravado enough to speak a verse or two about this very concept during Slam night, conjuring an image of a topsy-turvy snake shedding its inner layers. That performance ended abruptly with her own frantic hand clapped over her mouth, which the morons in the crowd (fortunately) mistook for some sort of artistic embellishment, and so she never tried it again. Anyone who'd experienced the Helga outpour—Bliss, Phoebe, Lila, even Arnold himself—could corroborate that once she got traction, Helga was an unstoppable force.
There was no telling what would happen Saturday nights without this crucial step. Without it, everyone would know everything, or at least know enough to easily guess her deepest, darkest secret, and that wasn't a risk she was willing to take. While she usually burned herself out during one of these passionate surges of emotion, it was better to be safe than an easy target.
When Helga was satisfied with her work, she turned off the lights, hopped onto the kitchen counter, hoisted herself on top of the fridge, and scrambled back into the ceiling.