Stinky hollered from the tiny galley kitchen, "What do y'all want on the pizza?"
"Pepperoni!"
"Mushrooms!"
"Don't forget the chocolate brownies!" yelled a particularly enthusiastic voice.
"They don't have brownies, C.B.! Hey, fellas, can we get some garlic balls?" Stinky sounded hopeful.
"Hold on, let me count this change… Yeah, we've got enough!"
"Okiedokie! Add on one order of garlic balls!" The phone clicked into its receiver.
Sid shook his head and whispered to Nadine and Rhonda that he still thought Stinky was a vampire, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Nadine snorted and Rhonda rolled her eyes in disgust. Katrinka giggled and joked that Gloria should be the judge of that. Gloria blushed and mumbled something inaudible.
Sid shrugged and pushed himself up out of his seat, careful not to trip over the random legs jutting from various directions. He scrambled up onto the stage, grabbed the mic, and flipped on the tiny switch. He looked out over the crowd and took a deep breath.
"Are you ready for Slam—Jam—SEVENTEEN?!"
The crowd thundered. Sid smiled at the clever name that was coined last year—everyone had heard of the wrestling fest, but it was their own homely group who put this spin on it. In reality, it had been Harold's and Helga's joint idea, but Sid proudly credited himself with the implementation and growing hype around it.
The core of the neighborhood gang remained strong, but no two nights at the Coco Hut were ever the same. Many members of the group pulled in various friends from other classes—Rhonda and Patti started a knitting subculture at one point, and Timberly and her friends sometimes dropped by, sitting in their own corner and talking mostly amongst themselves. Despite this unplanned sprawl, Sid liked to think of himself as head publicist—he had even made flyers once.
Eugene's whistle rang out above the shouting. "Then without further ado," Sid continued benevolently to his subjects, "in this corner, Mr. Suaveness himself, the Keeper of the Tales, the handsome, the debonair—"
"Get to the point, Sid!"
"GERALD JOHANSSEN!" Feet stomped and the floor shook. Arnold, sitting at one of the tables closest to the stage, glanced covertly towards the ruptured ceiling and noticed a few lingering fragments rain down. They really did need to fix that hole…
"And in this corner, the record-holder, the infamous It Girl, the blond bombshell herself—" somebody catcalled and Sid wiggled his eyebrows, "—HELGA G. PATAKI!"
Harold whooped and pumped a fist in the air. "Get 'im, Madame Fortress Mommy!"
Usually Arnold backed Gerald on harmonica or bongos. Today they were taking a break—Eugene couldn't play the flute "on account of his poor busted up hand," Stinky was so kind to point out in his matter-of-fact way. From the audience, the view was different. When Arnold was on stage, he could only see the back of Gerald's head or occasionally the side of his face—this time he not only could see Gerald's serious concentration but also Helga's cool demeanor as she lurked in the shadows near the back. Did she always do this? How had he not noticed before? She didn't look nervous at all. He guessed her practicing technique was working as planned.
Phoebe was sitting this one out as well. She had left her bass at home and opted to bring her more compact cello for the musical portion of the evening. The musicians of the group liked to call it that anyway. The non-musically-inclined tended to call it "poker time" and would deal each performer in to the game in turn when they'd finished a piece.
Most of these performances were technically practices for marching band or the school symphony orchestra, but there were a few prodigious efforts sprinkled into the mix. When Stinky could be persuaded away from his card table, and only if Phoebe and Park deigned to contribute some twang with their own strings, he could light up the room with his banjo.
Arnold peeked at Phoebe's face to see her glowing in admiration as Gerald cleared his throat. Well, there was no debate over who she was rooting for.… Arnold blinked and realized he had been secretly doing just the same thing all along. He felt guilty—Gerald was his best friend. Or had he thought he'd been rooting for the underdog? He did typically root for the underdog. He was flummoxed. Gerald was good, but Helga had proved time and again that she was not the underdog in this case…
Gerald, meanwhile, had closed his eyes and shouted something about the innocent cruelty of children. The room was engulfed in an expectant hush. Arnold tried to wrench his mind back to Gerald's poem. Harold said loudly behind his hand to Patti, "Man, that's deep!" Patti elbowed him.
When Gerald was finished, he gave such a deep bow that his hair touched the floor. Phoebe was clapping animatedly next to Arnold, and he couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. He caught her eye and grinned, and she immediately snapped back to the stage. Helga would have probably used an irritable shut up here, but Phoebe wasn't far behind her. "Be quiet, Arnold."
"I didn't say anything!" He laughed.
"Let's hear it for Gerald!" cried Sid once he had the mic back.
The room clamored loudly as Gerald jumped down from the stage to walk back to his seat. Arnold waggled thumbs with him and stated a sincere, "That was great, Gerald!"
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll enjoy it while it lasts, I guess." He turned to his friends around him and blew mock kisses at them. They responded with mock fainting and roaring laughter.
Arnold saw Phoebe shoot Gerald a soft smile that clearly said, "You tried your best," which only confirmed whose side she was on, and then Helga took the mic.
"Hello, ladies and germs!" came her customary salutation. She doled out a dry "Calm down, honey" in response to Eugene's shrill cheer.
The room eventually fell quiet and then Helga took a deep breath.
Three minutes later, Gerald slumped in his chair, defeated, but magnanimously sportsmanlike. He shot a couple pistol-fingers at her as she bowed elaborately and sauntered off the stage. Arnold clapped with the rest of them, trying to blend in, but he had a horrible feeling that he had been caught.
Yes, Helga had rubbed off far too much on Phoebe. It was Phoebe's turn to smirk knowingly at him, arms crossed. Arnold squirmed in his seat. She leaned towards him and whispered underneath the racket their friends were making, "Don't think I didn't see that tiny tear in your eye, Mr. Shortman."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Phoebe."
"I won't tell Helga if you won't tell Gerald."
Arnold stared at her. She wouldn't even let him deny it.
"Fine. Deal."
"Forgetting!"
"What're you two chatty Cathys talking about?" A torso suddenly descended between their faces as Helga reached for the last slice of the open box of pepperoni. Arnold gripped the edge of his chair. He was glad the room was dark.
"Just how magnificent you were, Helga!" Phoebe beamed.
"Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don't know." Helga plopped down into the dilapidated love seat behind them and kicked her feet up onto the table. Arnold had a fabulous view of her left calf. He gulped and chanced a glance over his shoulder. The pizza was halfway to her mouth.
"What?"
He smiled shakily. "Yeah, that was… that was beautiful, Helga."
She stared, wide-eyed, but the moment disappeared as Gerald reached back to give her a fist bump and Patti clapped a large hand on her shoulder en route to the bathroom. Harold tossed her a fresh Yahoo and in his own special way congratulated her on another fine composition of the spoken word, "You said it, Helga!"
"Next up!" Sid bellowed. The crowd hushed as all the attention snapped back to the stage. "Peapod Kid!" Everybody cheered. Stinky clinked his Yahoo across the table with Harold. Harold reached for the next delivery box in the stack. "Aaaaaaaaannnnnd Park!"
Nadine and Rhonda started up a chant: Pea-pod Pea-pod Pea-pod. Park shook his head across the stage at his bespectacled friend and rolled his eyes. One of them would have to go up against Helga after this, and neither of them probably had the material to beat her. Again.
But Helga was cheering loudest of all. Arnold could hear her voice catching up the chant around hearty mouthfuls of pizza. Her knee rested slightly against his shoulder, and he pretended with all his might not to notice.
"Shut up, Phoebe," he mumbled carefully.
"Why, Arnold, what a despicably filthy mouth you have," she whispered.
"And… and what a filthy mind you have," he whispered back lamely.
"Oooh, good one." She let out a tinkling giggle. "I'm positively shaking in my boots."
So Helga had been giving her sarcasm lessons. Great. He'd have to wait to ask Phoebe the question he was planning later. It was too dangerous here; he'd have to try in a more Phoebe-oriented place. He resolved to spend an extra day in study hall next week.