Arnold didn't see Helga for the rest of the weekend. The guys at Monday afternoon practice cautiously avoided any mention of the debacle—even Harold managed not to breathe a word. Helga's ominous absence from practice must have frightened them.

When she'd run out of the building that awful evening, Arnold and Phoebe had sat, stupefied, for a full thirty seconds, unsure where they should look. Gerald had been the one to snap him into action with a quiet "Go get her, man." Some good that did… It was torture remembering the shell-shocked looks on his friends' faces, the infinitely long walk of shame to the door, all eyes dying to know what he'd do next.

On the field, Gerald attempted to console him with a kind look, but it was useless. When he got home, Arnold tried to call her house and apologize (he had no idea for what—for expressing his own feelings?) but after the fourth time Mr. Pataki answered the phone (and the fourth time Arnold hung up without saying anything), he gave up.

Phoebe's strained voice wasn't much help either. "Honestly, Arnold, I had no idea it would… backfire in such an alarming way."

"I've probably already told you too much, Phoebe. And she's probably talked to you about it anyway so—" Arnold rolled onto his side on top of the blanket. Still fully dressed, he hadn't left his bed for hours.

"Oh no, she hasn't talked to me. I'm afraid it's pretty serious."

"Well, thanks anyway." Arnold sighed through his nose. "No more double-dates at French restaurants… ever…"

"What?"

"Never mind. Just something Gerald said."

"Oh, okay."

There was the slightest pause.

"How are you two doing anyway?"

"I don't know what you mean, Arnold."

"Yeah you do." Arnold stated meaningfully. He waited one second, two seconds…

"All right… We were planning on extending an invitation to the movies once you two had… Well, it didn't go quite as expected, but we were prepared to wait a little longer anyway. We were just so—excited that you two were finally close to a breakthrough."

Arnold sighed again.

"It'll work out, Arnold. I'm certain of it. The look on Helga's face suggested to me that she was very touched."

"I wish I could believe that, but I think I've finally pissed her off for good, even though I have no idea what I did."

"Once she cools off, she'll apologize. Helga didn't learn conflict-resolution or self-expression from the best role models, but she's undeniably blessed with a conscience."

Arnold laughed grimly. "Well, she probably thinks of it like a curse."

"Very true. She does."

"I'm going to go finish my book report. See you tomorrow, Phoebe."

"Goodnight, Arnold."

Arnold hung up the phone and stared at the patterned floor of his room. The book report wasn't due for a few more days. He decided to stay in bed instead.

"For cryin' out loud, this is the fifth time tonight—What do you want?!"

"I-I'm sorry Mr. Pataki," trembled the voice, "is this a bad time?"

"Oh. It's Phoebe, right? Some jerk kid's been prank-calling the house. Ol-Helga! Your friend's on the phone!"

"Not now, Bob."

"Can she call you back? She's holed up in her room—yeesh, what else is new..." Mr. Pataki trailed off.

"Please, Mr. Pataki, it's rather urgent."

"All right. Hold on a second."

Bob pounded on the door. "Get your fanny out here, little lady. Your friend's got an emergency."

The door opened and closed so swiftly that Bob barely saw the cordless disappear through the crack. "Why couldn't we have had sons…" his voice faded as he marched down the hallway.

"What do you want, Phoebe?"

"Hello to you too, Helga." She got straight to the point. "I just got off the phone with Ice Cream."

Helga was silent.

"And I don't care if you don't like that I helped him. I'm not sorry."

Silence.

"He has no idea what he did wrong. Helga, he really cares about you."

Snort.

"Helga, if you don't talk to him, I-I'll spill the beans!"

"You mean, he doesn't already know?" Her voice was scathing.

A strangled noise came through the receiver. "Of course he knows—why would he try something so… raw if he didn't think it would win your heart?"

"B-but he didn't tell you about… you didn't talk about… you didn't…"

"No, Helga. Of course I didn't tell him anything. You're my best friend, remember? And I don't think he's told anyone about the incident, not even Gerald."

Helga's voice was emotionless. "You're such a double-agent, Pheebs."

Phoebe was starting to sound dangerously self-congratulatory. "And you're the biggest, asinine, ridiculous hypocrite I've ever met!"

"Hey! Who you calling asinine?"

Phoebe huffed. She was probably pacing by now.

"I messed up." Helga sighed.

"Yes, you did." Phoebe paused. "But you can fix it."

"I think I've pissed him off too much this time."

"Well, I think you can still make it up to him."

"What are you talking about, Phoebe?" Helga curled up into a ball amongst the nest of comic books strewn around her on the bed.

"Think, Helga. It'll come to you."

"Fine." In one motion she swept all the debris off her bed onto the floor and settled under the covers. "Goodnight."

"Hey Phoebe. It's late—don't you normally go to bed at—"

Phoebe's shrill voice cut across him. "Please remind me why we deal with those two blond nincompoops."

"Because, babe, without them it'd be a pretty boring life."

"I guess you're right. Gerald?"

"Mm?"

"I'm so glad that you're cool."

"Me too. Hey, I bet you a date at Slausen's they're holding hands and making eyes at each other in the hall by next week."

"Don't be silly. They already make eyes at each other."

"I mean simultaneously."

"Can we make it cash instead? I'm absolutely sick of frozen dairy products."

"I'm not even gonna ask."

"That's why I love you."

"Love you too. Get some sleep."

A knock sounded at his door. Arnold sighed, "Come in."

"You okay Arnold?"

"Yeah. Actually, no."

"You played that fancy musical number you were working on for the Pataki girl, eh?"

"Mmhm."

"Up on a stage in front of all your little classmates? With that tiny girl who's her only friend?"

"Yeah." Arnold was absolutely morose.

"And it backfired? Kablooey, POW-right-in-your-face, a hot mess?"

"Yep." Arnold pulled the fraying sheet up over his head.

"Well, Shortman, you've still got a lot to learn about women."

"I've learned enough, Grandpa."

"You'd think that, but no. You'll keep learning whether you want to or not, but you won't ever learn it all. It's one of those fantastically paradoxical mysteries of life."

"Great."

"Want some milk and cookies? I saved you an oatmeal-raisin."

"That's okay."

"Suit yourself." Phil bit into a cookie and chewed thoughtfully. "Give her some time, Shortman. It might take her a few days to process all of it through her wacked-out noodle."

Arnold emerged, laughing despite himself. "Does that make me crazy—for trying even if I know she's crazy?"

"Sure it does! But it's better to be crazy than bored, right?"

"I guess you're right. Thanks, Grandpa."

"Goodnight, Arnold."