Note: Well, this is what happens when I discover that one of my favorite childhood shows is on Hulu and spend weeks binge-watching it. I like to think that Curly someday grows up to be desirable and that Rhonda finally gives him a chance, so here's my take on what their early high school days might be like.

Disclaimer: I can't claim to own Hey Arnold! or anything else you may recognize here. This story contains a brief quote from Lord of the Flies by William Golding.

The Princess and the Madman

She couldn't stand it. She just couldn't.

Girls loitering around his locker every morning, hoping for a chance to chat with him just because he always rode a motorcycle to school—without a helmet—and got suspended last week for bringing a trident to school.

A trident. Like he thought he was king of the mermaids or something.

King of the freaks is what he is, Rhonda thought as she began her morning trek through the school hallway, head held high as she passed his locker. She refused to look at any of the girls who stood giggling around him. The fools. They didn't know him back when he was that runty little twerp, locking himself into the principal's office because he wasn't in charge of some stupid kickballs—

"—but they'll never catch me!" he declared to his admirers, right in the middle of some wild story. Rhonda could practically hear the maniacal laughter lurking beneath his boastful words.

How did those other girls not see it? He wasn't bad looking, it was true. Puberty, due to some unfair twist of fate, had chosen not to torture him. His hair stopped being so geeky, once his dad finally quit cutting it with a bowl, and his latest pair of glasses suited him. Rather tacky, according to Rhonda's sensitive tastes, but they made him look studious when he wasn't bouncing off the walls. Studious. The thought almost made her laugh. But it was the truth if you asked any girl who hung around his locker in the morning. Girls who hadn't gone to P.S. 118, girls who didn't know how absolutely freaking crazy—

Slam.

She opened her own locker harder than necessary, scattering stray notepaper and spare accessories to the floor. She swept it all away, shoving back into the abyss, and tried not to sigh when she heard him laughing down the hallway. Like he belonged in a straitjacket.

Like he belonged in a movie, according to the girl who sat behind Rhonda in French. How could she be so blind? There was nothing great about some "studious" looking weirdo who earned a lifetime of detentions with his so-called "daring exploits" that would get him nowhere in life. Girls thought he was dangerous, apparently, and they actually liked it.

He was dangerous, all right. The sort of dangerous that could land you in the trunk of a stolen car with your mouth gagged and your wrists tied behind your back.

Well that certainly wouldn't be her. She slammed her locker shut and was forced to walk past him again to get to her English class. He didn't keep pictures of girls tacked up in his locker, the way some boys did. No school photos of his latest crush, whoever that may be, or any of his numerous girlfriends. She only saw, when she dared to steal a glance in his direction, the usual clutter that a fourteen-year-old boy accumulated over the first couple months of high school. Crumpled orientation pamphlets, spare gym shorts, scattered candy wrappers and Yahoo soda bottles.

Not a single picture.

As if it matters, she told herself in a huff. What did she expect, anyway? To see her own stylish self gracing the inner shrine of his locker? He hadn't kept a picture of her since the seventh grade. She remembered it was that one from the school dance, when she was dating Gerald before he got saddled with those unfortunate braces.

But what did she care if the four-eyed freak no longer worshipped her?

She was glad. She deserved better than the pathetic, lovesick pining of a nutcase like Curly. Thaddeus, she reminded herself, like she always did when she found herself reverting to that childhood nickname. He was Thad, the most dangerous boy in the ninth grade. Daring, reckless, a threat to authority.

And he had forgotten all about her.

He sat two desks ahead of her in English class. Maggie Allen, who usually sat between them, was absent that day, giving Rhonda a full view of the unavoidable—and utterly tasteless—back side of him.

He never once turned to look at her.

The class was currently reading Lord of the Flies—which Curly, unsurprisingly, seemed to love. If anybody needed a tip-off about the madness lurking inside him, that was surely it. Only a lunatic would enjoy a book about a bunch of boys stranded on an island together, living a lawless life riddled with power struggle and senseless savagery. His dream home, no doubt. When it was Curly's turn to read out loud, he actually stood on top of his chair, holding his book aloft like he was Hamlet with the skull, and gave such an enthusiastic reading that people clapped when he was finished.

Only Curly could sound so impassioned while reading about some kid coming face-to-face with a severed pig's head on a stick. It was appalling.

"Very good, Thaddeus," Mrs. Wilkes said when the clapping had died down.

"Thank you, thank you," he said, bowing like an idiot while standing on top of his chair.

When he stepped down to resume his seat, his eyes accidentally met Rhonda's.

She looked away.

"He really has grown up to be ever so charming," Lila murmured somewhere behind her, and that was when Rhonda wanted to puke.

Not that she ever would, of course. It would absolutely ruin her outfit, but the thought of Lila—goody-goody Lila Sawyer—actually calling him charming made her wonder if Curly's insanity was contagious and spreading through the school. Was Rhonda the only one who saw him for what he really was?

Why didn't he look back at her?

She spent the rest of the class period doodling sketches of possible outfits and passing notes with Janet Fitzhoff. At least Janet had the sense not to gush all over Curly. She'd heard all about his childhood exploits from Rhonda. All the wacky stunts he pulled, his insane little cackles, the way he drooled after her for years in the creepiest display of—

Rhonda's pencil froze. Did she really talk about him that much?

At least French class took her mind off him. This was where she excelled, where she could show off in class the way she showed off the new heels she bought over the weekend. She did visit Paris four times, after all, which made her a natural at the subject. Best of all, he was nowhere in sight so she could finally get her head straight and decide if she wanted to accept Kenneth McIntosh's invitation to see a movie that Friday night. As a rule, Rhonda simply didn't do the movies. It was so bourgeois to sit there in the dark with fussy children and chatty adults, surrounded by remnants of used gum and stale popcorn, but it had been too long since she last had a date.

Or perhaps not long enough. There was a reason she had dumped three boys in as many weeks.

She sank down in her seat, hoping she wouldn't get called on to conjugate verbs in front of the class, and glanced over last night's homework. Certain words jumped out at her on the page.

Madame, your poodle is so curly!
Have you lost your glasses?
The children are playing kickball this afternoon.

Were those really the sentences she had translated last night? Maybe she was seeing things.

Maybe she was crazy too.

High school wasn't exactly what she thought it would be. She was popular, of course, among certain ninth grade circles, but it didn't change the fact that she was a freshman. The very word was synonymous with child. She expected to feel grown up the moment she crossed the threshold of ninth grade—one step closer to adulthood—but high school was so much bigger and more bewildering than she imagined, filled with kids who nearly were adults, that it really didn't matter if she wore hundred dollar heels and shopped in Paris over the summer.

She still had to ride shotgun in her father's BMW.

And it wasn't fair that she couldn't run for prom queen when most of the older girls wouldn't know a Prada from a Dior if it hit them in the face. It was pathetic. She felt like a queen who had been knocked off her throne, forced to grovel down below with the rest of the little people until she was old enough to get on top again.

She supposed, if she wanted to be really, horribly honest with herself, there was a part of her that wanted to be worshipped again. Even if it did come from a four-eyed lunatic who lacked the sense to wear a helmet when he came roaring into the school parking lot on his motorcycle every morning. He really was a maniac. And he was so stupidly popular with the girls. She could see him out in the hall, on the other side of the classroom window, probably cutting class because he was dangerous like that. He had an effortless way of looking good. Like he didn't particularly care what he wore, but no matter what he threw on, it somehow worked.

Get a hold of yourself, Rhonda's thoughts screamed at her. She was not going to spend French class gazing out the window at Thaddeus Curly Gammelthorpe. He was so far beneath her, it was laughable. One of these days he was going to snap like he had never snapped before, like the psycho that he was, and all the other girls in school would finally open their eyes and see what had been right in front of their blind little faces. And Rhonda would be hailed as the only girl who had any sense. The only one smart enough to steer clear of that raving luna—

Oh God, was that Nadine out in the hallway with him?

Laughing at something he said? Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear?

Making out with him against a row of lockers?

"Rhonda, is something the matter?" Madame Dupont asked from the front of the classroom.

"I dropped my pencil," Rhonda replied in French, trying not to sound as flustered as she felt. It was the truth. She bent down to retrieve her fallen pencil, which had slipped from her grasp in her shock, and hoped the scene out in the hallway would disappear as soon as she straightened up again.

But no, they were still out there. Curly with his stupid, somewhat shaggy black hair and his studious glasses, putting his mouth on Nadine right in the middle of an empty school hallway. Nadine looking like she enjoyed it, her back pressed against a locker while one of her hands rested on his shoulder, pulling him in closer when she should have been shoving him away.

Her skirt really did not go with her shoes at all.

Then suddenly it was over. The two of them broke apart, Curly flashing the old grin he used to reserve for Rhonda, and soon Nadine was dashing off down the hall, waving to him as she went. Moments later, Sid appeared—the reason they were interrupted, no doubt—and gave Curly a high five before slipping into the boys' bathroom. Probably for a quick high before third period, knowing Sid.

Curly fiddled around with a couple of lockers, maybe hoping they would open up and yield all their secrets to him, then started to stroll off.

But not before glancing at the window of Madame Dupont's classroom, making unintended eye contact with Rhonda for the second time that day.

She buried herself in her French book, mortified. Oh, she hated him. Why on earth did girls like him? Why didn't Nadine know better?

Then again, she and Rhonda hadn't been best friends since the sixth grade. If Nadine hadn't refused to outgrow her revolting fascination with bugs, Rhonda wouldn't have been forced to set her aside, and the poor thing wouldn't have gotten caught up in the monstrous clutches of Curly. Thad.

Whatever.

Her English homework that evening was excruciating. For her Lord of the Flies assignment, she had to write a brief essay on what she would do if she was stranded on an island with her classmates. Lay down and die, probably. There was no way she could live on a primitive island like some kind of savage, completely cut off from showers and credit cards. She had to incorporate vocabulary from that week's chapter into her response and sighed as she reached for her copy of the novel. What a dumb book. The last thing she wanted to do was read about a bunch of bratty boys roughing it in the wild. She'd stick to Vogue, thank you very much.

The book dropped open to Chapter Eight, where she had marked her place in class. Her eyes searched for good vocabulary words and somehow she ended up reading the same passage Curly had read aloud that day. In the book, a boy named Simon was hiding out all alone on the island, watching while another boy named Jack viciously slaughtered a pig and stuck its head on a stick. Later, Simon came face-to-face with the pig's head and started hallucinating, thinking that the head was speaking to him about the evil that lived inside of everyone. It was all just words on a page, but somehow Curly's enthusiasm came back to her, making her see the passage in a different light. She could hear the passion in his words when he read aloud the dialogue of the Beast:

"Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill! You knew, didn't you?" said the head. For a moment or two the forest and all the other dimly appreciated places echoed with the parody of laughter. "You knew, didn't you? I'm part of you? Close, close, close! I'm the reason why it's no go? Why things are what they are?"

The words unsettled her, making her imagine the severed head of an animal looming up before her in the wilderness. She supposed the book was right when it claimed that wickedness was not a creature that could be hunted and killed, but instead was a part of each and every person.

She wondered if madness lived within her as well.

"I hate him," she muttered, tossing the novel upon her desk. The words sounded hollow in the solitude of her bedroom. Hollow and half-hearted. She took up her pencil once more and scribbled out her assignment, taking care to include words like parody when she described the agony of living on roasted boar and wild berries.

Later that night when she crawled into bed and was halfway asleep, images flitted into her mind. A deserted island in the middle of nowhere, just her and a boy with black hair and glasses. She didn't know what she was doing on the island, or how she got there, but there was only her and there was only him and nobody else would ever know. She leaned her back against a tree, not caring if it snagged her forty-dollar tank top, and allowed him to lean in closer. She knew that he was a part of her. Close, close, close…

His mouth was next to her ear, his voice low and seductive as he spoke to her.

"Give daddy some sugar."

Rhonda abruptly screamed and fell out of bed.

"I am not going to think about Curly," Rhonda promised herself as she got ready for school the next morning. "I am not going to think about Curly." She hurried downstairs, accepted her freshly-packed lunch from the maid, and hopped into her father's waiting car.

I cannot believe I'm thinking about Curly, she thought ten minutes later, feeling misery take root within her as she stepped onto the school parking lot. A familiar motorcycle roared into view, an even more familiar (and helmet-less) rider perched upon the seat. Didn't that moron realize he could crack his head open if he took a spill?

Would she be sorry if he did?

The usual morning routine followed as she stepped into the building. Her group of friends and admirers swarmed around her to compliment the outfit she'd put together for the day. She found Kenneth McIntosh and told him (perhaps a little too enthusiastically) that she would love to accompany him to the movies on Friday night. She tried to think of something, anything, anything at all except the boy on the motorcycle, but there he was in the hallway, laughing like a madman to the usual girl or two (or three) who loitered wherever he went.

"Have I ever told you ladies about the time I got suspended for riding my jetpack across the foorball field?" he was saying.

"You have a jetpack?" one of the girls gasped.

Rhonda ignored the rest of the conversation as she went to her locker. She knew the story anyway. It happened in the seventh grade, during the last football game of the year. Everyone was in the bleachers (except for Rhonda, who brought her own chair) waiting for the game to start, when Curly came soaring overhead right when the opening kickoff was about to begin. He came crashing right on top of the concession stand and managed to steal a hotdog while he was at it.

Rhonda realized she was smiling at the memory and hastily straightened her mouth. She supposed it was a little funny. Definitely a lot funnier than the fact that she was stuck looking at him in English class again, since Maggie Allen was absent for the second day in a row. Probably caught crazy pox from sitting so close behind Curly.

She found herself thinking of seventh grade again as she stared at the back of his head. Seventh grade. That was the year Harold turned sixteen and dropped out of school to work in a butcher's shop. The year Sid got suspended twice for selling pot to eighth graders. The year Helga's parents finally split up. The year Rhonda fell hopelessly in love with Gerald and simply had to have him, until she was forced to dump him when he got braces.

That was the year Curly apparently fell out of love with her.

If obsessive pining could be called love.

She wished she knew what happened. He was the same old nuisance he always was, sending her flowers during lunchtime and peeking at her in the girls' locker room, the same old hopeless dork who would never have her. Then somehow he just… gave up. Admitted defeat, perhaps.

Or lost interest.

Which simply wasn't possible. Rhonda Wellington Lloyd did not get rejected.

She wondered when she started to care so much.

"Phoebe, you're a girl of surpassing intellect," Rhonda remarked at the start of her third period science class.

Phoebe, who sat beside her near the back of the room, seemed both surprised and pleased. "Why, thank you, Rhonda."

Class hadn't started yet. Students were still filing into the room, chattering as they took their seats and rummaged through their backpacks. Rhonda lowered her voice anyway.

"And considering what an exquisitely intelligent mind you have, perhaps you would be able to explain something to me."

"I'll try my best," said Phoebe, straightening her glasses.

Rhonda held back a sigh. Phoebe would be such a doll if she would only wear contacts. Rhonda had been trying to give her some for ages.

"You see, Phoebe, I was wondering if I had somehow missed an important newsflash regarding one of the boys in our grade. I simply don't see a single good quality in Curl—Thaddeus Gammelthorpe." She spoke his name in a near-whisper. "He has such an unfortanate history, you know. Of course you know, you were there. And his permanent record has got to be longer than the U.S. Constitution by now."

"He's actually become surprisingly sought-after among the female demographic of our school."

"Quite honestly, it baffles me. What exactly do the girls at this school see in him?"

"Well," said Phoebe, sounding like she was about to rattle off a list of facts for a report, "I believe it's because of his exciting and reckless personality. He can also be quite the gentleman when the occasion calls for it, which is a pleasing contrast to his more wild tendencies. And, well, he's a very good kisser." She paused to fiddle with her glasses again. "Or so I've heard."

"Though that does sound like a rather impressive list of merits, I still don't see his appeal." And Rhonda was glad that Phoebe was polite enough not to ask why she was asking about Curly in the first place.

She really needed to stop thinking of him as Curly.

But perhaps that would only make things worse.

There was really only one thing she could possibly do to escape this unsettling state of affairs.

"Detention?" Rhonda cried two hours later from her seat in the principal's office. "You can't give me detention. I had to leave due to an emergency!"

"An emergency that required you to spend valuable class time at the mall?" Principal Horner wanted to know.

Rhonda glanced down at the incriminating shopping bags that sat at her feet. If only she was old enough for a car. "Surely we can work something out, sir. Perhaps this twenty dollar bill will change your—"

"Detention, Rhonda. Immediately after school today."

"I should have offered him a fifty," she muttered to herself as she gathered up her shopping bags and stalked out of the principal's office. "My life is over."

Admittedly, it was foolish of her to cut class to go to the mall, but she simply couldn't handle another minute inside this oppressive building. Now she was stuck in detention. Her, in detention, like some kind of delinquent.

The rest of the school day passed in an agonizing haze. She would have to explain to her parents that she was staying an hour late to help out with some sort of after-school activity—the annual fashion show, she supposed, though preparations weren't for another week—or else her parents would pull her out of public school immediately.

Not that private school was such a bad idea lately. The boys there were probably civilized, at least.

Once her last period of the day drew to a close, she called up her father to let him know she was staying late, then resigned herself to the painful trek toward the doom that awaited her. According to her detention slip, she was supposed to report to Mrs. Wilkes' classroom and remain there for an hour while Mr. Henry, the economics teacher, would be supervising. At least that was a relief. She'd never had Mr. Henry, but she knew his reputation as a laidback teacher. Better yet, the classroom was empty of students when she opened the door and stepped inside. She handed her slip to Mr. Henry, who was seated in a corner with his nose in a book, and retreated to a desk near the back.

Some teachers didn't allow students to do homework during detention, but Mr. Henry didn't object when she pulled out her binder and looked over the algebra worksheet that was due tomorrow. She was halfway through her second math problem when the door banged open and a boy strolled in with a detention slip crumpled in his hand.

"Sorry I'm late," he announced, not sounding sorry at all.

Oh… My… God…

She wasn't surprised, exactly. Mostly stunned and unprepared at the sight of Curly sharing her detention that afternoon. With no other students around. Only Mr. Henry cloistered in his corner, already buried in his book once more.

Her life was definitely over.

It was Curly's turn to stare when he noticed Rhonda. "There must be some mistake," he said. "They told me this was detention, not headquarters for the fashion committee!"

Rhonda chose to ignore him and focus on her homework. The numbers on her worksheet looked like unintelligible squiggles.

His sudden movement stole her attention. He had dropped into the seat right next to her, practically diving into the chair. "Or is it true? Is Miss Rhonda Wellington Lloyd really in detention?"

"Shut up, Thaddeus."

"What did you do? Wear the wrong shoes with your outfit? Is that a school violation around here?"

"What did you do?" Rhonda shot back.

"Nothing much. I stole Marty Krueger's skateboard and rode it through the cafeteria."

"May I ask why on earth you would do such a thing?"

"It's fun," he said, flashing one of those smiles that made her fear for his mental health. "You should try it sometime."

"No thanks."

She desperately wished Mr. Henry would step in and shush them, but he was now wearing a large pair of headphones, completely oblivious to the students he was supposed to be supervising. She glanced hopefully at the door, wondering if another straggler or two would find their way inside, but the door remained shut.

As if he could read her thoughts, Curly remarked, "Looks like it's just you and me."

It wasn't flirtatious. More like he was commenting on the weather. He pulled out his copy of Lord of the Flies and Rhonda realized she was staring at him. It had been a long time since she'd really taken a good look at him.

She wasn't displeased with what she saw.

"Why do you like that book so much?" she blurted out.

Curly glanced at the cover. "You don't like it?"

"I simply don't see the point of it. Why bother to write about a bunch of schoolboys stranded on an island together?"

"Because it's fascinating stuff. One of the main purposes of the novel is to show us that deep down, we're little more than animals. Once you strip away all the rules of civilization, there's nothing that holds us back from our more primitive urges."

"Primitive urges?" Rhonda scoffed. "I don't think so."

"You don't think you secretly have a wild side?" he asked. "Just waiting to escape under the right circumstances? You know, I always thought you'd end up in some snooty, tightly laced private school once we hit the ninth grade."

"I decided to stick with the people I know. What's your point?"

"Well, here you are," he said, stretching out his hand to gesture at the four walls that surrounded them. "Trapped with all of us public school animals and in detention, no less. Maybe you're not as civilized as you'd like people to believe."

"If I wasn't civilized, you'd have a broken nose by now."

"See, now you're starting to get it," he said, tapping the cover of Lord of the Flies. "You take a bunch of normally well-behaved students and stick them on an island without any schools, governments, or adults, and well… things can get pretty wild."

"So if somebody dropped you off on an island, you'd suddenly get in touch with your normal side?" Rhonda asked.

He laughed at her. Not exactly a straitjacket sort of laugh, but one that made her feel like she was joking with one of her friends. It was highly uncomfortable.

"I'll have you know that four out of five psychiatrists agree I'm perfectly normal," he said.

"Then the fifth one deserves a Nobel prize."

He was laughing again. She had forgotten how difficult it was to tear him down with words.

"You still haven't told me why you're in here," he said.

"I cut class and went to the mall," Rhonda admitted. To forget about you, she didn't add. "I was hoping to hide my purchases in my locker, but I got caught with the evidence."

"Beaten down by The Man." He shook his head in dismay. "And banished to the lonely island of detention. No adult authority in place." He gestured to Mr. Henry, who was still obliviously lost in both his music and his book. "Not a shopping mall in sight. And worst of all, you must be going crazy, because you're having a conversation with me."

"Well it's not as if you've tried terribly hard to converse with me over the last couple of years," said Rhonda, with a haughtiness she didn't truly feel. "You seem to be doing perfectly fine without my company, if you ask me."

The energy in his eyes went out like a broken lightbulb. Fourth grade memories hit her in the chest. A geeky little boy sitting outside, crying his eyes out because their sham of a relationship had ended. The teenager seated beside her was much more composed, though as unpredictable and hard to read as ever.

"I couldn't wait around for you forever, you know. I do eventually know how to take a hint."

She had no response that wouldn't make her sound like an enormous idiot, so she kept her mouth shut and dove back into her homework. He eventually opened up Lord of the Flies again and behaved as if she wasn't in the room. Which was nearly as unsettling as their entire conversation. She almost wanted him to get out of his seat and make a commotion, maybe tear some posters off the walls or write obscene things on the whiteboard. She found it strange to see him sitting there reading like he hadn't stolen a skateboard and ridden it through the cafeteria earlier that day.

She didn't realize how frequently she was glancing at him until he turned and said, "What? Can't get enough of my good looks?"

"You wish," she muttered back at him.

"Typical comeback. And therefore, probably not your true feelings. Your blush says it all."

"I am not blushing."

"Have the tables turned, perhaps?" His eyes were bright behind his glasses, filled with the kind of maniacal gleam that once resulted in zoo animals running loose. "Was shopping really your intention? Or perhaps you were just looking for an excuse to get stuck with me. You don't have to deny it. I am one of the most exciting, handsome—"

"Ugh!" Rhonda broke in, putting her head in her hands. "Will you knock it off already? I just want to finish my homework!"

"All right, princess. Whatever you say."

And that was it. Curly disappeared behind his book, leaving Rhonda to attempt her algebra homework for the hundredth time that day. She was careful not to glance in his direction anymore, though she was constantly aware of every page he turned and every creak as he shifted in his plastic seat. She couldn't believe he had retreated so easily. Just when it was finally starting to feel the way it used to between them—

But she didn't want things how they used to be. Of course she didn't. She had no desire for all that attention; all the flowers on her desk and poems stuffed into her locker and elaborate gifts on her birthday and—

She took one last, subtle glance at Curly, but he wasn't paying attention to her.

"And he never even said a word to me for the rest of the hour," she fumed to herself after dinner that night. "What is it about me that no longer attracts him? I'm popular, I'm rich, I'm the leading authority on style among the freshmen." She sighed and sank down onto her bed. "And I'm probably the only girl in the entire ninth grade who hasn't made out with him against the lockers."

Never mind the fact that she was very likely the first girl he'd ever kissed. They had been children then.

She didn't exactly want Curly, but it certainly wouldn't hurt her reputation to be pursued by the one boy every girl found exciting. Even better for her reputation if she rejected him. Every boy in the school would have to try twice as hard to win her affections after that.

A smile spread across her face as she reached for the hairbrush on her bedside table. Helga was having a party that weekend. A party that would include Curly—Thad—if her sources were accurate. She relaxed somewhat as she ran the brush through her hair, thinking over the possible ways she could use such a situation to her advantage.

She would have to make a stunning entrance, of course, and from there she'd just have to find a way to get that four-eyed menace alone with her.

"If I can't be queen of Hillwood High, at least I'll have this," she told her hairbrush.

And she spend the rest of the evening meticulously planning her outfit.

After Helga's parents split up in the seventh grade, Mrs. Pataki slowly woke up from the stupor she'd been living in since Helga's childhood. First, she got sober. Then she went back to school, got involved in athletics, and landed herself a cozy office job while coaching a girls' swim team on the side. The house she and Helga shared was fairly small, but it was tasteful even by Rhonda's standards, and by the time she arrived on Saturday night the place was brightly lit against the city sky. She couldn't help noticing a very conspicuous motorcycle parked outside.

Helga was in the living room surrounded by three or four girls. "—yeah, Miriam's out of town the whole week. Can you believe that she 'met someone'?" Helga did air quotes around the words. "At her age? It's pathetic. They've gone off on a road trip or something and—Criminy, Rhonda. Who are you trying to impress?"

"You look like you're headed to a grand movie premiere," Phoebe said in awe.

Rhonda smiled at them all. "What can I say? I felt like being a star tonight."

She had originally planned to wear something risqué and revealing, then decided that elegant was better than sexy. She was trying to impress Curly, after all, not the football team, and settled on a look that was reminiscent of old movie stars. She was wearing a long narrow gown (in red, her best color) that reached the floor and a mink stole around her shoulders. Her hair had been curled and she carried a little clasp purse to complete the outfit.

She knew she looked stunning.

Only Curly was nowhere in the room and she didn't want to act like she was searching for him. She lingered in the living room listening to gossip and did her best to come off as rather aloof, rather then distracted.

"I heard you stood up Kenneth McIntosh last night," Heidi Springer remarked to Rhonda. "Is it true?"

"I couldn't stand his taste in movies," Rhonda said casually. "I do have standards."

She dared another glance around the room and took a sip of her fruit punch.

As a rule, Helga never allowed people to get drunk at her parties. There was never a drop of booze in the house anyway, thanks to Mrs. Pataki's newfound sobriety, but people always managed to have a wild time at Helga's house without the stimulus of alcohol. Rhonda certainly didn't mind the absence of low-grade beer. She was much too sophisticated to serve anything other than the finest champagne at her own parties.

"Speaking of dates," said Helga, "can you believe Sheena still thinks Eugene is her boyfriend? When is she going to wake up and smell the coffee already? If that kid is straight, then I'm a walrus."

A round of girlish laughter filled the room. After it died down, Rhonda could have sworn she heard a distinctively male whistle aimed in her direction, but when she turned around she saw no sign of Curly. Gerald had entered the room, however, accompanied by Arnold, both of them looking relaxed with glasses of fruit punch in their hands.

Helga let out a slight chuckle and drained the contents of her own paper cup. "Before I forget, I'd better go give football head the history notes I borrowed off him. Can't have the little geek flunking Monday's test. Don't you ladies go anywhere!"

And in moments, she snatched Arnold away from Gerald's side and disappeared up the stairs with him.

If Eugene's sexuality was a badly kept secret, then Arnold and Helga's relationship was the worst kept secret among the Hillwood High freshmen. Helga liked to put on a big show and pretend nothing was going on between them, but Janet Fitzhoff had caught the two of them sneaking around school on multiple occasions. Everyone, Rhonda included, seemed to unanimously decide it was far easier to play along with Helga and act like they didn't know any better.

Rhonda saw the perfect opportunity to slip away as well.

"I'm just off to the ladies' room," she announced, adjusting her mink stole in a sophisticated manner. "I'll be back once I freshen up a bit."

She sauntered elegantly through the first floor of the house, checking the kitchen, downstairs bathroom, and even the laundry room, but all she found were more compliments on her dazzling outfit. That left the upstairs. As she headed up the staircase, she was aware that the music filling the house originated from above. Downstairs, she'd only been somewhat aware of it as something in the background. It grew louder as she ascended to the second floor and she realized it was some kind of rap music. Very obviously white rap music.

All the doors upstairs were open, except for one—presumably the door to Helga's room. Rhonda smirked a bit and reminded herself to steer clear of it. The smirked faltered when she considered the rest of the rooms surrounding her. Suppose Curly was in one of them? Suppose this turned into one of those stereotypical teen movies and she discovered him alone with some girl, the two of them passionately making out—or worse?

Oh, God. She couldn't bear it.

But of course, she was only intending to entice him so she could use him for a week or two. What did it matter if she caught him with a girl? She could simply work up a few fake tears, tell him how much it upset her, and* voila!* She'd find a bouquet of roses at her locker on Monday morning.

She could do this.

Nothing prepared her, however, for the sight of Sid making out with Lila in the upstairs bathtub.

Covering her eyes, she ran blindly into the nearest room, which also happened to be the loudest. The music boomed in her ears and when she uncovered her eyes she immediately wanted to run back out into the hallway.

He was on the bed.

But he was thankfully alone and fully clothed.

The stereo was blasting that obnoxious rap song and he was lounging on top of Miriam's bed, immersed in one of those dumb magazines housewives often bought at the supermarket. He was chuckling at something until he looked over the magazine and saw Rhonda.

He grabbed a remote from the bedside table and turned down the volume on the stereo, giving Rhonda just enough time to compose herself so she could deliver her opening line.

"Good evening, Thaddeus."

"Well, well, well," he said, setting Miriam's magazine aside. "Who invited Joan Crawford?"

"Who invited the terrible D.J.?" asked Rhonda. She glanced at the stereo, which was still churning out the same music, only quieter. "What on earth is this juvenile noise?"

"Juvenile?" said Curly indignantly. "It's the Beastie Boys."

"Beastie Boys? Those loud-mouthed white guys who did that frat boy party song?"

"Fight For Your Right is not a frat boy party song, for your information. It is intended to be a mockery of songs that glorify that lifestyle."

"The very height of cleverness, I'm sure," said Rhonda. It would have been a good time to take a fake drag from a long, elegant cigarette holder, if she'd remembered to bring one. Instead she realized she was alone with him, again. Which was what she wanted, but she hadn't expected it to scare her so much. "I didn't mean to disturb you, by the way. I was simply looking for a brief respite from the oppressive masses downstairs. I will bid you adieu now."

"You sure you don't want to stay and learn a thing or two?" said Curly, holding up the housewife magazine. "If you turn to page twelve, you can find out which groundbreaking vitamin will cure your thyroid problems!"

He was so weird. She struggled not to smile. "Maybe some other time. People will start to wonder where I've gone."

She trailed out of the room, no longer thinking about the way her dress flattered her or the way her mink stole sat luxuriously around her shoulders. She expected the music to start blasting again once she left, but Curly kept the volume where it was, and the absence of noise in her ears only made her feel worse. She made it halfway down the stairs, then halted and sat down upon a carpeted step, looking down into the cheerful crowd of her schoolmates having a sober good time.

She wasn't sure how long she sat there when a voice startled her from behind.

"Rhonda?"

She turned around as far as her dress would allow to find Arnold standing at the top of the stairs.

Of course. She was starting to wonder if Arnold had a sixth sense that alerted him when someone was in despair.

"Hello, Arnold," she said with all her dignity. "I was just admiring the view."

"Do you mind if I join you?"

"Not at all." Rhonda scooted over to make room on the step.

Nobody down below was paying any attention to them up on the stairs. They were all too busy watching Gerald do some elaborate disco dance in the middle of the living room. Arnold was the first to break the silence between them.

"You look very… special tonight," he remarked, glancing over her dress.

He reminded her so much of their old teacher Mr. Simmons that Rhonda cracked a smile.

"Oh, this?" she said, running her hand over the red material. "It's just a little something I had lying around the house. Nothing special at all, really, but I knew Helga would adore it."

"Something tells me you didn't get all dressed up for Helga, Rhonda."

"All right. Perhaps there is someone I was hoping to impress." And as she often did when she was with Arnold, she felt the uncontrollable urge to unburden her troubles to him. How on earth did he do it? "It didn't quite live up to the grand plans I'd envisioned in my head. It was supposed to be glorious, Arnold, but instead I felt exactly the way I feel when I'm trying to decide which shoes to wear on the first day of school. I dressed my best, ended up alone with him, and was all ready for him to worship me again, but that crazy freak—I mean, I simply wasn't prepared when I came face-to-face with him. I've never had to try to win anyone's attention before."

"Rhonda… Are you talking about who I think you might be talking about?"

Her mink stole drooped a bit as she sighed. "At first I was only planning to use him. What better way to boost my status as a freshman? But every time I interact with the weirdo, I—I—"

"Enjoy it?"

"Yes, Arnold. That's exactly it. I enjoy it." She whispered the dreaded words. "But he treats me like I'm just another person. And surely you've seen the way girls are always throwing themselves at him. Oh, it's unbelievably horrible, Arnold. Five years ago he wasn't even worthy of taking out my trash, but now—now, when I finally en-enjoy his company, he no longer drools at the sight of me!"

She realized she was raising her voice and hastily closed her mouth. Kids down below were cheering as Gerald unbuttoned his shirt.

"Well," said Arnold, "if you are talking about who I think you are, then maybe it's not as bad as you're making it sound. You can't determine how a person really feels based on how they act."

"Even the world's most talented therapist couldn't decipher any of his actions," muttered Rhonda.

Arnold smiled. "Exactly. Maybe there's a reason behind his actions that you're not aware of."

"Maybe," sighed Rhonda. "Or maybe whatever crazed feelings he had for me have died over the years."

"It often happens, Rhonda. But sometimes it doesn't."

A set of footsteps suddenly padded down the hallway, then halted right behind them.

"Some of us would like to get downstairs, Arnold. This isn't a lounge area."

It was Helga, just as bold and outspoken as ever, though her voice wasn't nearly as harsh as when they were younger. Arnold couldn't hide a grin as he moved to let her through.

"Sorry, Helga."

Rhonda could have sworn Helga smiled back, just briefly, as she made her way down the stairs. Once she was gone, Rhonda straightened her mink stole. "I guess we've been sitting here long enough. Who knows what this position has done to my dress?" She remained sitting a moment longer, looking up at Arnold, who now stood one step below her. "Thank you, by the way, Arnold. Helga is very, very lucky to have you."

His balance on the stairs wavered a bit. "Helga? What do you—"

"Oh, don't play dumb, Arnold. We all pretend your relationship is a deep, dark secret, but we know."

He glanced away from her, embarrassed. "Well, I'd better get down there. I'm sure I'll have some explaining to do."

She let him go first, watching him descend the staircase like he'd been up and down it a hundred times. He probably had. She supposed that if Arnold could embrace his childhood tormenter, then perhaps it wasn't so terrible. She slowly rose to her feet, careful not to trip on her dress, and halted when a sudden realization hit her.

She couldn't hear any music from Miriam's room. She wondered when it had stopped.

Too afraid to look behind her, she made it downstairs where most of the other kids were gathered near the front door. A pizza delivery car was parked just outside.

"Twenty minutes late, as usual," Helga said as she went to the door. "Sorry, Rhonda, no gluten-free crust this time around. It makes me gag."

Pizza crust was the least of Rhonda's concerns. She kept an eye out for Curly, wondering if anything Arnold had told her was the least bit true, and perched on a sofa next to Phoebe with a bowl of salad in her lap.

She suddenly heard music. Loud music, coming from upstairs. She recognized the song as Billy Joel's "Uptown Girl."

A boy appeared at the top of the stairs and slid—actually slid—down the banister until he landed on the floor with the gracefulness of a cat. His glasses were slightly askew, but he swiftly straightened them and scanned the crowd as if searching for someone.

It took all of Rhonda's willpower to keep her salad from spilling when he stood right in front of her.

Curly then presented her with the strangest gift she had ever received: a picture of a bouquet that looked like it had been carefully cut from the magazine he'd been reading earlier.

"Flowers that will never fade," he said dramatically, handing her the paper bouquet with a flourish. "Just like our love."

She could only sit there speechless. A dozen feelings whirred through her mind: shock, confusion, embarrassment; but underneath it all, something that felt undeniably good. Kids around her were staring. Girls were giggling, boys were jeering, Helga was rolling her eyes while Arnold was smiling in that serene, know-it-all way of his.

If they were on a desert island, she might have allowed herself to show how she felt, but they were still in Helga's house and she was still Rhonda Wellington Lloyd, and there was really only one thing she could possibly say.

"Is that the best you can do?" she told Curly, eyeing the paper bouquet with contempt. "Honestly, Thaddeus, you'll have to try a little harder if you want even a fraction of my attention. Real flowers for a start."

He was grinning at her. Crazy as always. "In what color?"

"Red," she said automatically, then strove to correct herself. "And they had better be expensive. I want the price tag as proof."

"Any other demands from the lady?" he asked.

She could think of plenty, most of which she could never voice out loud in a room full of her peers. "A glass of fruit punch," she said imperiously, tossing aside the paper flowers. "With a straw."

He bowed to her as if she were royalty. "As you wish."

Rhonda swore she saw Arnold wink at Curly.

She was doomed.