Her walls were absolutely plastered when he snuck through the crack in her door.
Literary figures. Playbills. Underground bands, Wrestlemania, art and more smothered their surfaces in unframed prints and posters, leaving little space to breathe in the collaged clutter surrounding them.
Not unlike the little air he had.
It's not like he had to be quiet. She wasn't home. No one was. But each breath he took when he'd entered her bedroom was slow and deliberate; both to steady his nerves and to pace his steps with the caution befitting a wary intruder.
And an unwilling one.
Arnold Shortman, not known for snooping through girl's rooms without their knowledge or consent (and not even being in one since his ex) pulled out his cell phone and thumbed through the texts he'd received earlier with an uneasy sigh.
Not that it was unreasonable for them to ask for help; but, when his phone blew up that afternoon, the last thing he'd expected was a panicked Phoebe texting through Gerald's number for an urgent favor while stuck on the other side of town at the Hillwood Expo.
To retrieve, and he'd mouthed the words to himself with incredulity, a missing 'customized camera module' for her 'low-cost quadruped robot for rough terrain traversal' competitive science fair submission. And that he'd not only have to break into the Pataki residence to get it, but that Phoebe's shot at winning a national scholarship depended on him finding it quick and rushing through northside traffic before demonstrations started.
While he understandably balked at such a request, ('Break in? Why can't Helga just bring it?') more messages blipped onto the screen, this time texted by his best friend.
Gerald: Hey. Sorry to put the heat on you buddy, but listen
Gerald: Phoebe says the Patakis are outta town for the weekend and the spare key is hidden in a left-side crack on their stoop. We can't double-back and make it in time.
Gerald: And you'd be doing me a big favor helping out my girl too, this is a pretty big deal and we only got an hour.
Gerald: You good for it man?
'Good' wasn't exactly the term he'd use, but. Either way. How could he let them down? That said, it certainly didn't make him feel any better about it. This was her private space.
And she still hated him.
Arnold just hoped his search would be brief and no more awkward than it needed to be. He texted them back, and when Phoebe couldn't recall what part of Helga's room the custom camera may have been misplaced, that hope turned to prayer.
And a few more texts for good measure.
Arnold: Ok. Oh, and Phoebe?
Arnold: I know it probably goes without saying, but…
Arnold: Don't tell Helga I was here.
Arnold: Please.
Keeping the image she sent of the item in mind, as well as her agreement and thanks, he began a reluctant sweep, starting with areas that felt most familiar.
It had been a while. Quite a while, since he'd gone up there with Gerald to pick up Phoebe last winter.
Her bed, switching its spot by the window with her desk, dominated the center of the room as it braced against the back wall. He pulled his gaze away from the pronounced row of metal bars that made her headboard; the sight of them amplified his unsettled feelings of entrapment.
When he'd last visited with Gerald the interior was bathed purple-pink by ceiling lightstrips, casting an atmosphere paired with the red glow that poured from beneath her closet door, washing the floor with ominous warmth. This time the room was lit only by afternoon light.
It felt like the space had hardly changed otherwise, despite swaps of wall decor and the more-recent piles of journals and books, haphazardly stacked. Much like the way a mess always looked like a mess, however controlled. A work in progress with perpetual shifts. Like editing, came the thought. Like a writer.
And that, she was.
The flicker of pride Arnold felt when he spotted the framed acceptance letter for her first official publication was doused by the sullen hope that he'd never be featured in any of her work.
Harsh perhaps, but if there was a time he wished to stay as out of her radar as he possibly could, it was now.
Peeking fruitlessly under a small area rug, he prayed that he wouldn't have to go digging through anything as invasive as dresser drawers or beneath scattered laundry he tried not to look at too closely. Same went for her desk when he stood over it, squinting in an effort to blur out anything that didn't look technical. Particularly anything hand-written he knew was none of his business, and consciously avoided disturbing the crumpled, rejected drafts that littered the floor nearby.
No such luck.
He crouched, lifted her comforter tentatively, and flashed the light from his phone to brave looking under her bed.
And froze.
Arnold slowly rose off the floor and smacked the comforter back down as warmth blotched his cheeks.
He could have lived without knowing Helga's bra size. Of course, that didn't stop his brain from repeating it.
Shut up.
Phoebe was out of luck if it'd fallen under her bed, he thought, as his gaze drifted to the area under her desk. Or her trash. In some ways trash was more private than drawers. He let out an even, self-collecting sigh.
Looking for something was a lot harder when you were afraid of what you'd see.
Be that as it may, he let his eyes wander across the room again and noted the possessions displayed on bookcases and nooks. An old baseball mitt. Sun-faded needlepoint. Busted ballet slippers and ancient roller blades, too small to wear anymore. Really, she was more sentimental than she let on; keeping that childhood stuff, and out in the open. He definitely wasn't expecting to see something as classically romantic as a Jane Austen collection on her shelf, either—even if flanked by human-skull bookends. Still.
It wasn't like she ever showed an interest in anyone.
That said, it's not like he'd known Helga for a lack of range. He bit his lip as Phoebe's control module remained out of sight. She still had her soft spots—he assumed. Just not for him.
His eyes drifted to the quaint, Raggedy Anne doll that still hung sweetly from her door as it had for so many years. Then widened at a nearby print that leapt out against the faded hearts of her wallpaper: A bloody, Baroque painting of two women decapitating a man in his bed. Yeah.
There was definitely a range.
Shaking off the intrusive image of Mr. Pataki and his daughters taking the subjects' places in the painting, Arnold was nonetheless reminded that he was in the private world of a girl who'd commit surprising feats.
Some of them, in fact, to thwart the man.
…
But, I thought you were on your dad's side. I thought you were gonna get rich off the whole deal.
Money isn't everything.
Helga—why'd you do it?
Oh, I don't know, Arnoldo, maybe I just took pity on you and your stupid friends!
Well, why?
Well, because… b-because maybe I don't wanna leave everyone and everything I've ever known behind for my DAD, alright? And maybe I wanna watch when all this blows up in his big, stupid face! Besides, it's not like HE even cared—big, freakin' shock right there!
…
Honestly, it hadn't been a shock at all. Well, that part. And her sneaking around too he supposed, intending to fly under the radar so she wouldn't get blowback.
She'd still joke about it sometimes, waving half-heartedly and muttering under her breath when someone did something particularly pathetic. 'I shoulda just let the bulldozers come and mow you all down.'
Of course, as much as Helga insisted she'd only really helped to serve her dad right after they'd won, he never doubted her sentiment. She'd sacrificed a high life to keep them all in her's.
Well. As much as she could stand, anyway.
It was no mystery he'd never been particularly high on that list himself. And it didn't take a wild guess to figure his name had been scratched right off it, either.
Not after their fight, anyway.
Relenting at last that he'd done the best search he could (or would) and the thing was just nowhere in sight, Arnold pulled out his cell phone with a heavy sigh, not looking forward to the disappointing message he'd have to send.
He hadn't even unlocked the screen when an echoing, watery gurgling sound rang outside the bedroom door and shocked him on the spot.
If there was one thing Arnold was normally quite good at, it was managing to keep a level head even when startled or alarmed. He could be very, very good at not panicking.
So, stay calm and focus—what does that sound like? Water draining. Means water's being used, but no one's home, so…maybe the piping on the neighbors side was connected, somehow? But, it sounded so close…and wasn't there a bathroom a few doors down?
Just when he was thinking that maybe that's simply where the neighbor's piping connected, a muffled, irritated voice came down the hall and stole the air from his lungs.
"Goddammit, Miriam, you took all the good stuff."
She was here.
She was actually here.
The water draining. The silence earlier. Holy shit, she'd ditched vacation and was just here the whole time, she was just taking a bath.
And she was done, and clearly getting ready to leave the bathroom, while he just stood like a frozen, trespassing idiot in her goddamn bedroom.
…Holy crap crap CRAP HOLY SHIT GOD GO
Arnold flew across her room as carefully as he possibly could before grabbing the doorknob and swinging it back to cross the threshold.
It was a good thing his throat closed up or he would have gasped.
Helga Pataki had not only walked out the bathroom door.
But she'd come out wrapped in towels while fussing with her phone in one hand, cursed with startled surprise when her phone burst with max-volume screamcore, dropped it, leaned down while balancing her sloppy hair towel to grab it, and her regular towel unraveled.
And fell off completely when she stood back up and jabbed at her blaring phone with frustrated annoyance.
His brain scorched to a blank slate as he stared; only one, matter-of-fact thought occupying the empty, vacant space that remained.
They'll never find my body.
He must have moved on pure instinct because he sure as shit wasn't thinking when he sprang back away from the door and determined a jump from the windows was just another means of certain death.
With no time and no other place to run, Arnold belted across the room and shut himself inside her closet.
… … …
Author's Note: So how long do you think this fic's rating is gonna stay at a T?
:)