A/N: We start with a little moment from our favorite couple's past. Don't be alarmed if you start this chapter and think you're in the wrong fic! Heads up, I will probably be a bit longer between updates than a week, which is my typical time between new chapters. This chapter represents kind of a second climax, and hopefully, will bridge us to the next part.
I just gotta figure out what the next part will look like!
Please keep your comments coming, and always feel free to reach out to me for suggestions and feedback.
Keeping Arnold, Chapter 11: Everybody is a Little Hard to Love Sometimes
"What did it avail to pray when he knew his soul lusted after its own destruction?" - James Joyce
"Come on, Arnoldo, get your football shaped head in the game!" Helga scowled, pushing the ball into his glove with snarl. "If Wolfgang and the sixth graders beat us Betsy and I are going to personally hold you accountable."
Arnold adjusted his blue cap on his head, wiping the sweat from his brow. He didn't know why he was pitching so terribly, normally the sixth graders were a simple sweep for his fastball. "I'm trying the best I can, Helga." The heat and exhaustion piled up on his nerves gave his voice edge.
Helga didn't seem impressed. "What?! I know for a fact this isn't your best! Your shoulder is stiff, and you're releasing too early. You're all tense, and it's screwed up your sorry excuse for a fastball. These chumps ought to be easy pickings for you."
Helga was right. His pitching was thrown off. The sixth graders had them on the ropes, down 6-7 in the sixth inning. He had to stop their offensive drive if they were to have any hope of winning. He just couldn't get his head in the game. The disappointment he felt in himself made him imagine that the rest of the team felt far worse. He set his jaw, uncharacteristically serious.
Helga softened her expression slightly, her face sweaty under her catcher's mask. "Look, Arnold, just relax. We've thrown a billion fastballs in the bullpen that would light these suckers on fire. Aren't you into Zen and stuff?"
Arnold was too tired to be suspicious that Helga knew that he dabbled in Eastern religions. "Yeah."
"Just try to look at each throw as being the natural path the ball takes, no more, no less. Your arm will do the rest."
He was startled that she could make such a suggestion. It was out of character for the typically hellacious Helga. "How do you know that stuff, Helga?" He squinted at her, suspicion now strong enough to overcome exhaustion.
"I read ya know! W-whatever, just take the stupid advice or don't. I don't care how you do it, just strike this big idiot out or I'll pound you into next week!" She stormed off, squatting behind the plate with a scowl Arnold couldn't totally believe was anger.
Arnold regarded the dirty, old ball in his glove. He heard his friends shouting support, offering encouragement for their pitcher, hoping he had the arm still left in him to finish this.
"It'll be alright man," he heard Gerald shout from first base. "Just focus, we got this game in the bag."
He wasn't so sure he shared his best friend's optimism.
Arnold took the ball in his right hand and squeezed it with his fingers, feeling the slight give of the pliant projectile, savoring the feel between his fingers and palm. Taking a steadying breath, he stared down the line at Helga's hand, holding her glove above the plate with an expectant, impatient glare.
Was that the stare of the catcher who wanted to win this game, or the girl who was waiting for him to reply to her feelings?
This celebratory game at Gerald field between the fourth and sixth graders came on the jubilant heels of vanquishing FTi and saving the whole neighborhood. An adventure as wild and unexpected as any he'd ever been on, and the climax of that excitement was the awkward, frightening, confusing confrontation on that fateful building rooftop with Helga. Only a week had passed. Arnold's mouth still remembered that kiss.
He felt confused and stymied by his youth, wise and intelligent enough to know he was still too young to fully understand and grapple with the swirling emotions building momentum within him. He lacked the experience to tell him that what he was feeling was the stirrings of a powerful affection, built over years of fondness and patience, growing and maturing into a terrifying young love. All he knew was that when he looked at Helga, he felt frightened, not of the promise of bullying or violence she threatened him with constantly, but of the strange, complicated fluttering in his gut just below the heart and above his belly.
They practiced for this game together for an entire day at the start of the week. Helga and Arnold must have thrown a thousand balls, working to fix what Helga called his "half-cocked fastball." After every throw, she had a nasty comment or unhelpful insult to offer, even if she paired it with the rare jewel of legitimate advice. And by the end of the day, his fingertips were blistered, his shoulder ached, and his pitch had never seen such good form. He'd never spent that much time with her, he'd never had a reason to, and the prolonged proximity of her, the presence of her personality loomed so large over his awareness that it left him shaken. For the first time, he was physically aware of her in his life, and it scrambled his normally calm demeanor. It jangled him internally so severely, he avoided her the rest of the entire week. Anticipation to see her again built in him subtly, sliding into the chambers of his heart in almost imperceptible ways, until the day of the big celebration game arrived and he was a tangled mess of nerves.
Arnold couldn't bear to tell Helga that the reason he kept throwing wild pitches was because he kept making eye contact with her, and it set his heart to such a furious cadence that it made him dizzy, out of breath, and excited. It was different than the way he felt about Lila Sawyer, who wildly cheered his name from the side of Gerald field. With Lila it was uncomplicated, simple, pretty. She was extremely delicate, sweet, and trustworthy, and basically in every way Helga's polar opposite. He could tell Lila anything he was thinking or feeling, and when he was around her he got excited and calm at all once. Surely, that was the real deal. Surely, that had to be what poets and singers called 'love.'
Except now, when he began twisting his body and coiling the spring of his shoulder to launch his fastball at the leering, grinning sixth grader at bat, he made the slightest of eye contact with Helga again, eye to eye for the briefest of instants, and his whole body shuddered and shook out of alignment, and the ball went wild for the fourth time.
"God DAMMIT, Arnold!" Helga shocked him with the force of her cursing. He'd never heard her use that kind of language, but he still felt guilty for forcing it out of her as she scrambled to get the ball that flew past her and throw it to third. It came a fraction of an instant too late, and the runner from second stole his base. Arnold wilted under the jeering and taunts of the sixth graders, and could feel the confused, disappointed stares from his friends on the flat of his small back.
"TIME!" Helga shouted for the second time this inning, ripping off her face guard and striding to the mound.
Wolfgang walked up to the plate, smirking as he swung his bat in one hand at his side. "You gonna call time out every time he walks one of us, Pataki?"
"Shut up, Wolfgang," she barked over her shoulder. Arnold dreaded a second up close confrontation, because he didn't have any answers for her why he was acting so strange. None he could express to her right now anyway.
"Arnold, we need to change gears," she sighed with frustration, surprising him with her patience. No shouting or name calling, just a frank assessment of the situation and her suggested course of action. It felt bizarre, out of character, and yet oddly familiar. "Do you remember the pitch we worked on the other day?"
Arnold squeezed his hand on the ball he had in his glove in nervous reflex. "No, Helga, I can't throw that!"
"Yes you can, Arnold. The advice I just gave you? About how you should think of the throw as a Zen thing or whatever? That was good advice, just for the wrong kind of pitch. You don't have the ball control to pitch your rising fastball right now. You're too tense, for whatever stupid reason."
Arnold didn't offer any insights on that subject. "Helga, I have even less control of that pitch. If we threw it 200 times the other day, you probably only caught it 20 times!"
Helga slid her hand into Arnold's glove where his other hand gripped the baseball. She stepped closer, separated by inches rather than feet. Her fingers laced over his on the ball, squeezing.
"Arnold, this ball is all about letting go. It's about trust. That's what I was trying to show you. A pitch like this doesn't have to be perfect. In fact, it's pretty much gotta be full of flaws to work right. And these idiot sixth graders have never seen anything like it. You'll strike every one of these lanky, poorly-coordinated, glandularly-overwhelmed dunces out, no problem."
His fingers were very aware of her hand on his, the intimate contact in the walls of his glove so private, so tender, he was shaken to silence. He'd never been this close to a girl before. His mind was an awful blank and a riot all at once.
"Arnold, I'm your catcher," she started, catching his eyes with her clear blue gaze. Her voice became softer, quieter. "I'll catch anything you throw, you just have to trust me. I'll always catch your pitch. I swear."
The two preteens stared at each other, somewhat oblivious to the stares of their friends and otherwise as they intimately communicated on the pitcher's mound. Helga's cheeks began to pink, then redden as they lingered.
"Okay. I'll throw it." The decision was easier to make when she reassured him so kindly. It was pleasant, and unexpected.
"Of course you will, because I told you to," she started, stepping away with an awkward glance at the stands. Arnold looked out where she glanced, seeing Lila watching them, intently. The look was one he'd never seen on her face, a look of intense, maybe even hostile concentration. Helga stepped into his field of view, grabbing his attention again. "Just wait for my sign. We can't throw it every time, because it's an easy hit if you figure out the trick. We gotta corner Wolfgang first, then let it go. Think you can get at least two pitches over the plate, Football Head?"
Arnold kicked the toe of his shoe on the plate, nodding. "I can do it. This helped a lot. You know, Helga, I really like when you're nicer to me like this."
"Wh-what do you m-mean, Football Head?" She pulled her mask back on, stepping further away. "I'm not being nice, I'm trying to win this game."
"Maybe so, but you're going about it without yelling at me or calling me nasty names. It's nice. It's loosened me up." Arnold got wise to her hesitation, getting an idea. "It's the sign of a good catcher."
"Y-yeah, well, I'm the best catcher in Hillwood. You're just lucky to have me," she stormed off to home plate, signaling the game to continue. Arnold watched her squat at the plate, staring more intensely at him than before. Somehow, however, he was less thrown apart by that smoldering stare, and found himself drawn in. Fascinated. Curious. Somewhere in the silence of her stare, there was a dramatic truth. He wanted to see inside that shell of surly insults, and get a better look at what was inside. If it was anything like what he saw on that roof, or like the insightful and caring advice he just got from his catcher, he wanted to see a lot more.
"Everything alright, man?" Gerald called to Arnold, sounding curious and confused, obviously thrown off by what he just watched.
"Yeah, Gerald." Arnold steadied himself with a breath and took his stance. "Everything's fine."
"PLAY BALL!" Helga roared, and slapped her mitt with gusto. Wolfgang swayed his bat over his shoulder, sneering over the drive at Arnold. Helga's hand flashed her index finger, then lifted her thumb. An outside rising fastball, meant to draw Wolfgang into swinging and maybe tipping the ball into a foul.
Arnold wound his body up, kicking his leg up to coil the momentum of his pitch around his hips. Twisting, his arm swung around, snapping sharply and releasing in the exact center of the parabola of his throw.
The ball roared over the far side of the plate from Wolfgang, arcing up at the last minute towards Helga's glove. Wolfgang's swing was already mostly done when the ball slid past it, a narrow miss. Arnold grinned, meeting Helga's grin in return.
"Strike!" Arnold's grandpa called from behind Helga. He had volunteered to officiate their celebration game, eager to join his grandson in the game.
He only swung at that because of Helga's timeout, he was impatient. That was a ball, he won't swing at that again. Arnold caught the returned ball from Helga, and tried to keep his mind clear. He was still throwing wide, every time he looked at Helga. Trying to focus all his attention on his posture, his form, and the strength of his arm kept his awareness sharpened, so that when he locked eyes with his catcher, his hand released the ball wild. By the narrowing of Wolfgang's eyes, Arnold could see that the bigger bully wouldn't swing early for him again.
Just wait for Helga's call, he tried to reason with himself. Her fingers flashed the same call, the rising fastball to the outside. She's nuts, he grumbled internally, but wound himself up just the same.
The ball shot down the line at nearly 90 miles per hour, blisteringly fast for the pitch of a nine year old.. The pitch went wild a second time, this time bending inwards towards Wolfgang. He swung, the bat hitting the fastball nearly six inches below the sweet spot, sending it far afield and into the wall along the bleachers.
"Foul!" Phil called, handing Helga a fresh ball.
She grinned, tossing Arnold his new ball, squatting down into place with victory in her eyes.
We've got him cornered. She's going to call it.
Helga's hand flashed her index finger, lifting her thumb up at a 90 degree angle. Arnold was confused for half a second, because that was the call for his fastball. But a moment later, her pinky extended.
The knuckleball.
Arnold stared at her hand, recognizing the shape somehow. It was familiar, calling up a memory in him. Not long ago, he recalled, his class got a primer in American Sign Language, Mr. Simmons eager to "expand their horizons in communication." Being Mr. Simmons, the very first sign he taught the whole class was this exact sign. What did it mean? Arnold struggled to remember, as he stood pensively on the plate.
I love you.
Now he remembered. Although the hand was turned in the other direction when it was used for sign language, the same configuration sat at Helga's waistline, communicating with Arnold in secret.
He found it funny. Rather than excite him into a spiral out of control, the little playful message Helga was sending his way and probably hoping he didn't catch on amused rather than upset his nerves. He heard himself laugh, a single percussive "Ha!" moments after she flashed the symbol for his pitch. Helga's cheeks darkened in her mask, and Arnold remembered the confession on the roof again.
How long had he gone without noticing his own feelings? Could he puzzle them out in time to give her a proper answer?
Helga's questioning look brought him to this pitch, this game, their partnership. He took a long breath to steady himself, then slowly changed his grip on the ball in his glove, every finger curling under the ball so that he held it primarily by his knuckles and thumb. Wolfgang glared at him down the line, fuming and ready to hit whatever fastball came his way. Helga flexed her mitt, light on her toes, ready to bound in whatever direction his throw took.
Just imagine yourself as a calm spring, Arnold recalled Helga's advice when she showed him the throw. This pitch is fast, but it's all about confusing the batter with a throw that has no spin. It'll seem to hover towards the plate, and any wind will make it seem to wobble. The ball is floating down the river, Arnold. Find that calm positive center in you that I know you have.
Arnold closed his eyes and imagined the line to home plate as a river, clear and blue, originating at his feet and coursing in a straight line over home plate. In his mind's eye, he saw a ball floating down the river randomly, bouncing gently against the waves of the swift course, bobbing to and fro as it took whatever journey the chaos of nature dictated. His eyes opened, and he nodded once to Helga. I'll throw to you, Helga, because I know you'll always catch me.
Arnold wound up and threw his pitch. Wolfgang's eyes widened immediately as he watched the ball wobble out of Arnold's hand, barely rolling forward at all and moving awkwardly down the line towards the plate. Both he and Arnold saw in an instant it would go over the plate, and Arnold could only hope that Helga saw the trajectory clearer than them both.
Wolfgang's stance shifted as he swung with all his strength, his bat arcing in a bright line towards the ungainly and awkward knuckleball. Arnold held his breath in that terrible instant, watching Helga suddenly spring up from her position, moving quickly up and away from Wolfgang, out towards left field with her glove outstretched as far as it could go. Wolfgang's bat swung clear of the ball, missing it entirely as the knuckleball Arnold threw suddenly veered dramatically off its relatively straight path and wide outside the box.
"Catch it!" He heard himself shout, seeing the third base runner scrambling towards home in his periphery. If Helga missed the ball and it went past her, they would score another run for sure.
Helga's glove seemed to leap out of her hand, swatting the ball out of the air hard and slapping it onto the ground with a dramatic thud kicking up a shroud of dust. Phil stood ready behind her, watching the third baseman kick his legs underneath himself in a last ditch slide to home.
Arnold watch in awe as Helga turned her body, tagging the sixth grader stealing home on the foot, turning all the way around and throwing the ball in a rocket line to Stinky on second base.
Everybody stared in the immediate aftermath, almost too surprised and impressed to process what they had just seen. Arnold saw though, and was smiling as wide as he could at the panting Helga, who not only just caught his wayward knuckleball, but nailed a double play for the team and ended the inning, single-handedly altering the course of the game.
Cheering erupted wildly among the fourth graders, who rushed home plate to dog pile the shrieking Helga, who protested their over-enthusiasm with threats and flailing limbs. Arnold just stood on his mound, deliriously happy and fulfilled. He'd trusted Helga totally in that moment, letting her call the pitch and throwing the ball he had no control of to her. She caught his ball, and then went above and beyond anyone's expectations to secure their chance at victory.
Arnold joined the rest of the team on the bleachers, waiting until everybody was done congratulating Helga on her genius play to approach her. She reddened when she saw him approach, then scowled.
"If you're here to pat me on the back give it a rest. I got enough from these morons already."
Arnold sat next to her on the bench, grinning. "No, Helga, I actually just came to tell you that I got your message loud and clear."
She looked evasively away, leaning down to tie her shoe that was already tightly tied in a neat little bow. "I've got no idea what you're blathering about, Football Head."
"I think you do, Helga."
"You're not making any sense, Arnoldo, you might wanna drink some water or something. You sound delirious, probably sunstroke. Not that I care, we just need you to finish these overgrown babies off next inning."
"Sure Helga. Whatever you say. Just one more thing."
"What?" She shot back sharply. "You're getting on my nerves, sheesh, you just won't leave me alone. It's like you're in love with me or something, gross. Say your peace and then leave. Me. Alone."
"It's a message for Deep Voice, if you happen to ever run into them by any random chance. Tell them I know they're always there for me, and it doesn't go unnoticed. In fact, I really like it. And I'll figure out a way soon to repay and return the favor. Tell them to just be patient, I need to figure some things out before I go and say something in the heat of the moment."
A slack-jawed, shocked into silence Helga Pataki stared back at Arnold, her face growing ever deeper shades of red, her neck getting splotchy and her ears almost purple with surprised embarrassment. Before she could respond, Arnold stood up, smiling pleasantly. "And Helga?"
"Y-y-yes, Arnold?" Her voice was soft and small.
"You're up to bat."
Helga chewed her lip with concern, watching Arnold's feet slightly ahead of her lead them towards Gerald field. An empty stomach, angry and vocal about its current situation, loudly gurgled in her ears with every step. She hadn't gotten a chance to eat breakfast, and Helga was not at her best when she was hungry. In fact, she was a veritable terror. She dreaded the inevitable conflict she would rouse with Arnold when things got difficult or stressful, amplified by the emptiness in her belly.
What was even more maddening was the fact that Arnold hadn't said a single word to her since they left her apartment. The entire long walk, stony silence sat between the two would be lovers, making its presence known in the intruding sounds of the street and Helga's hungry innards. She struggled with what to say, deep in argument with herself over how she would apologize.
He definitely deserved a smack for this, Helga old girl. Don't go soft and let him off the hook just because he's so damn gorgeous in that tank top. Don't let him off easy. Don't look at his shoulders and back, no, I said don't look!
Sorry Helga, I'm gonna look. I want to eat him up. Look at the definition under his shoulder blades, my god. He could lift me over his head. The second I get a chance I am going to devour him.
No, no, no! This is all wrong! Arnold deserves an apology, a sincere vow to never raise a hand against him ever again, he, my perfect God, who in my hubris I saw fit to strike for his benevolence! I know his heart is just, even if his actions are confusing and irritating and really infuriating.
God dammit Arnold why did it have to be Lila? Anyone else in the world, I would have been able to shrug this off.
Alright, alright, enough crazy person internal arguments, Helga. Time to cowgirl up and eat crow. You know this is the right thing to do. First we tell him he deserved to get socked, then we apologize sincerely and promise to never hit him again, then we jump his bones and screw him all over Gerald field.
She looked up at Arnold, finally steel in her resolve to make good on her intended capitulations. One hesitation, then a second, and she finally opened her mouth a third time, pushing air out of her lungs and forcing herself to talk.
"Arnold, I want to-"
"Be quiet, Helga," he immediately interrupted her.
"E-excuse me? Arnold, I just want to-"
"I said, be quiet." His voice carried a tone she'd never heard before, something strong, something irresistible. She felt herself grow physically excited hearing it from him, surprising herself with her own interest. Despite herself, she found it difficult to disobey his command, and so went back to a fierce internal dialogue with her warring motivations.
Did he just shush me mid-apology? Who does he think he is? Nobody but nobody shushes Helga Geraldine Pataki when she's about to make a sincere, heartfelt apology! I oughta walk away right now!
No, wait, don't do that. This is my chance to explore that suddenly dominant side of his. How delicious. I'll just work up a little hot-cold routine and tease him a bit and see if I can get that to come out again. Oh man, I wonder if he gets rough? Easy, Helga, old girl, try not to drool. The thought of Arnold Shortman getting rough and ravishing you might be just too great to handle right now. One step at a time.
First things first, be patient and let him do whatever it is he's got planned. Maybe it's something nice? Maybe we'll play a little catch and then make up and get back to the kissing.
Helga held onto her small hopes with tenacious grit, obediently following Arnold to Gerald field with only questions in her mind.
When they arrived, Arnold quietly put his glove on and started to stretch his arms, swinging his well-muscled limbs to get them limber. Helga watched him from the corner of her eye, strapping her shin guards and chest protector into place. It'd been some time since she played catcher, last playing in her freshman year of college as a favor to Phoebe's softball team. She'd reluctantly agreed, having mostly lost a taste for catching when it wasn't for Arnold. She never could jive with a pitcher as well as she had when he took the mound.
Of course, she still kept in practice. She spent as much time at the batting cages as she could, in between visits to the gym and practice with Brainy. She alternated catching the machine-thrown balls and hitting them, getting in whatever practice she could to keep her skills as sharp as could be managed without live play.
I wonder if he kept his pitch in shape, Helga wondered, sliding her mask over her hat and face. She put a few fists into the fat fold of her catcher's mitt, her eyes studying his physique in a slightly less lecherous way, looking for the specific arrays of musculature and tone that would indicate he'd kept in playing shape.
God he's hot, she couldn't help but ogle, but kept her perversions to herself. He looked pretty fit, and had strong back muscles around the shoulders and deltoids. She could see them move under his skin when he wound his arms up, loosening the ligaments and tendons. She shook her hands at her sides, working out the tension of the previous night with stretching while she watched him.
Finally, Arnold nodded to her, and tossed her the ball gently. She caught it without effort, and returned the favor. They played catch for about a dozen more throws, getting warmed up in silence from the mound and home plate.
He's staring at me. Helga squirmed under his gaze, feeling hot in her chest and face at the scrutiny. What is he looking for? Helga knew why she was staring of course, and felt terribly human in her humbling sexual urges towards him, especially now that she knew something of what he was capable of. But she was also terrified that he was here to do something horrible.
Did he bring me here to dump me? She thought, and then immediately followed it with, You have to be dating first to get dumped, dumbass. You just fucked him.
Finally, Helga had enough of catch. "You ready to pitch, already?" The bite of impatience in her tone was hopefully enough to mask her nervousness. Arnold nodded, and caught her return ball before stepping into his pitching form. Helga crouched at the plate, slapping her fist into the mitt for emphasis, and then held her free hand behind her back. She wanted to see what he'd throw on his own, without prompting.
Helga's eyes watched his form with an expert's scrutiny while he wound up, his foot kicking high before turning his body dramatically to launch a blistering fastball straight down the line. It was a bit high, and rose up even more as it crossed the plate, making Helga raise the mitt to her face, right below her left eye. The ball slapped into her mitt with surprising force, stinging her palm even through the thick mitt.
She lowered the mitt slowly, anger immediately welling inside her, but suppressed by the surprise she felt. She was legitimately impressed. He'd thrown his fastball so that it would fly straight at the side of her face she had hit him on, even down to the spot on her cheek that matched his. It was quite a statement.
Is this your payback, Arnold? I bet you thought of that right before you threw it. You don't have the heart for revenge, but you are tragically impulsive, my dear sweet boy. Still, that better be the only time that happens.
Helga stood, throwing the ball into Arnold's glove, her voice gruff. "Your shoulder's stiff. And you released too early."
Arnold smirked. "That sounds familiar."
Helga tried to recall that exact combination of advice. Something about it sounded familiar, she agreed. Then, she remembered the last time she caught for Arnold. The day of the celebration game.
Her mind was a chaotic swirl of emotions and recalled vexation as she lowered back behind the plate. She could tell by his stance, his form, and the strength and sharpness of his pitch. He had refined his throw into a competitive weapon. He'd serve well as a ringer in amateur leagues, maybe he even had the chops to try out for the minor leagues if he focused and got himself into fighting shape. He had total control of the ball. It was no mistake he threw to that exact spot. Arnold was invoking that specific memory, and telling her something.
What is he saying to me? Does he want me to remember our win over Wolfgang? Is he trying to get me to remember the knuckleball?
Helga puzzled the mystery out, tugging at threads of possibility and unraveling the tangled mess of their shared past while she crouched back down, opening the mitt dead center over the plate.
Arnold's arm rocketed a much faster shot straight into the glove almost the instant she was settled down into her squat and had her glove open. He'd started his wind up before she was ready! Her hand felt that familiar hot sting on the palm, amplified by the harder second hit. She felt her pulse in her palm already. This time the ball had slammed straight into its position without any change of altitude or direction over the plate. A clean, textbook fastball.
Helga said nothing as she threw the ball back, settling back down faster to avoid Arnold's hasty pitches from catching her off guard a second time.
What was that throw? Perfectly straight, right into the glove, almost before I was ready to catch? What's his rush? Arnold, you better be careful, if you're trying to express your anger with me this way, things are going to get ugly quickly.
Again and again, Arnold delivered almost perfectly straight, unerring fastballs with steadily increasing tempo and air speed, wherever Helga positioned her mitt. She started placing it in unusual positions, high inside, almost touching the ground, even above her head. Every time, Arnold stoically delivered a pitch with nearly perfect straight trajectory into her mitt with surprising force. Helga's hand had grown used to the fat sting of the ball, and now that she was warmed up, she started to earnestly enjoy the simple physical activity, and really got into putting Arnold through her rigors despite herself.
After about an hour of thirty throws, Helga stood up and tossed the ball back to Arnold and decided to speak. "We gonna talk about this today, Arnold? Or did you just drag me out here to show me your modestly improved fastballs?"
Arnold caught the ball and regarded Helga with the cockiest look she'd ever seen him display. "We are talking. Start making some calls, I'm set on fastballs."
Helga could barely believe he was ordering her around, but found herself crouching back down without offering a complaint or rebuttal. What does he mean, 'we are talking?' He's just throwing fastballs wherever I put my mitt. Does he mean he wants to follow my lead or something? Dammit, I am a verbal communicator, Arnold. Songs and poems and big dramatic speeches, don't try to wizard up some kind of secret code here. Alright, you want to talk without talking? Let's show darling Arnold that this is fucking annoying!
Her hand moving through a few swift configurations, Helga commanded Arnold to show her his best curveball, and then held her glove far inside and nearly touching the plate. If he threw it right, it would have to arc dramatically from outside, over the plate, and into her glove on the opposite end, dipping down the whole time. She knew Arnold couldn't ever make that throw as a kid, because his curveball was garbage. He was just too straightforward to get it right.
Helga blinked in surprise when the ball smacked into her glove after an elegant downwardly sweeping curve across the plate, still with enough force to make her feel it.
Next, she commanded that he hook the ball the other direction, high and far outside the plate. Arnold grinned before he wound up, clearly enjoying this exchange. Helga was hardly surprised much when he nailed the shot.
Again and again, Arnold did his best to match whatever unruly pitch Helga called to him. Hooks, screwballs, fastballs, and sliders, Helga demanded of Arnold the most grueling array of pitches she could imagine. And Helga had a singularly cruel and creative imagination. And little by little, through every mistake he made and perfect shot he managed, Helga's mind began to turn over from frustration, vexation, and spleen, towards the secret tender kindness within her that ached and yearned for release.
So the kid went and learned some new pitches. He still has decent form on these unfamiliar throws, too. And he's smiling. If it wasn't so beautiful to see I'd want to punch him right in that cocky little smile. Arnold, what a boob. What a maroon. What an easygoing pushover. And yet, what a delightfully brave and effervescently plucky darling. What a kind soul, to weather the myriad of increasingly complex throws I call to him! To struggle through the irregular forms and positions, and make do with the skills he has accumulated, and smile at me the while! Oh, Arnold, I hear you now! Whatever I call, you will throw to me, is that your message? Is it trust, blind trust, so carelessly given to an unworthy unruly beast such as me, with my fierce heart and dangerous propensity for unfortunate violence? Do you speak of acceptance in your pitch? This throw, that throw, do you speak to my heart through my hand? Oh, Arnold, king of my heart, royalty of this soul of Helga's, are you truly so saintly as to place your honored trust in me?
Helga finally came to the last call she knew, after dozens of throws. Sweat slicked Arnold's tank top to his chest, and ran down his neck from his forehead under his blue cap. Helga's body was similarly sticky with perspiration under her gear, and her knees and ankles were starting to burn in protest for the rigorous and unexpected workout she was putting them through. Grey clouds rolled above them, grumbling in the promise of a storm later. Her hunger tickled her throat, clicking in quiet protest that she had agreed to this ridiculous exertion the day after a night of explosively cathartic musicianship and performance, passionate and acrobatic sex, and brutal physical violence. She hurt everywhere, and was exhausted after spending these couple of hours throwing with Arnold. He had to be tired, too, she reasoned, by the way his chest rose and fell and the long pauses between his throws.
Only one call left, and then I'll tell him everything I can. I don't care if he shushes me or not.
Helga stared at Arnold for a long moment, soaking in the sight of him, burning the image in her memory. She wanted to remember this feeling, this simple, easy back and forth with her beloved that took the funny form of a simple game of catch at their childhood baseball field. It seemed like an excellent footnote to their childhood. Something she could look back on without regrets, whatever happened next.
Her hand opened into the sign for his knuckleball, forefinger and pinky extended, thumb held at a ninety degree angle.
Arnold's face cracked into a huge, wide smile, eyes creasing in noble little crow's feet at the corners.
Arnold's wind up was especially enthusiastic, the precise angles and structures of his form technically flawless from Helga's perspective. She bit her lower lip in concentration, light on her toes and ready to do anything to get this ball in her mitt.
Arnold's arm swung out, and the ball left his hand seeming to float in space towards her, unspinning. Errant wind and ambient air pressure made the ball seem to bob and wobble in space as it drifted with speed over the plate, suddenly dropping out and towards her hip as it drew close. Helga saw the minute turn and movement, and falling on her catcher's instincts, swiftly hopped backwards, falling onto her butt, but her mitt caught the irregularly dancing knuckleball just before it hit the ground. She sat on the ground, legs out under her, staring at the ball in her glove with a strange fluttering in her heart.
"I knew you'd catch that," Arnold said with a small laugh.
Helga looked up at him, suddenly very aware of what they were talking now.
He threw something that I taught him was all about trust, but only once I asked him to trust me and throw it. Arnold's been trusting me this whole morning, following my demands and meeting my requests without complaint, even smiling. And he looked forward to letting totally go of his own control and just letting his heart guide him with our last throw. Arnold's forgiven me. Arnold trusts me.
She felt her chest tighten and a lump of emotion catch in her throat, before she managed to finally croak out her emotionally charged response to her beloved.
"I always will."
Arnold watched Helga tear into her lunch ravenously, laughing at her little moans of appreciation and squeals of pleasure as she wolfed down the Triple Bypass Bacon Burger she ordered with extra the works. He chewed his own Don't Be a Hero Habanero Burger with pleasure, sitting across from Helga on a red bench in front of Hillwood's most popular new food truck, Lorenzo's newest investment, Burger Overload.
It had been her idea when he posed the notion of getting lunch together after the knuckleball. They had not talked much on the short walk from Gerald field, mostly discussing baseball, and their favorite teams, and what they expected out of the league this season. Small talk, Arnold recognized, was important in the cool down after their encounters, letting them express themselves comfortably without the extra added effort of emotional maneuvering.
Now they engorged themselves on trashy street food, making barnyard noises of appreciation and insisting that the other was missing out on their burger choices.
Finally, they sat grasping their unruly stomachs, which protested the cataclysmic payload that had been delivered suddenly without regard to pacing or overall readiness for such fare. Helga rubbed her little round tummy, splayed out on the bench with her legs kicked wide apart and her baseball cap pulled over her eyes for shade from the sun. Arnold admired the easygoing posture, the relaxed configuration of her limbs and attitude, appreciating the rare gift he was getting with visual contact on a physically sated and content Helga Pataki.
She became alert to his happy stare, however, and her expression blackened and became angry.
"What are you staring at, Football Head?" Helga's tone betrayed the interest she had at his answer.
"Just you, Helga." He didn't even bother hiding his smile, made all the more obvious by his still swollen cheek.
Her face became a puzzled assembly of embarrassment and outrage, the corners of her mouth unable to keep from curling in a tiny smile. "Wha-what are you talking about, hair boy, why are you gawking at me like some lovesick stalker?"
He laughed, finally able to play her game with her. "I guess I am a lovesick stalker."
She turned red again, and turned away in a little pout, unable or unwilling to meet eye contact with him any further. Arnold decided he'd let her say her peace now, if she opted to start talking, and would follow whatever she said with his apology. He'd basically said everything he intended to say already, his pitches singing the harmony of his heart with every obtuse throw Helga called to him.
Finally, she started to speak, clearing her throat and talking just barely so that he could hear her.
"I'm really, really sorry I hit you."
"I know."
"You just have no idea how terrible I felt. How much that hurt. And right after we...well, I won't make any more sad excuses. Helga Pataki owns up to her faults. I apologize, Arnold. I never should have hit you, you didn't deserve that."
Arnold remembered the terror of her punch, and the immediate aftermath. It was an unpleasant memory, and he had a bruised cheekbone to help him recall it any time he looked in the mirror. But, he was still too contented to care.
"Nah, I totally deserved it."
"Would you just let me apologize and feel like shit please?" Helga rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed.
"I mean, it was your fault for pressing so hard on a topic I said to let go. I knew nothing good would come of telling you the whole story then. But I was going to get a well-deserved smack sometime, and you and I don't exactly have good timing."
She smiled sheepishly at that. "No, we don't."
"But I'm okay with the war wound for a little while. Keeps me honest. And helps me remember to keep my mouth shut."
Helga nodded a little, seeming as if she was confused and unsure about what to say next.
"I mean, I am still really pissed, and I don't think that is going away soon. You were engaged to someone else. Someone I hate."
"I know I was, I was there, and in fact I was the one who did the whole proposing. Sorry."
She looked so torn, internally, clearly sad and angry but forcing herself still where Arnold imagined her limbs wanted to leap up and throttle him.
"How did that happen?" She finally forced it out, sounding a little scared.
"I owed her my life. She was affectionate and attentive and flawlessly selfless when it came to me. When she asked me for help for the first time ever, I thought it was the best and only way I could make her happy. Make her...whole again, somehow."
"So you thought the only way to make her happy and help her was to take bended knee and ruin your life?" Helga's bitterness was out in the open, her face a flushed mess of hurt.
"Well, actually, I never did the knee thing. I didn't even really ask her properly. We were at her kitchen table, and I just said 'I think I should marry you,' and she nodded and said she would like that. I just sort of got her a ring after that, and then I guess it was official."
"How romantic of you, Football Head. How perfectly gallant. So not only did you fuck up and get engaged, but you fucked up getting engaged too."
"Hey, watch it, I did what I thought was the right thing. And then I was trapped by it."
"I really don't get you right now, Arnold. I thought I understood you perfectly, but this, this is just such a huge mess it's difficult to imagine how it could be worse. I mean, I always knew your heart was going to get you in trouble someday, what with you being so blindly altruistic all the time, with no regard to common sense, and paying no heed to reality, but this is fucked. You really fucked up."
"I know I did," Arnold sighed, looking at his plate of fries. The pressure of her admonishment was overwhelming. Part of his wanted to hide from her, but Arnold always found bravery easiest when he was frightened. "But, I'm not blindly altruistic Helga. In fact, I'm pretty selfish."
"You got that right, but how do you mean that. Because I know the answer to that question, I'm just not totally sold on the concept that you know the right answer."
A particularly frank person such as Arnold would be aggrieved of Helga's continued needling, especially considering her past behavior being less than spotlessly clean. However, being a man in love, seeking to reconcile, Arnold pushed past the naturally human response to her continued aggression with hostility, and settled on mildly annoyed sarcasm.
"Would you just let me apologize and feel like shit please?" He huffed, mimicking Helga to emphasize his point.
"I haven't heard an apology yet, Arnold."
"I'm getting there, but your commentary is getting irritating."
"Oh, I'm sorry my partnership in this conversation is annoying you. Should I just shut my pretty mouth up and let the man speak?" Helga's voice oozed with sarcasm, saccharine sweet and laced with poison.
"Knock it off, don't even remark or suggest that I have sexist tendencies. I'm trying to get to my point."
"Which is?"
"Which is that I am pretty selfish, because instead of keeping my promise to Lila, moments before the party I dumped her so that I could see if I had a shot with you."
That shut Helga up pretty good.
"That's why you broke it off with her?"
"Yes. Specifically, your text message picture of your important box and the pink bow, when I got that, I felt so many confusing, wonderful, terrifying things that I couldn't stomach the idea of thinking even one thought for Lila while I saw you. I selfishly wanted everything I did and felt to be about you. So, in the middle of an argument about you with my then fiancée, I break the whole thing off."
Helga fiddled with her leftover fries, pushing them around in her smear of ketchup, unanswering, trembling slightly. Arnold couldn't see her face very well, but he could tell she was smiling.
"So that's my selfishness. Part of it. The other part, the part you're probably thinking of, is this stubborn idea I have in me that I can fix everyone. I can't. I wish I could. I want to. I'm always going to try. But sometimes, I lose sight of what the right thing really is when there's enough at stake. This is selfishness born of selflessness, but it's still harmful to my friends and loved ones sometimes. Especially my loved ones."
Helga put her hand over her face, covering her eyes, and pushed a shaking question out of herself bravely. "A-a-and which of those am I?"
Arnold waited half a beat, then responded. "Isn't it obvious?"
Helga bit her lip, shrugging. "Friend, right?"
"No, Helga. No. Come on. Look up at me, please."
Helga shook her head. "No, I'm really interested in my hand right now. I really really need to focus on this hand right now."
Arnold identified that it would have been selfish to force her to look at him, when she clearly was holding on to this conversation for dear life. "Alright, Helga, but just remember, you'll always regret not seeing what my face looked like when I said what I am about to say."
Helga slowly lifted her head from her hands, her eyes red and threatening tears. Arnold was a little surprised at the reaction.
"Can we not do this now then?" He heard the difficulty and strain in her voice, recognized it as her showing an open weakness. He respected that.
"Okay, Helga. Whatever you say."
"Thank you. I'm just...not ready, or prepared, physically or emotionally, for this conversation yet. And I don't want to have it all dirty and sweaty and unshowered in my trashiest clothes possible. In fact, I'd very much like to just hide away and not have to deal with this, but, I know we have to eventually."
"I understand, Helga. And look, this is just the first date, there's time yet for other heavy stuff."
Helga's eyebrows arched high, strong accents of surprise on her slightly sunburnt face. "Date?"
"Yeah. This is totally a date."
"Are we on a date?"
Arnold reached across the table, touching her hand reassuringly. "Yes, Helga, this was a date from the minute you left the apartment."
"This doesn't feel like a conventional date, Football Head. It's a pretty lousy excuse for romance, actually."
"Well, maybe so, you're right. This is definitely not a conventional date. But you and I are not really that conventional."
She smiled despite herself, a cocky grin on her face, creasing her generous lips. "You got that right, Football Head."
"So, you don't mind if I consider this a date? And proceed that way?"
"Mind?" Helga half laughed, catching her breath in her chest and shaking her head with a stupid grin. "Arnold, shut your stupid, moronic, foolish, incredibly attractive face with that 'mind' talk. Mind? Arnold, I'm floating. I'm not even touching the ground. If this is a date, just you and me, no Cecile, no Phoebe and Gerald, no Brainy or Lila, just you and me, then this is something I've hoped for and dared to dream of for my entire life. I don't care that it started with baseball or if it ends in a handshake or a bedroom. I'm on a date with Arnold."
Arnold took notice of the bedroom remark, but just kept smiling at her. "Well good, I'm glad. What do you say we take a small break, get cleaned up, and spend the afternoon catching up? There's a lot I missed, and I would really love to hear your perspective."
"Can't we just find someplace quiet and make out?" Helga wagged her eyebrows at Arnold, who laughed at her suggestion.
"Maybe later, Helga. I've spent ten years wanting to just talk to you, and now that we can do that without coming to blows, I'd like to take advantage before something else hideously unexpected happens."
"That's probably smart, uncharacteristically so for you, Football Head."
"So even if we are on a date, the little jabs and names don't stop, huh?"
"Arnold, Arnold, Arnold. A long time ago you asked me why I didn't just change and be nicer when my attitude was getting in my own way."
"Right, I remember, when you were the It Girl."
"Precisely. And do you remember what I said back then?"
"You said something like, 'Arnold, I'm mean and nasty and that's just the way it is.' I think."
"Close. I said that I am a mean, nasty, inconsiderate person, but that it was what made me Me. It's what makes me special, in a way, and I can't just turn it off. Don't worry, if you keep being nice and romantic to me and take me on dates, you'll get to see the Helga that is tender and affectionate and warm. And extremely sexually frustrated."
She grinned. Arnold blushed.
"But, the rest of me isn't going to just go away. You always said that you knew that deep down I was this kindhearted, generous person. And that is true, you weren't wrong, but you gotta understand the rest of me is real, too. I am a nasty, mean, inconsiderate person, who is also tender and affectionate and warm. And sexually frustrated."
Arnold was beginning to notice a theme. He chuckled a bit, getting the picture.
"Okay, I got it. I think I understand you now, Helga."
"Do you? Because a girl can only hint so many times that she wants to crawl all over you like a jungle gym."
Arnold laughed, a big, healthy laugh with his whole ribcage and chest. It'd been the first honest laugh he'd had in years.
"Alright, calm it down, Pataki. I just ate what could be considered a medically inadvisable amount of habaneros. We'll American Gladiator it up proper after we both have some pretty thorough showers. I still haven't showered since last night."
"I think I showered. I dyed my hair anyway, and washed the bleach out."
"Yeah, what happened there?" Arnold hadn't mentioned her silvery white hair yet, and was glad the opportunity to bring it up had arrived organically.
"I, uh, well, in my post-coital freak out, I kind of lost a handle on the whole reality thing and self-identity and the concepts of morality and ended up naked, thrashing my apartment, and bleaching my hair. I'll probably be unraveling the thought-images and memories of last night with Dr. Bliss for years. That should be fun."
Arnold grew slightly queasy, and it wasn't obvious if it was because of the habanero peppers or the revelation that he'd had that much of a damaging effect. Somewhere in the guilty recesses of his mind, where memory was still too fresh to push aside their troubles, Arnold worried that perhaps, just perhaps, he was too dangerous for Helga's emotional wellbeing.
For now, though, he pushed the notion out of his mind, and opted on apologizing again.
"Helga, I'm really sorry, again, I just have to say it. Jeez, I really messed up."
"You did, but, so did I. So it's okay. Or it will be okay. I've been meaning to change up the hairstyle for years now...I just, uh. Never mind, actually." Helga suddenly became evasive, looking askance of the table and biting her lip.
"What? Go ahead, you can tell me whatever it is. I want to hear."
"Yeah, I'm just not sure I want to tell you, Football Head." She seemed to search his face, and then sighed, relenting. "I didn't dare cut it or style it until I saw you again. I, uh…" Her voice grew small, and grumpy. "I wanted you to see me the way you remembered, with pigtails and long hair."
Arnold was struck with the frank honesty of her confession, and touched by the sentiment. Of course, it didn't matter to him what Helga looked like after ten years of separation, he was just delighted to see her. But the familiarity of her long blonde locks had been reassuring.
"I never told you how blown away by your, uh, adultness I was. You look so different, but just the same. It's lovely."
"Sh-shut up, Arnold. Flattery isn't necessary." Arnold knew that Helga was secretly thrilled by the wicked curl on her lips that she struggled to keep in a frown.
"I mean it! But, listen, if you want to change your hair, change it to whatever you want."
"It is a bit hot, and I haven't ever cut it short...I dunno, I'll get Phoebe to help me. She's always been pretty savvy with that kind of girly girl stuff."
Arnold and Helga whittled away the midday heat together, regarding each other more casually than they ever had before. The intensity, the tension, the remarkable connection of their years glued their attentions to one another, and Arnold felt vividly alive with every movement and breath. He found himself obvious in his affections, offering compliments and doting in little teacup comments that he peppered in their back and forth. It embarrassed Helga terribly, and it made her nervous, but she was clearly enjoying herself.
Finally, Arnold suggested that they break for mutual retirement to their respective bathrooms for showers, and meet again in three hours for part two.
"Sure, Arnold, that sounds fine," Helga shrugged. "You sure you don't wanna just make it...one shower?" Her tentative grin and suggestive arc of her eyebrows lit Arnold on fire, but, he knew they'd just spend the rest of the day wrapped around one another if he gave in. He considered it, however, at length, and was long in his hesitation to refuse her advances yet again.
"I'm going to start calling you Hornga," Arnold laughed.
"Hornga? What the fuck, Arnold," her laughter bubbled with his.
"Yeah, 'cause you're such a horn dog. Hornga. What, no good?"
Helga finished snickering, putting a hand on his shoulder with an adoring smile. "No, Arnold. It's terrible. Never say it again."
The two friends, tentatively lovers, laughed together, standing to part.
Helga's hand found Arnold's, and she shyly, hesitantly, clung to his fingers. "I don't really wanna go."
"I don't either, but I do want to get cleaned up."
"I'm just worried that if I let you go again, something will happen and get between us again and we'll never find each other."
"It's just a couple of hours, and you'll like what you see. I clean up nice. You should go all out, wear something fancy. I have something really big in mind."
"I trust you to really go over the top like always, Arnold, don't worry. But I really don't want to go back to the apartment and find Brainy waiting for me with something hideous and cathartic to say or find out Lila's been stalking you or something like Fuzzy Slippers is back and out to get me or something."
Arnold was silently blown away with Helga's accuracy. He could confirm the last, guess at the second, and was suspicious of the first suggestion Helga had just casually rattled off. She might be right. But he really wanted their first date to be perfect, now that it was officially going to start.
What could go wrong?
"I promise everything will be fine. Tell you what, let's shrink the timetable. Meet me at Gerald Field in one hour. Better?"
"It's not even the time, though, I just am afraid to let you out of my sight. You're kind of a wreck, and a sap, and liable to find out someone at the boarding house has a broken hip and spend all night at the hospital. Or find out that Curly's about to jump off a building and hop a bus to New York. Arnold, this town's too fucked up! I can't let you out of my sight."
"Helga, you're being over dramatic," Arnold patiently tried to explain. "Don't you trust me? I won't let anything get in the way of our date."
"I do trust you, even though that's a historically stupid thing to do."
"See? Just be stupid and let me go get a shower and put on a suit."
"A suit?" Helga's eyes lit up and her face drew into a sloppy grin. "What color?"
"Charcoal. Why?"
Helga looked at her feet, and Arnold saw her wage an internal struggle by the repeated distortions of her facial features. Finally, she took a steadying breath, and nodded.
"Okay...Okay. For a suit, I can let you go get dressed. But you have to promise me, even if your house starts burning down you'll let the freaking firemen handle it and come meet me. I mean it. If you're not in that field in one hour I'm going to be really, really chapped."
Arnold nodded, squeezing her fingers reassuringly.
"I promise. I'll make it. One hour."
Helga locked eyes with Arnold, and let his hand go. "I trust you."
They parted ways, drifting slowly apart, unaware that the next hour of their lives would be the most harrowing and difficult in their thus far extremely short lived relationship.
And that it would put every ounce of their trust and affection for one another to the test.