Tuesday dawned bleak and gray. It had snowed in the night, but the flakes melted as soon as they hit the pavement. It would be a little longer before Arnold and his grandparents could make their annual ice rink outside the boarding house.

He sat idly in math class, forlornly imagining what it would have been like to hold Helga's hand, skating alongside her. She sat rigidly in her chair in front of him, scribbling furiously, and it took all his willpower to pretend he wasn't aching inside.

On Wednesday, Arnold decided to walk to school to avoid all the awful stares on the bus. He couldn't endure a third round of Rhonda's voice bleating on replay over everyone's heads: "And she just ran out the door! Can you believe how rude… after all that poor Arnold and Phoebe must have gone through… I mean, really, so what if you're crazy, Arnold—it was so obvious she broke your heart—the least she could do is—" Needless to say, Helga hadn't been on the bus or Rhonda wouldn't have survived this far.

Arnold soon found out how Helga had been getting to school. Helga was walking briskly on the sidewalk up ahead of him. It was incredibly cold, but she wasn't wearing a hat or gloves. He watched her hair get caught up in the biting wind and sadly heard the music again. It still wouldn't leave him, no matter how hurt he was.

Then, for reasons unknown to him, Arnold steeled himself. He decided to face this day like an ordinary challenge and jogged until he could call out to her.

She stopped, shoulders tensed and frozen in a crazy shrug. Maybe she was going to run away again. What an odd spectacle that would be, her careening wildly to school and him following her in a silly tortoise-and-hare race to the steps.

It was very quiet—and almost like it was ground out through a clenched jaw—but he could still hear it. "Sorry."

Just as quietly, and surprising himself, he felt his mouth return her words.

She turned slightly towards him. "You've got nothing to be sorry for."

They surveyed each other for a moment across the ten-foot gulf between them.

Arnold shrugged. "I scared you." He took a step forward.

Helga thrust her bluish hands into the deep pockets of her jacket. "I'm not scared of anything."

"Fine, I caught you off guard." He took another step.

"Maybe." Her eyes caught a far-off gleam. "Remember that stupid egg project when I was trying to be nice and you were an idiot?"

"Uh huh…" Where this was coming from, he wasn't sure.

"Can we consider it even now?"

He mulled it over, imagining how imbalanced this scale was. He'd table that calculation for later. "Considered."

"But you were… right. It's not something I haven't done to you…. and I shouldn't have treated you like that." When she said these words, it was almost like she was replying in monotone to a direction from a teacher—What do we say when we do something mean?

"Yeah… probably not." Arnold was trying very hard not to laugh. He was thinking of a younger version of Helga dragging a toe through the grass. Or the dirt. Or the sand. Or—

"Watch it."

"Don't start another fight with me Helga." Another step. "I can only take one per week."

"Har." Helga plowed ahead despite his attempts at lightheartedness. "I don't know why I said what I did about you and Phoebe. I know you both… It must have been really hard t-to…" she trailed off.

"I understand. Don't worry about it." He reached her square of sidewalk.

"Wait a sec, let me finish." She took a deep breath and let it out through her nose slowly. "I-I thought it was beautiful as a… as a fully-realized piece. I can't imagine what it took for you to write it."

His mouth went dry. "It was… a challenge, yes."

"You have a good muse Arnold."

"Of course I do." Arnold placed a hand at her elbow.

Helga's face slowly turned colors as his hint sunk in.

"Can I keep walking with you to school?"

Her feet turned to point her down the sidewalk and began to carry her onward. "Whatever."

"No 'whatever floats your boat?'" Arnold fell into step beside her. "Not even a 'no skin off my nose' or 'don't get too comfy'—"

"Arnold?" Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, brow furrowed in determination. She must not have heard what he said or she was very preoccupied.

"Yes?"

"I'd like it… if you could meet me this Friday night. At the Hut. At seven."

"Sure." He waited a moment, but an explanation didn't come. He prompted as gently as he could, "What for?"

"I'll explain it to you then. Just promise you won't tell or bring anyone else."

"Why?" Now he was preoccupied.

"I told you, I'll explain it to you then."

"Does this mean we're okay?"

"Yeah. We're okay."

He nodded, content. "Okay."