Chapter Two: Leapt Without Looking

Dear Arnold,

Everyone always says, "look before you leap" and I'm seriously considering re-writing the history books and delving into what everyone really means on the subject itself. As I look back on all our years together, really considering where it all began, I would have to say in preschool—I never told you that before; I wish I had, but I didn't, so here it goes.

You remember me talking about my "parents" not acknowledging me and only listening to Olga playing piano, and that I had to walk in the rain without a coat. A stray dog stole my lunch—did you know that? He was probably in worse shape than I was but, on top of everything else, it just made it worse. By that time, I was completely covered in rain and mud, and when I walked down that rain-slicked street, and came face-to-face with you for the first time, I found I could barely form a coherent sentence. Not only did you shield me from the rain with your umbrella, but you didn't comment on the fact that I was covered in wet, sticky mud. Instead, you said you liked my bow because it was pink like my pants. That's where it all began Arnold, honestly.

I'm not faulting you for going to New York—I would never do that. The University of Barnard's Architecture Department is so fortunate to have you. I love that they permit you to still complete your high school education. I wish I could do mine in a timelier manner, and yet all of it seems like complete nonsense at the end of the day, when you get right down to it. At this point, the "right of passage" that everyone speaks of is using the iPads or Tablets in the classroom instead of a hunk of a tree and a pencil. Like Rhonda, we all have to adjust ever so slightly when it comes to our education and sacrifices, although they should be few and far between, are evident.

To answer your question about coming to New York for Christmas... Honestly, Arnold, I'd love to; I miss you terribly but I can't. Not only do I not have the money for something like that right now, but I also have bills to pay. I had to survive three weeks on just instant ramen—living the college dream with the high school schedule. And during the holidays at the diner, we make time and a half, and I can't pass that up. This was my choice, moving out and gaining employment and getting away from my family, while going to New York was yours. Even though I wish we didn't have to be apart, I also knew that even attempting to stay in a relationship would prove to be too difficult. As I've said before, we were only fourteen when you left, and the notion that we could even try to keep it up likely would have ended in a double heartbreak.

Letting you go is likely the hardest decision I had to make, but it had to be done because I could stand in the way of you and your dreams. I also think that

Ignore that last part, Arnold, and don't you dare try to hold it up to the light to try and decipher it. The mystery is over, and so must we be.

Your friend,

Helga Pataki

. . .

I walked to school with Phoebe that day in November, exactly a week before Thanksgiving, not looking forward to another year of my mother falling asleep in the mashed potatoes, burning the turkey, Olga crying, and my father screaming that nothing ever got done correctly during the holidays in the Pataki house. My coat was buttoned up against the wind, my hair tucked into a hat as we walked along towards the corner, where we met with Arnold and Gerald as always. Gerald came forward and took Phoebe by the hand, and I took Arnold's offered gloved hand as we crossed the street.

"How are your holiday preparations going?" he asked.

I sigh. "No idea. No shopping has been done, and with Olga fleeing the house after just a few days of doing college online..." I shrug. "I wouldn't be surprised if she ends up married and having a baby in the span of six months."

"You really think she's ready for that?"

I shrug my shoulders, making sure not to let go of Arnold's hands. "Well, she does have the baby-talk down," I reply, giving him a sly smile as we near the steps of the school. "She only stopped calling me 'baby sister' for a week before she lapsed back into it. Thankfully, I only had to deal with it for another three days before she up and left."

"Has she kept in touch?" he wants to know.

I shake my head. "Not a peep."

"And you don't know where she is?" he presses.

I sighed. "I assume back at her dorm on campus. There's no law about the students not living there, as long as they're taking classes and their tuition is payed. I just hope she's safe," I say, surprised at my maturity in saying so. "I know she couldn't do anything to terribly stupid—she does get straight A's..."

"You get straight A's," Arnold said, opening the doors for us and stepping inside the school, heated on a cool day like this.

"So do you," I put in as we near our lockers. "It's not difficult, especially for someone like Simmons as our teacher... But, hey, there's always one thing that people have issues with..." I say, taking my hand from Arnold's and putting my coat, hat, and gloves into my locker. "What's yours?"

"Spanish," Arnold replies, grinning at me and taking off his wintertime clothes and putting them away. "Yours?"

"Science," I admit, "some of the terminology annoys me. Why can't some scientists just say what they mean instead of going on a big, long rant?"

"Because maybe that's how they got money way back when—by publishing their theories," Arnold tells me simply, gathering his books and shutting his locker. "I mean, actually writing down your thoughts long-hand as they filled your mind, without a typewriter or computer to help you out..." He shakes his head, thinking about it as I take out my necessary books. "I don't think I'll ever be something like a scientist..."

"You don't have to be one," I say, shutting my locker and turning around to smile at him. "I just want you to be happy."

"You, too," Arnold replies, touched. "Speaking of, do you just not want to go home for Thanksgiving?"

"It's Thanksgiving," I say, trying not to laugh. "We get a day off from school, so we're already home."

"No, no," Arnold says quickly as we walk down the hallway. "I meant, do you just want to come to my house? My parents and grandparents say that it's okay. I mean, only if you want to come..."

I force myself to keep my eyes from filling with tears. "Of course," I say, and my mind wanders to holding hands with Arnold from under the table. "Can I bring anything?" I ask.

"As my grandma would say—yourself and an empty stomach," he replies, taking my hand again as we turn the corner. "You sure your parents won't mind?"

I shake my head. "Positive," I reply. "I'll just slip out the front door when my dad is arguing about business and my mom is watching T.V. or something..."

"It's really that easy?"

I nod. "It really is. I snuck into your house twice in the fourth grade," I say rather offhandedly, peeking at him for a reaction.

"You what?" he asks, obviously attempting to be serious when in fact he looks as if he would laugh as he stops dead. "Are you kidding?"

I shake my head. "No," I reply. "That grandfather clock of yours is just a little cramped, if I'm being honest here..."

Arnold laughs. "I'll call the company, ask them to make an adjustment," he jokes with a grin as we walk into class together.

. . .

Slipping out of the house the following week for Thanksgiving proved easier than I'd initially expected. With Olga still MIA and not trying to contact any of us, I merely opened the front door at noon and closed and locked it behind me. I remembered Dad leaving the house five hours before to do goodness knows what and my mother had woken up an hour later, but had inevitably passed out on the couch after her morning smoothie. I vaguely heard Steve Harvey's voice as I passed the living room, co-mingling with the sound of my mother's snoring and found that, for the first time, I truly felt sorry for her. It's not like she had made any decisions in how to run her life, and clearly she was suffering from some kind of unhappiness or other. I considered asking her to come to therapy at some point, but knew that unless I arranged everything and made sure that everything was in order that day, she wouldn't make it.

I walked down the street and the few blocks to Arnold's, just as it began to rain, and I pulled my hood up and over my head. It was an old one of Olga's, which finally fit me, and, thankfully, due to her perfectionist exterior, my sister's hand-me-downs weren't as terrible as one might expect. Threadbare and tattered it was not, although the wind whistling in my ears and the rain sloshing around in the gutters in the streets—which I attempted to stay away from—did not help matters in the slightest. In fact, it reminded me of that darkened day when I took myself to preschool, the yelping stray dog who stole my lunch always at the back of my thoughts, his hungry and aggressive barks still echoing in my ears.

I came to the final block and looked up, the boarding house just across the street from me, and I crossed the street when no cars drove by. Stepping up to the house, I knocked on the door almost tentatively, and was relieved when Arnold answered it, although I had to dart out of the way as Abner, a dog, and a series of cats ran out from the door. I felt myself draw back almost in shock, but Arnold's smile warmed me enough, as well as his offered hand, to head inside. I nearly gasped when he took my coat from me, and I stowed the gloves into the pockets quickly and hesitated as I stood there.

"Wow—you look great!" Arnold commented.

I shook my head. "Just something that used to belong to Olga," I say, shrugging my shoulders. It was a simple black turtle-neck with a sleeveless down wool dress worn over it, along with black tights and Mary Jane shoes. "I didn't want to overdress or underdress..."

"You look great, really," he assured me with a heartwarming smile, stepping forward and kissing me.

It took all I could for me not to visibly react, and I failed miserably. "Ohhh!" I said, quickly snapping out of it. "I... Um, does anyone need any help?" I ask, and step an appropriate distance away, and analyzing the hall carpet beneath my feet, trying to ignore the warmth coming forth from my cheeks.

"Helga? Is that you?" asks a voice from the dining room, and Arnold's mother enters the hallway. "It's always so good to see you," she says with a smile as she steps forward, pulling me into a hug. She pulls back after a moment to look at me, her brown hair streaked elegantly with silver and her lips colored red. "Why don't you come and help me set the table?"

"Sure, no problem," I say, turning around to smile at Arnold as Mrs. Shortman puts an arm around my shoulder and leads me back to the dining room. "Listen, it was really nice of you and Mr. Shortman to invite me," I say, stepping towards the table as she goes into the china cabinet.

Mrs. Shortman turns around and smiles at me as she bends towards one of the drawers, taking out a tablecloth. "Think nothing of it, Helga," she replies. "You saved our lives. As far as I'm concerned, you're always welcome, anytime, rain or shine. Besides, our son loves you."

I feel my cheeks heat for the second time that day. "Well, that's very sweet," I say softly, lowering my eyes, running my hand along the back of the chair I had suddenly gripped. "I suppose you know by now how I feel. After keeping it bottled up for so long I kind of screamed it at him when he saved the neighborhood, and then again on the crow's nest of Lasombra's boat..."

Stella smiles as she tosses the tablecloth to the other end of the table, which I manage to catch. "I knew there had to be something between you in San Lorenzo, even before Miles, Gerald, and I happened upon your little moment together," she says with a smile. "Was that...?" she asks, not even having to complete the sentence, her eyes speaking volumes.

I bite my lip, focusing on straightening the tablecloth. "The first one he was receptive of, yes," I reply. "We were in Romeo and Juliet in the fourth grade, and had the title roles, so that was one. We appeared on Babewatch after winning a sand castle competition during spring break, and that was another—of course, the cover story is that I'm giving him CPR while on camera," I say softly. "And then there was when I told Arnold that I...that I...loved him," I said softly. "Of course, I later said it was the heat of the moment and he seemed...I don't know...almost happy... I think it was too much too soon..."

"Well, I think that everything happened the way it's supposed to," Stella replies, inhaling the scent of the dinner cooking. "Straighten out the tablecloth, would you, Helga?" she asked, moving towards the kitchen. "I've got to help Gertrude with the dinner, and then I'll be out in a moment with the china, silver, and candles. Think you can handle the tablecloth?"

I nod, making sure it was patted down flat without any wrinkles. "No problem, Mrs. Shortman."

She grins. "Thank you, Helga," she replies, disappearing into the kitchen.

. . .

Dear Helga,

I'm so sorry that I neglected to take your finances into question—I just didn't think that you would be on your own like me. Your family is so close, yet unwilling to help, and mine is so far, willing to help whenever possible. It's unfair that we were born to two totally different families—family should always appreciate one another and love one another, and I'm sorry yours did apparently not.

Have you heard from Olga? Ever since she got married a few years ago, you spoke of her less and less. I think the last time she was mentioned was on our way to the airport, before our final goodbye. You mentioned that she was pregnant, and pretty far along, with a ring on her finger. You also mentioned that she hadn't come home, due to the fact that you believed that your family wouldn't have approved of her choice of husband. Heaven forbid what would've happened if you would one day marry me—your father would never forgive you for having football-headed children; he said so.

I know we'll be seventeen in a matter of months, and our senior year is just around the corner, and yet I've never felt so alone. Nobody can replace anybody from Hillwood, and although I've tried making friends—which is easy, due to all the classes I'm taking—I find I have nothing in common with anyone, other than our academic achievements or interests. So many of them grew up together, like the old gang, and there's that feeling of being on the outside looking in. As the last two major holidays of the year approach, and I know that, yet again, I cannot go home, I really consider my loneliness and wonder if all of this was worth it.

I'm starting to think it isn't. I'm starting to think that my dream of becoming an architect with their own firm could have been done at a slower pace. My dream was that, if we had to move for college, we would have done so together, not separately, and that we could have continued communication despite our respective schedules, no matter how conflicting they proved to be. The year we didn't speak was a torment, and I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for not attempting to reach out sooner.

However, your last words to me were, "And don't come back before you make something of yourself, Football Head." I guess, even now, I don't want to disappoint you. Even though I chose New York at fourteen, Helga, sixteen-year-old me thinks I chose wrong.

Your friend,

Arnold Shortman

. . .

The illustrious illusion of sixth grade continues steadily, where everyone mistakes themselves for being grown up, and a cut above the rest. However, as the Christmas holidays approach, happen, and then pass, I wonder how long this untold perfection will truly last. Arnold seems eager to keep our relationship going, as am I, and I wonder then if this is merely a childhood infatuation. However, I can quickly answer that question, whilst lying on my back on my bed, willing for sleep to come.

"It's can't be a childhood infatuation, old girl," I tell myself quietly. "It can't be one, because you were never a child."

"You seem to want to rationalize the fact that you feel as if you are no longer a child, when in fact, it's such a tragic statement," Dr. Bliss says at one of our many sessions, smack dab at the end of December.

"Not 'no longer'," I amend quietly, my hands folded across my stomach as I am lying back on the couch. "I was never a child, Dr. Bliss," I explain emphatically as I turn to face her. "I was picking myself up and scraping off the mud myself from the time I was four."

"And from when you were born up until that point?" she asks.

I shrug my shoulders. "Can't remember it," I say quickly, too quickly, knowing full well that that statement is not true.

"Is that it?" she asks gently, leaning forward. "Or is it maybe that you don't want to remember it, because it was too dramatic?"

"Traumatic is more like it," I mutter, sitting up. "All I know is, I'm lucky to be alive, given how my parents treat me now..."

"What makes you think that?" she asks, automatically scrawling down everything I say in her doctor's notebook—full of doctor's jargon, that notebook. "Do you have anything to base it on?"

"It's a miracle I'm alive because of how my parents act on a daily basis," I reply, pulling my knees up to my chest. "I'd be surprised if they went to...I don't know, Barbados or something, and left me alone for a week."

"Had they done that, surely authorities would have been called," Dr. Bliss replies, obviously trying not to laugh.

"Why?" I ask.

"To leave a child—an infant, rather—alone for a significant period of time is a federal crime," Dr. Bliss explains patiently. "Neighbors would have likely heard you crying if you were hungry or dirty and, therefore, authorities would have been called to, in a sense, rescue you."

"What if I was rescued?" I ask, my voice ringing hollow. "What if I was rescued a long time ago, and now these are the replacement parents that didn't want me in the first place, after already having one perfect child?"

"Helga," Dr. Bliss says patiently, "you've shown me pictures of your family. I think it's highly unlikely, despite all the negativity you've faced on their behalf and at their hands, that they are not biologically related to you."

"That figures," I reply, thumping back onto the couch. "I couldn't have been a princess in some far-off land..."

"Well, who knows? Maybe you are," Dr. Bliss says comfortingly. "But it's probably a good thing that you're not, now that you have Arnold in your life."

"Arnold," I say, the word escaping my lips like a prayer. "He's really a salvation, doctor, not kidding."

"Well, after that summer you had, I'm not surprised Arnold finally saw through your tough exterior and found out who you really are as a person," she says. "I'm glad that the two of you came to an understanding."

"I never thought I'd actually call Arnold Shortman my boyfriend," I muse, and wonder if this is even a good thing to talk about, given the fact that my home life will likely never be resolved.

"You never told me his last name," Dr. Bliss says as I return to a standard sitting position. "It's nice to finally have a full name to put to the face."

"I didn't?" I ask, mulling it over briefly in my mind as I consider it. "Weird. I'll do better about that from now on."

"So, how are things going with him?" Dr. Bliss asks. "Last time you were here, you said you'd figured out what to buy him for Christmas?"

I nod. "Yeah—I've been saving for weeks. I just hope he'll like it."

Dr. Bliss smiles. "From what I can see it's a gift from the heart," she says, checking her watch. "And I can't wait to hear about it in the new year," she goes on, getting to her feet. "But our sixty minutes is up."

"Already?" I ask, as I did after every session, forcing myself to my feet and gathering my coat, hat, gloves, and earmuffs from the peg by the door. "You'll still be here to talk next year?" I ask.

Dr. Bliss places a hand on my shoulder. "As long as there are kids in Hillwood that have need of my services, I'll be here."

I throw my arms around her then. "Thank you, Dr. Bliss," I say, stepping through the opened door and hastily putting on my winter clothes. As I head outside, a smile comes to my lips when I see Arnold leaning up against a frozen telephone poll, nose in a comic. "And just what do you think you're doing, Football Head?" I ask him gently, a giggle escaping my lips and turning to fog in the air.

Arnold looks up as the snow falls around us. "Waiting for someone important," he replies, rolling up the comic and placing it into his pocket, before offering a hand to me. "Have time for a hot chocolate?" he asks.

"I always have time for you," I reply.

. . .

Dear Arnold,

I don't want you to ever tell me that you regret your decision of moving to New York, or that you don't want to disappoint me. You should have moved to New York for you, and only for you, not because of your parents' expectations or risking not making me happy. You know as well as I do that I miss you and that I wish every day that you were back, but Dr. Bliss told me that I had to learn to be less selfish in my life and if that meant letting you go, I could do that.

I was cleaning up in the apartment today—it's my New Year's resolution to clean my place out more than ever before—and found a box from our fourth to seventh grade years. I think, once our trip from San Lorenzo ended, those were some of the happiest years of my life. From ages ten to twelve, I was truly happy, because I had you and life didn't seem as bleak as it truly was. I actually kept one of your blue hats; I think its probably only big enough for a cat or small dog to wear now. I also found some old assignments from Simmons classes, plus some poetry work that I never let you see, because even it was too embarrassing.

There was actually something inside that said, "Do Not Open Until Eighteenth Birthday", and its in your fourteen-year-old handwriting. What have you done, Arnold Shortman, and why do I have to wait until I'm eighteen? Are there just some things in life that I'll never understand? And why do I have to wait another year and eight months to do it? You're still testing me, Football Head; on the opposite end of the country, and you're testing me.

I remember a session I had with Dr. Bliss, that first Christmas we were together, and I was telling her all about the present I got you that year. I don't think I even told her what it was... Do you remember what I got you? It was a sweater that I knitted myself, made deliberately large so that you could wear it for years. I remember you wore it the day you left, and you didn't have to roll up the sleeves anymore—it was comical to me. Do you still have the sweater, or did it finally end up in the rag bag? If you still have it, I want to know—did you ever find the secret compartment on the inside? If you haven't, then you have a surprise coming, just in time for the holidays.

I also got you another surprise for Christmas—one where I had to give up the gift I wanted the most, but I knew it would ensure your happiness, so I did. You don't need to know what it was; just know that it was done in good faith. You might say I was a guardian angel to you that Christmas. All I know is, at the end of the day, it was worth it to make you happy.

That's all I ever wanted for you was to be happy; I knew that if you stayed in Hillwood, just for me, that you could have come to resent me, and I didn't want that. I didn't want you to give up your dreams for me, and besides, we were fourteen. There was no way to know if what we had was the long-lasting love that people want to die for. I don't want to die, Arnold—not yet. And when I do die, I know that I'll have a different surname, because I don't want to be attached to the Pataki family forever. I mean, who knows? Maybe we'll share a surname one day, but once that bridge is crossed, there's no going back.

Your friend,

Helga Pataki

. . .

The bell rings on that final day of sixth grade and Harold gets on top of his desk and slams his fists into his chest gorilla style. It almost makes me sorry that I took a Mr. Fudgy bar from him at lunch back in the fourth grade. It is nice to know that wearing layers is not mandatory for the next three months, and I am fully prepared for the summer ahead. As Arnold and I troop out of class to empty our lockers for the last time as eleven-year-olds, he flashes me a smile.

"What are your plans for the summer?" he asks.

"Reading, a lot," I reply, ruefully. "I never really made summer plans. Phoebe would go away with her family so much, and you know my situation with my family, so there was really no point to making plans."

"My parents are going back to San Lorenzo for a goodwill mission to check on the Green-Eyed People," Arnold replies, "and I'm going with them."

I force myself not to gasp and manage to succeed; I didn't like the way their princess had looked at Arnold, and who knew if he would find her sufficiently more attractive than I was... "Promise to write me when you're away?" I ask, my voice higher than usual.

Arnold grins. "Why would I write you when you're coming with us?" he asks, and I feel myself gasp this time.

"You'd better not be lying, Arnold," I say.

Arnold laughs. "Not lying—my folks cleared it with yours last week. It was supposed to be a surprise."

I let out a gasp and throw my arms around him. "We'll have so much fun!" I cry out then, pulling back. "Is it just us then?"

"You would think so," Gerald replies, coming up behind Arnold.

"Gerald is correct, Helga," Phoebe says, her hand clasped in his. "Mr. and Mrs. Shortman have considerately invited us to join you all on your trip to San Lorenzo as well."

"You all knew?" I demand, my eyes sliding to Arnold.

Arnold shrugs and grins. "It was a surprise," he says.

I laugh then, it being cut off midway as Arnold leans in to kiss me. "You are such a Football Head," I mutter, grinning at him nonetheless. "Just make sure we don't get lost in the jungle again. I can only take so much running around and away from the bad guys."

"Yeah, and no tracking devices," Gerald tells Arnold.

Phoebe laughs. "I think this will be a better trip all-around."

Arnold nods, taking my hand in his. "Yeah, it will, especially now that things are out in the open..."

I nod back at him. "You're right. Ignorance is not always bliss."

"Well, let's go!" Gerald says. "We only have a few hours to pack."

"You're all sleeping over at my house," Arnold says breathlessly as we dash out of the school. "We meet at my place in two hours."

"Got it," I say, squeezing Arnold's hand back as we run along the sun-splashed sidewalk in the same direction, before running down with Phoebe, and then solo, on to my house, anxious for the summer ahead.